Technology hasn't got all the answers, and sometimes - just sometimes - what is needed is spirituality, time and some good mountain air.

We came to a tiny hamlet. There were no more than six little houses nestling in the deep steep valley. Smoke, rising through the rough wooden roof-slats, made the homes look cosy and inviting but we didn’t expect a welcome there.

All of a sudden there was a scampering sound. A small furry hand grabbed my food. The hand had fingernails just like mine, and they were just as dirty. The monkey-thief was fast. He didn’t even look back as he shot back up the tree to enjoy my lunch. Another rhesus monkey reached into my day-sack, and cantered away awkwardly with a bigger prize.

I think of the irony that in our language [Nepali] the word for love can also mean deceit.

I laughed at myself for getting so peeved. It did not matter that it had taken a week for the tailor to make the mattress. I had time and so did everyone else: time was the one resource everyone was rich in and generous with in Nepal. How maladjusted of me not to recognize this.

The mountains were so wild and so stark and so very beautiful that I wanted to cry. I breathed in another wonderful moment to keep safe in my heart.

… everything was fresh, green and particularly beautiful. Afternoon light, filtering between remnants of monsoon clouds, picked out gullies and spot-lit patches of forest and scrub on the convoluted ridges of the rim of the Kathmandu Valley. Or, after a rainstorm, wisps of clouds clung to the trees as if scared to let go. Behind, himals peeked out shyly between the clouds.

Morning mists skulked over the river.

The Chinese say that there is no scenery in your home town. They’re right. Being in another place heightens the senses, allows you to see more, enjoy more, take delight in small things; it makes life richer. You feel more alive, less cocooned.