The oft-quoted line, ‘when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life’ comes from a discussion between Johnson and James Boswell about whether or not Boswell's affection for London would wear thin should he be living there as Johnson did, rather than enjoying the city on occasional visits.
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At the southern tip of a spit of land on the coast of Senegal, which separates the sea from the waters of the Saloum, lies the small village of Djiffer. Its narrow strip of houses is thus squeezed between the waters of the Atlantic to the west and the lagoons of the Sine Saloum delta to the east. The Atlantic Ocean to the west is continually nibbling at its sandy shores in an effort to meet up with the waters of the Saloum. People living here are doing so on borrowed time.
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Just a few miles north of built-up post-industrial Tyneside lies the wide expanse of Druridge Bay. Its seven miles of sands are lined with sand dunes and are just perfect for a winter walk. The landscape is an interesting mix, with wind turbines visible in the distance but otherwise feeling rather remote.
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Strung out along a ridge in the Himalayan foothills lies the ancient town of Bandipur. It has only been fully accessible by road since 1998. The ridge is just 200 metres long and barely wide enough to accommodate the main street and the buildings that line it. Behind the houses the mountainside falls away steeply. The small market gardens farmed by the inhabitants are accessible only by steps cut into the hillside.
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The Tharu are a people of the forest. They have lived for centuries in the lowlands of southern Nepal and northern India. Often persecuted, they have now been recognised by the Nepali government as an official nationality. But their lives are still not easy.
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I can never resist the opportunity to ride in a cable car. So when our tour company suggested that we break the long drive from Chitwan to Bandipur with a ride up to the temple at Manakamana, I agreed immediately. It would be a chance to see a different side of Nepal, I thought. And it was, but not quite in the way I had imagined.
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Paved streets gently wind uphill, lined with brick houses three or more stories high. Every door, every window is surrounded by exquisitely carved wood. Locals sit chatting, their day’s work over, or watch from an upper window.
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Bhaktapur lies a little to the east of Kathmandu. At its heart is a series of lanes and squares that seem little changed for centuries. Here more than anywhere in the country I felt immersed in the ageless atmosphere of Nepal.
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Everyone will tell you that Thamel isn’t the REAL Kathmandu. It was once backpackers central, and today is home not only to hostels but to increasingly smart hotels. But between the tourist-focused delights is enough local colour to demonstrate that you are indeed ‘a long way from home’.
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What do you do with a load of monuments that celebrate a past you’d rather forget? You can haul them down and break them up for scrap perhaps. Or you can leave them where they are, a constant reminder of that troubled past. Or you can gather them up and put them in a museum; a museum that acknowledges and documents the past but doesn’t celebrate it.
