When you’ve lived in Nepal for a while, you begin to realise that many of the people you meet, actually came from a village. A small groups of houses either hanging on the side of a valley or in the Terai, somewhere off the highway, hidden unseen. It’s common to hear. ”Oh come to my village, we’ll eat masu, drink rakshi, the views are beautiful, it’s so clean and peaceful.”

There were 7 in the jeep and me on the Bullet, we faced 145kms north from Kathmandu to the mountains. The backdrop, Langtang Himal, grew bigger and bigger with each corner and climb, each pass and valley, to waypoint Trisuli.

Stage one to Trisuli, a black-topped road. It bends and climbs and wings and winds. There are grinds and bumps, but it’s a nice to ride. We’d reached Trisuli by noon but we drove further for lunch. Passing villages, parked buses, through green terraces, crossing bridges, getting waved through army check posts whereupon the Langtang National Park Check Post arrives.

A chance to get off the Bullet, rest my bum, stretch my legs, I remembered it then, the green army Land Rover sill parked up. Finished, life over, no one can men    d it and a bent green 4x4 Tata, a victim of gravity and zealous driving no doubt, rotting under canvas, it belongs to the state, no breakdown crew here.

Nepal can be likened to an ethnographic pile of books. In the next book above a different ethnic group. At changes in altitude, you discover different ethnic communities appear more numerous in the local population. Of course there are overlaps, across invisible boundaries but it’s fair to say the population mix changes. You cross a line from Hindu to Buddha Nepal. Some say the Brahmins (in Nepal they say Bähun) aren’t inclined to perform their rites and poojas in cold high Himalayan water. Others suggest Mongolians - of northern descent, are more suited to the hard life in the hills and mountains.

I digress, we were riding through Raswua, heading north into Tamang country. Tamangs are largely Buddhist, they live in hills like those through which we were driving. They build strong houses of wood and stone. They grow crops of millet and corn and potatoes and garlic. Those lower grow rice, if water abounds, those higher grow apples, barley, wheat and veg. They keep bees and cows and goats and sheep. They wear bells and bright turbans, blow horns and sing. Their roots still show Shamen and Tantra is practised by elderly Lamas. They enjoy a good party and make wonderful hosts.

The road as such ends soon after Trisuli, of course there’s a road but no sign of tar. It’s pebbles and rocks and mud at the bends, landslides and buses and broken down Tatas. To one side, off the road a bus on its roof; 3 people had died, a stark warning to others wise enough to take heed.

I lead the way to avoid Sherap’s Dust, as the day drew on we made steady progress. Climbs and drops and rivers and landslides, bottomless drops loops still to come. A constant marker a silver thread the Trisuli river far way below on the right hand side.

The motor was hot, my mouth full of grit. We were soon to park-up, clean-up and wash. We’d arrived it was 4, the sun was dipping. The steep sided valleys soon casting their shadow. We had only a short walk ahead to the village, “2 or 3 hours” was banded about. “There are only two climbs if I remember correctly.” Offered Sherap to placate our fears.

We’d parked just off the roadside, beside a cousin’s tea house. He spoke of a dream that never quite made it, but new hopes and plans and apple orchards coming. His training was technical, in science and engines. “But what use is that here, I’ll keep bees and sell honey.” It’s local development at its best. Building a future and wealth for generations to come. I told him of vast swathes of orchards I had ridden through in north India and how they carry and ferry the fruit down from orchards so high! Apple Rajas! Inspiration unlimited.

We were walking now, crossing contours quite freely, soon shedding a jacket or shirt to cool down. But it’s chilly, you’re sweating, you carry a bag. Though I’d come packed lightly, not hard but i felt it. The pay-off for comfort and warm clothes is a heaver bag.

At each big headland or spur, we’d rest and take water, watch sundown and moon rise. It was cold, getting dark and the need to keep warm and moving takes precedence. That’s not to say the path won’t compensate, the views awe-inspiring, steep -sided valleys with no bottom in sight. From the distance above, the terraces below looked like thousands of steps, neatly carved round the mountain, like an endless amphitheatre. And where we crossed from this side to that, always a bright and free flowing stream. Opposing us, the valley’s opposite side was sharp and bleak. Deep gouges had left only steep fields and pastures, with the village posed high on the cliff-top above. ‘How do they get to town?’ one can’t help but wonder.

Take a path to the road, but where is the path? Look slightly ahead to see paths stand-out, not where you feet fall, but further away. The end of our path lay somewhere beyond, in a place called Tibet. Not so far for us, the village was close, nephews and nieces had come to greet us and the chance of a young brother carrying a bag, the chance of a porter. Thank goodness, t’was me!

One two more bends and straights and rounding a corner the Trisuli Guest House, an oasis of peace at the edge of Brabel village. Nearly home, down a few more terraces, past tight-snuggled houses, their wooden doors were closed against the cold. Ucallo urallo, steep-up steep-down, we were nearly home.