And so the last full day in old manali passes, this time tomorrow should be Delhi bus and then...to the heart of Europe once again...and although there are two more blips to come from India it seemed apt that today is the one for verbose meanderings...

But a waffle warning, a high risk of pretension and, almost certainly, suspect viewpoints...

It's what could be considered sunset if it weren't for the clouds, again even the closest hills are shrouded, layers of grey upon the dulled slopes...Today deodar wood, tonight I hope noodles and football and reflection... It's been an odd couple of months...slow, slothful times in the hills...

And I keep coming back to pewe's advice to remember the journey...I get the feeling that in these last weeks I have: plans flotsam and jetsam upon the flow of giardia and the trap of direct journeys, of falling into the habit because normally you don't have time...and when you do...patterns of behaviour. And in the end the plan's didn't matter, the journey became itself, a theme of change...

And what could be considered flaws, too early, too direct, have begat a plan of sorts, slower for a return...and I can't see me not...himachal has been a delight in wholly unexpected ways; learning about mountain buses and the incredible paths they weave through fantastical landscapes...at one point between ani and banjar I noted that the brown lines snaking across slopes to their perched destinations were thousands of feet below, that the determination, the need to eke out survival, the brilliance of the tenacity shining, hard roads but, for my distant eyes, between jolts of fear, something special, the memory or an echo of someone I used to be, someone I recognise...

A cow attempting to kick itself in the head after grazing on cannabis in ani; monkeys chewing handfuls of the stuff in reneswar; the all pervading stench in parvati; politics are odd at times...

Today, as I sipped upon my penultimate coffees from Dylan's pavoni, the morning broke into mourning horns and slow, sporadic drums. A parade began to pass, each member holding a log, then the body, carried shoulder high, covered in glistening colors. I thought about varanasi, of the blue lassie; it seemed like an age ago, distant as Europe, the images sharp but so much distance between, only a matter of months but still a distant echo. And before that?

But visas run out and it feels as if it's been a long time here, not long enough...But I think it never is and, once again, as I think upon leaving I realise that another piece of me will remain in order to make space for that glimpse, the merest portion of a glimpse into the continuing magic and madness which defines, for we who are mesmerised by her, the beautiful shithole which is India..