Magic

“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” I replied.
And that was as close to the truth as I’d have got if I’d spent a long time thinking about it. The kids laughed and carried on.
Much as I was enjoying Bhutan, the necessity of travelling with a guide, driver and painfully meticulous itinerary was eroding my spirit. Down in the Phobjikha Valley, bereft of tourists this time of year, all I wanted to do was go for a walk.
The idea of walking nowhere in particular, alone, puzzled my guide. But the temples and monasteries only tell you so much. Just going for a wander, soothed by solitude and not knowing what I might find, I would be happy and free. And that’s how you really get to know a place.
The road ambled along the ridge and through the next village. Traditional wooden houses huddled together, chickens and toddlers playing in the yard. School had finished and from the pine forests came clusters of children. Most waved and said hello, some shirked away shyly or giggled among themselves. Others asked the question.
I’d missed the path across the valley by now. But then, what is a path anyway? I’d seen the children criss-crossing the hollow in unique, expedient ways, following their own paths that would carry them home. I looked hard into the distance, and sure enough there they were, little groups of them heading for the trail I had long since passed.
So I sidestepped cowpats, tiptoed over boggy ground and joyfully leapt a few narrow streams on my way to join them. I emerged to cross the old bridge, climbing with them up towards the village. I looked back at the river and its tiny oxbow lakes, thinking I had probably been quite lucky to find a way through.
There were no people in the village, only cattle. Further on I passed the men, practising archery in a field. Dressed in tunics, with wooden bows and arrows, I wondered if this scene had changed at all in the last thousand years. Nearing home, their distant song of celebration carried across the valley as an arrow found its target.
Before bed, I got the log burner going. Swaddled in extra blankets, I wondered what it is about walking that’s so good for the soul. I thought how every man or woman who ever set foot upon the road must understand its thrilling compulsion: the hope and promise of some new, intense experience that accompany every step.
I turned this over in my mind, drifting off down the valley again into sleep, the fire crackling away and the pan bubbling like a cauldron, cooking up tomorrow’s magic.