The river runs cold and clear from the glaciers above. By early morning the mayflies are hatching, and the trout — large, wild, and suspicious — are rising in the still pools beneath the overhanging rhododendrons.
The light comes at a slant in the mornings here — golden and long, dragging shadows across the valley floor and turning the river copper. The monks at the dzong below us have already started their prayers. You can hear the long horns drifting up the hillside.
This is what we mean when we say Bhutan must be experienced slowly. Not as a list of temples and landscapes to be photographed and moved on from, but as a place with its own tempo, its own cosmology, its own insistence that you pay attention.
We have been here for twelve days. We have eight more. And already the prospect of leaving feels like the prospect of losing something important.
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