That was the disparaging comment my teenage son threw at me when I announced my decision of trying a new location for our annual summer holiday. After all, it was a bit much for him to get used to this new situation. One which offered no skating. No video games. No cable car rides. No boating. No mela with its array of kitschy offerings – no balloon shooting, no magic tricks, no junk to buy. And worst of all – possibly even no TV! 

But I made up my mind. This time it was going to be Dalhousie. 

My parents often spoke about their long summer vacations there in their younger days in the 1950s. Memories of long walks, jalebi and samosa evenings and names like Bakrota and Moti Tibba , Thandi Sarak and Garam Sarak, sounded quaintly enchanting.  Notwithstanding Junior’s protests, I took the risk. Short of being pulled along kicking and screaming, he had no option but to board the Jammu Mail on a sultry June night at Delhi Junction, with a very determined mother behind him. 

I had it all planned. A bit of scrabbling around on the Internet well in advance of the summer season had me stumble upon the Silverton Estate located on Moti Tibba in Dalhousie. A heritage property built by its present owner’s grandfather in the 1930s, it has a charming appearance and a few phone chats with its warm and affable owner Vickramjit Singh and I had my stay worked out. 

We didn’t have a particularly spectacular start. Post an overnight journey, the drive up from Pathankot was, well, like any other journey into the mountains. The saving grace was a light drizzle which seemed like manna from heaven. Carrying detailed instructions from Vickramjit, a brief stopover at a quaintly cute garden restaurant called Maama’s Rasoi took care of breakfast pangs. Then on, it was all the way up to the mountains. 

Even after reaching Dalhousie and negotiating the steep climb up to Silverton, which is located above the Circuit House, it still didn’t hit me. The place was as charming as it looked in the pictures. Lunch laid on especially for us was just the way one would have it at home, albeit with extra attentive service thrown in. But was this all that one had come here for? Where was the “wow”? Thankfully we had a lovely room with an attached dressing room and bathroom with a tiny living room and wonder of wonders, a portable TV! I began to thank my lucky stars that at least I had this option to fall back upon. 

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On day one, things were nice enough. Though not outstandingly, ecstatically so.  

How wrong I was… 

Once settled in, Vickramjit handed me a slim guidebook to Dalhousie. It had all the necessary information that any first-timer would lap up in a flash. Notwithstanding the information and the pretty pictures, what set my mind working was the way our day ahead was planned by our host. Knowing my dislike of doing the routine stuff and the need to avoid the crowds at the market places and that I also needed to keep the child’s interest levels going, he painstakingly and meticulously worked out a daily schedule of activity for each day of our holiday in advance.  

Dalhousie is a walker’s paradise. Its charms are best discovered on foot. One can walk as little or as much as one wants to. Even unfit city slickers like yours truly can get hooked, as I discovered. You get to enjoy clean, fresh pure mountain air. The clouds play with you as you walk though them, occasionally teasing you with a drizzle or warning you with a shower. The greenery is almost too green to be true. It is hard to believe that one is technically still “in” Dalhousie.  

Day One 

Vickramjit had lined up the Inner Bakrota Walk for us. Armed with his detailed instructions we walked down to the GPO Chowk and took a cab up the 3 kilometer drive to the top of Bakrota Hill. As instructed, we got off at the water works and discovered the beginning of our walking trail. I had been reassured that this was not a “climb” but a level walk. Thank goodness. The trail was quiet and peaceful with accompanying birdsong. It was also wide and easy.  

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An occasional vehicle would drive past and occupants would gaze at us in wonder. I guess not many people would be seen walking on this stretch, let alone people who obviously did not seem to be locals. Passing by well spaced out cottages and old fashioned bungalows with surrounding gardens and landscaping, one spotted name plates of service officers who lived there. An iron gate leading to a cottage located some distance away was partly shrouded in the mist and looked straight out of “Harry Potter”.

It’s pretty easy to go shutter happy over the trees and the lush foliage as I did.  

The trail twisted and turned around the reverse side of the mountain that we had climbed up in the car. It was so easy to get caught up in the stillness and quiet of the place that the sight of a young girl dressed in black who appeared from behind a bend in the trail made me stop for a second and wonder if she was real or a ghost. The moment passed quickly enough and we emerged on the main road whence we had come from.  

As instructed, we stopped by at a little fast food joint called “Chill Out” for lunch. Parked in the balcony of the restaurant, we amused ourselves by watching a bus and a truck trying to pass each other on the road which had been narrowed down due to a dump of bricks left there by some construction workers. Walking past colourful prayer flags fluttering in the breeze and the Kendriya Vidyalaya set up for the Tibetan settlers, we made our way past their temple after turning the prayer wheels, to their carpet weaving centre. Pure wool carpets are hand woven here and are also for sale. One has to scrabble around a bit for unusual colour combinations and designs. Though not priced particularly cheap, I did not mind paying that tad extra for all the effort the weavers put in at their looms.  

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As we stepped out of the Tibetan Centre, I noticed a little path trailing away behind the building in the general direction of the main chowk. On impulse, I took that route, disregarding instructions to use the main road back. The path twisted and turned through the trees, sometimes with stone steps to enable our walk, at times narrow, at times broad. Local folk were questioned time and again as to whether this was the way back in town. Affirmative replies emboldened us and the steep twists and turns became fun since we were going downhill.  

The wind shushed through the trees approvingly. And life seemed suddenly so… light. The path brought us on to the main Bakrota Hill road and we walked past groups of fellow tourists struggling up the steep climb. Before we knew it, civilisation had retuned full force to hit us smack between the eyes. It seemed almost sacrilege to wait for the child to finish playing a much begged for video game. Even the prospect of buying a newspaper seemed so depressing for it would bring me back to reality with a hard thump.  

Things righted themselves once we got back. The pretty lawns of Silverton are made for idling away the hours. A glorious sunset was followed by a candlelight dinner under the stars. With limited guests and no walk-ins, we were far from the madding crowd. 
 

(Ritu Chugh is a Delhi based media and communications professional. She always loved to travel but has lately discovered that writing about her travels is as exciting and enjoyable as the experience itself. She owes a big thank you to her teenage son, Shaashwat, for being a wonderful travel companion and for making her believe that she can climb life’s mountains without losing her breath)