Leaving Dharamkot for a thali in Manali

As T kept repeating mantra-like in the run-up to our departure (though we’re struggling to make it work as well with other destinations – ‘a lassi in Varanasi’ is the closest competitor so far, answers on a postcard guys).

Morning chai stop in Dharamkot

So we finally upped sticks and left Dharamkot/McLeod on Tuesday morning and, getting attached quickly (will have to shake that off in the coming weeks), I felt sad to leave even after our 10 days. Which is more than long enough to establish your little routines and haunts: breakfast at Ajit’s chai stand at the head of Tipa road, watching the local children line up in the school yard and the old guys drink their morning chai watching the world go by, while rickshaws sporadically groan up the steep slope to drop off their charges of baggy-panted, dazed tourists fresh from the night buses; 10-1pm yoga for the second half of our stay, structured and serene in the Himalyan Iyengar Yoga Centre hall, a steep 5 minute climb down the hill from Paul House, our abode (no apostrophe nor, indeed, any eponymous manager); afternoons spent wandering down to McLeod or just relaxing around the villages. The mist-enveloped hike up to Triund, which put into stark relief exactly how unfit I am after a certain elevation. And the food… Malai kofta and Chilli capsicum paneer, Tibetan momos and thupka, miso and fried tofu, pizza in Dharamkot’s Trek and Dine when Tobes stopped tutting at me (as though we all sit around eating compulsory fish and chips and Sunday roasts at home in the name of authenticity?!)

So even after a short time I will miss all these things: monks on iPhones and iPads; rolling hills that look different at every time of day – mist and rainfalls that start and end in a second, now you see the mountains, now you don’t; random mix of resident and visiting (short or long-stay) Tibetans, Indians, Europeans, east Asians, north Americans, Antidpodeans – pretty much everyone on every kind of stay or way of life. And Trek and Dine in Dharmakot, Welcome Café in upper Bhagsu, Lung ta in McLeod.

The yoga was perfect, a good move and, aside from the quiet, my main reason for settling on Dharamkot rather than in town itself. 15 hours across 5 days, starting at a very civilized 10am, with the only laws outwith the studio itself that we – absolutely – eat at least 2 hours before class (varying success) and that we – try – to limit our consumption of alcohol, joints or any other intoxicants (easily achieved). Which seemed an odd way round for the stringency to work but I guess they work with their externalities, set just below traveller-occupied mountain villages.

The iyengar model was developed by the centre's founder Sharat, who evolved his method after decades working within his Pune BKS Iyengar training: with the fundamentals a strict focus on the feet and all postural alignment understood to stem from their correct positioning ('No local movements' as our teacher Pedro warned), together with an emphasis on keeping the trunk open and uncompressed. So if 2 centimetres is all you can tilit without restricting your breathing and compressing your torso, that's where you stay. And it was just what I'd hoped in terms of structure and discipline, to try and focus my distracted mind and kick off a regular practice while we're away.

Ultimately, though, it was not quite for me. Too stringent, almost no deviation from set sequences and asanas - generally a little puritanical. As Pedro admits 'All yogis are crazy... 5 hours of practice a day, you have to be'. He wanders among us cracking the proverbial whip as we groan through our 20 successive backbends; 'Man, I came here to find enlightenment,' he commiserates, 'and this guys keeps making me do all these things.' ('It's funny because it's true,' sniggers a long-suffering Israeli classmate). Pedro is a stern, distant kind of a guru, who like many with a natural authority and gravitas elicits mirth to the power of 10 whenever he does crack a grin and venture into whimsy. 'This is why you have eyes, not potatoes', is a favourite, lazy feet as 'dead fish' is another. He is also scathing on matters yogic and social networking: no one is to take pictures in the hall, 'Many tourists take pictures of themselves in the asanas and put them on Facebook - "oh look, I did a course, I am a big yog.i"' I try but cannot imagine Pedro on Facebook. It's like picturing Gandhi in a clown wig.

And maybe I have already been around the baggy-panted banana pancake crew too long but his lectures talks on consumption, credit and over-reliance on technology, delivered as we strain for 10 minutes in a contorted pose, are chiming. In that obvious but not always fully recognised way. The inability to be still without planning ahead or obsessing back, in particular. So that calm, focused room and its eternal entreaty to pay attention to our feet and find the meeting of our butts was just perfect. We will Pedro, we will.

To moving on. Having decided on the 6am public bus rather than the overnight tourist 'deluxe' - you know, to see the scenery and feel smug - we were in bed by 10 on Monday night. Sometime after midnight, through our Israeli-party-proof earplugs erupted a frenzied barking. An immense canine caterwauling backed by a ferocious thunderstorm, T eventually staggered up to peer out at 4 plus local dogs going mental on our side of the balcony. All local, well-fed dogs - used to rainy Dharamsala weather, no rabid pack - going thoroughly bonkers. 'I feel like it's an omen' he said. And as we rise at 4.30am, the din - somewhere between dogfight and storm-craziness - having continued right outside the door, that seemed correct. I discovered the Peace Cafe had given me raging food poisoning (less than 2 weeks in, the old Immodium and Dioralyte regime kicks in..), the continuing storm had us soaked to the skin by the bus stop, while delays turned a 9 hour bus journey into a 12 hour trip...

The journey picked for its scenery, street-life, people-watching therefore passed for me in an acutely uncomfortable haze, contorted and - ahem - clenching for life and dignity the first half; then head lolling like a stoned Alsation as a dehydration/hunger headache descended for the second. 'Manalimanalimanali' bellowed the ticket collector at every stop as we clattered past another town. An hour and a half passed just outside Mandi for an accident ahead, everyone bounding off then back on as the driver slammed his foot down to overtake 7 static trucks at a time, honking his horn down in a ceaseless 'Coming through, coming through, get the f*** out the way!' Once through, he took no prisoners to reach town by nightfall, and we crashed onwards, whistling round precipitous bends, pausing seldomly - once, understandably, for his whisky pick-up on the outskirts of Manali. It had been a long day all round.

Manali, which we reached just after dark in the pouring rain, besieged even as the bus was still moving - ''Leh ticket-saffron-charas-rickshaw??', was this morning, 2 days later, bleached with sun. The hills could be in Scotland, muted hues of greens, browns and greys, expectations of heather with every gaze. Stunning expanses of blue skies with snow-capped peaks are in stark relief and as freezing and drenched as we were our first night, we could burn in 10 minutes as we sit blissed out over breakfast on the rooftop of our guesthouse. It's pretty glorious and I could easily not move today. Set across a beautiful valley ringed by mountains, Manali is a mecca for trekking, paragliding, hiking, biking, rafting and lots of other exhausting worthy leisure pursuits. We could easily spend a week but our eyes are locked on Laddakh and by 2.30am tonight we'll be on our way.