It was icy when I left Brighton, rude English weather bidding me farewell and seeing me on a bus to Heathrow. About this time I started to play a great game, it was called hunt the paraglider, and the clock was ticking. Heathrow is organised into a cluster of terminals 1,2,3 and a fair distance away terminal 4. I knew I had checked my wing into one of the first lot (A clonazopan induced daze methinks). It was kind of like that gypsy game with the pea and the three walnut shells. I went to terminal 1...looked, no not that one. Terminal 3 looked possible... but alas no finding it on the 3rd time lucky. Hmm, joy, now with fragile minutes to spare I have to catch a frigging train to terminal 4, catch my plane, last one to check in and the shittest seat on the plane. Praise be to Clonazopan. zzzzzzzz

Apparently I had four hours in Bangkok before changing flights to Kathmandu. I remember a snippet of this flight, an "ooo look its everest" before a wow this plane is diving at the runway. In my limited understanding of 737 jumbos, they coast at a gentle angle to land. Not in Kathmandu, they hurdle the mountains, dive nose first, then at the last minute bring the front up and touchy down we go. It brings squeals of "delight" from all the not so comfortable flying in big metal tube travellers.

Ahh Kathmandu. Its changed a lot from when I was here some 6 years ago. The streets are all paved, the open sewers running down each side of the streets are gone, and the mongrel dogs copulating frantically on every street corner seem to have disappeared as well. The duk duks have also been made illegal, the little two stroke fume farting people movers of which Kathmandu was rife with. It has definitely become a more affluent city, but still has its otherworldy charm, and maintains its delicate scent of rotting, incense, petrol fumes and an overworked sewer system.

I raced around the city, recapturing all the pictures that I caught on analog film some years ago on my digital (some would suggest perhaps a scanner might be easier... bah) before doing some shopping for Thanka, the hand painted mandala pictures painted by very patient, and very steady handed tibetans.

The effects of the clonazopan (sleeping tablet) began to catch up, and I made it back to my room at a very reasonable 3pm to sleep. I managed to resist the temptation of momos, delicious yak meat in a pasta shell, steamed and served from streetside eateries. Last time I ate them I got reamed. The intestinal powercombo of giardia and dysentery. Definitely serious porcelain appreciation time.

Breakfast, porridge and coffee. I asked for some sugar. I was informed there was a sugar shortage in Kathmandu. As a 3 teaspon sugar in my coffee sort of guy, this posed some issues. What sort of city has a sugar crisis??

I headed to the airport again to fly to Pokhara. Last time in Nepal I took the bus to Pokhara. After catching the bus I swore I would never take the bus again, overtaking on blind corners with 300m sheer cliffs adding that element of peril to the drive. Reassuringly every thirty kilometres or so the wreck of a bus that had just driven off the edge into the torrential river below could be seen. After that experience I flew back with Royal Nepal Airlines. After that flight I swore never to fly from Pokhara again. It was a rusty, old school DC10 twin prop, cotton wool supplied for the ears on entry. It was made even better by the guy in a stretcher, victim of some horrible mountaineering accident who made gurgly screams every time we hit turbulence. Ill rephrase, in the few moments of smooth flying he stopped screaming.

So with this memory boldly in place, the aiport I went. At least now there is choice in airlines, Buddha Air, Yeti air and my flight of choice Cosmic Air. Something about those names says, pray for flight, fictional planes and the last one the pilot is stoned.

It was a nice flight. And Pokhara here I am. Dal Baht for dinner, met my paragliding crew, and then somehow found my way under the covers of my bed and sleeping on a matress that I can only describe as a piece of carpet on concrete.

An early start saw me heading up to the top of Sarangkot, a peak in the Pokhara valley. Amazing views over rice fields and the lake. I was particularly impressed by the local who beckoned me over, and held out a hand sized chunk of hash. "You want, is good yes..." he whispered to me in covert tones. I bet it is. I love this country.

I launched and thermalled in the light conditions, flying with griffins and vultures, until the local microlite tours decided to do a flyby and send them scarpering. A nice flight, and landing in the fortuitously now empty rice paddies. A local kid came over to pack my wing... 10 rupees (20 cents). He was very cute, his english limited to "pack your wing mister? Pack your wing?" and then once it was out "Check line 1 ok, check line 2 ok...". He was like 8. He did it better then me.

I returned to Pokhara, had a snooze, of which a lot is done in this town, its very condusive to it, before a saunter down the street. A sadhu was doing his thing with his pipe and a cobra. I asked if I could take a picture. Next thing I am sitting beside him, a python around my neck and a cobra on the top of my head. He asked 500 rupees for the picture that was taken, I tried to negotiate, but when he brought out the wriggling scorpion on a string, fixed me with a I do not negotiate with terrorists stare and still covered in snakes...money hastily changed hands.