My throat is dry and my face dusty, my thoughts reminded me of John Ruskin’s word-paintings. Colourful shades of purple, pink and red dominate people clad in robes. Footstep, a new scent; rich spice, soothing incense, choking petrol, urine stench alleyways. Each corner takes me from blistering sunlight to cold damp shade. Prayer flags line the rooftops, buildings shrouded by repetition of crafted wares everything is for sale. Beep beep din, rickshaw, car, motorbike and scooter horns drown out the sounds of touts shouting ‘Come look’, ‘You want information?’ The sun dips behind the mountains and dogs bark through the night at the moon. As it creeps back up again squawking crows and the wail of prayer songs ring in our ears.