I am looking forward to a lazy day in Pokhara and go for a wander up and down the streets to get my bearings. Plenty of tourist shops selling tshirts with every possible slogan and trek wear – mainly North Face. Lots of coffee shops and restaurants. Real coffee and even cakes. I can spend a few days here. Easy. We decide to hire a row boat and cross the lake to the island temple. Barry is keen to row but there are no rowlocks. We decide to each take a paddle. As we zigzag across to the island, occasionally doing a twirl, Lady Muck at the front trails her fingers in the water and snaps photos and directions at her 2 slaves from time to time. In the other boat, Hiawatha is paddling furiously at the front while Pocahontas laughs at us going round in circles.
Arriving at the island, we are aghast to discover there is no coffee shop at the temple, which means we have to continue to row to the other side of the lake for tea and tiffin.
In the evening, Matt and Allen are the main act in the local Blues Bar, ably supported by Laura, Becky and Frankie and a random flautist, who insists on accompanying them with his own composition, making an interesting medley. As we arrive back at the hotel, slightly the worse for wear, the place is heaving with police and soldiers.
Next morning the story emerges, Two Scots guys had been rowing back across the lake after having a few too many to drink. One guy had stood up in the boat to take a photo, then just keeled over and disappeared without a sound or trace. His mate had thought he was messing around at first but dived in to get him when he realised, but he couldn't find him and eventually had to be rescued by locals himself. It's a tragedy and Amanda is more affected than the rest of us as she had been talkijg to the guy that died the night before. Nonetheless, we all feel for his poor friend who now has to tell his family and wait for his body to resurface..
Our challenge today is to walk around the lake and up the steep hill to the Buddhist Peace Temple, which Barry's Lonely Planet reliably informs is one of 7 around the world. We have been sat on the bus for 6 weeks and the furthest we have had to walk was round the Taj Mahal. We are all craving a little gentle exercise. It takes us half an hour to walk to the end of town to the small, shaky, suspended footbridge across the river feeding the lake. Below it we can see women and children washing clothes and bedding in the river and laying it to dry across the rocks. Janet decides it is already a bridge too far and turns back. As we start to make our way up the footpath, a group of men come towards us trailing a long violet sheet like a banner. Just as we are wondering, what is all about, we notice the pallbearers behind carrying the body aloft on a stretcher draped with a yellow cloth. Behind that a small boy with his head shaven and an old man. As he passes us, the small boy stops and tells us that it is his father and the old man tells us it is his son. Then they carry on across the footbridge.
Climbing up the footpath through the forest, with occasional glimpses of the lake below, I could be back in Wales. No. Don't be daft. It's 40C of sunshine and my feet are not squelching through mud. It takes us another 2 hours to reach the Peace Temple. At the top, the temple itself is inspirational and we pause for a while to chat with others before starting the very steep descent direct to the lakeside. By the time we reach the bottom our legs are shaking with the strain and our knees are complaining at the unforeseen workout. Fortunately there is a teashop by the lake where we take refreshments before being rowed across to the other side.
In the evening we go down to a lakeside cafe to watch the sunset and see a storm approaching from the other side. Lightening flashes and thunder rolls and a few spots of rain, but, by the time we reach our restaurant, it has veered off elsewhere, leaving us cool and calm for the night.
We all love Pokhara and no-one wants to leave for Kathmandu but our minds wander back to a young man, alone in his hotel room, wondering how to break the news of a holiday tragedy to his friend's family only a couple of days after they left home for a fantastic holiday.
Arriving at the island, we are aghast to discover there is no coffee shop at the temple, which means we have to continue to row to the other side of the lake for tea and tiffin.
In the evening, Matt and Allen are the main act in the local Blues Bar, ably supported by Laura, Becky and Frankie and a random flautist, who insists on accompanying them with his own composition, making an interesting medley. As we arrive back at the hotel, slightly the worse for wear, the place is heaving with police and soldiers.
Next morning the story emerges, Two Scots guys had been rowing back across the lake after having a few too many to drink. One guy had stood up in the boat to take a photo, then just keeled over and disappeared without a sound or trace. His mate had thought he was messing around at first but dived in to get him when he realised, but he couldn't find him and eventually had to be rescued by locals himself. It's a tragedy and Amanda is more affected than the rest of us as she had been talkijg to the guy that died the night before. Nonetheless, we all feel for his poor friend who now has to tell his family and wait for his body to resurface..
Our challenge today is to walk around the lake and up the steep hill to the Buddhist Peace Temple, which Barry's Lonely Planet reliably informs is one of 7 around the world. We have been sat on the bus for 6 weeks and the furthest we have had to walk was round the Taj Mahal. We are all craving a little gentle exercise. It takes us half an hour to walk to the end of town to the small, shaky, suspended footbridge across the river feeding the lake. Below it we can see women and children washing clothes and bedding in the river and laying it to dry across the rocks. Janet decides it is already a bridge too far and turns back. As we start to make our way up the footpath, a group of men come towards us trailing a long violet sheet like a banner. Just as we are wondering, what is all about, we notice the pallbearers behind carrying the body aloft on a stretcher draped with a yellow cloth. Behind that a small boy with his head shaven and an old man. As he passes us, the small boy stops and tells us that it is his father and the old man tells us it is his son. Then they carry on across the footbridge.
Climbing up the footpath through the forest, with occasional glimpses of the lake below, I could be back in Wales. No. Don't be daft. It's 40C of sunshine and my feet are not squelching through mud. It takes us another 2 hours to reach the Peace Temple. At the top, the temple itself is inspirational and we pause for a while to chat with others before starting the very steep descent direct to the lakeside. By the time we reach the bottom our legs are shaking with the strain and our knees are complaining at the unforeseen workout. Fortunately there is a teashop by the lake where we take refreshments before being rowed across to the other side.
In the evening we go down to a lakeside cafe to watch the sunset and see a storm approaching from the other side. Lightening flashes and thunder rolls and a few spots of rain, but, by the time we reach our restaurant, it has veered off elsewhere, leaving us cool and calm for the night.
We all love Pokhara and no-one wants to leave for Kathmandu but our minds wander back to a young man, alone in his hotel room, wondering how to break the news of a holiday tragedy to his friend's family only a couple of days after they left home for a fantastic holiday.
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