Oh no. Time to leave the glorious country where Gross National Happiness is deemed more important than the Boxing Day sales, the euro crisis or who is going to win X Factor. Its been totes amazing.

From the smiling children who have all been keen to practise their 'what is your name and what country please?', and taken such delight in being shown their own photo, to the rickety old folk hanging around the temples desperately turning the prayer wheels, counting their beads and muttering their mantras in a last desperate bid to get enough karma points to push them up to the next level in the circle of rebirth. We have had such amazing experiences and an incredibly wonderful time. The people, the countryside, the monasteries and temples have all been so interesting, so colourful, so different.

We have learnt that the national animal is called a Tekkin, and it has a cow's body and the head of a goat. (it's one of those angry god scenarios where innocent animals got involved in some sort of spell gone wrong. Apparently). Anyway we went to see some in the zoo (in reality a field with some chicken wire around it). The Tekkins looked a little bored and not very happy, but who would be with someone else's head?

In the last few days we have visited a tiny valley where black necked cranes spend the winter months, although judging by the ferocious winds and chilly temperatures I wouldn't like to contemplate where they spend the summer months. Our guide, Sonam, organised a picnic for us amongst the cranes. He set up a proper table and chairs, spread out a gingham tablecloth and, with a flourish, produced a stack of tiffin containers from the back of the car and proceeded to serve us up a positive banquet of tasty, warm dishes. And there we were expecting a limp cheese sandwich and a packet of rice flavoured crisps. Using the car as a shield we sat huddled against the wind like a couple of geriatrics in a car park off the A31, trying to eat as fast as possible before hypothermia set in.

The cranes were particularly uninterested in our feast, but we did attract a couple of stray dogs who made short work of our leftovers and then slunk off for their afternoon nap in order to be ready for a full night of barking.

We have watched a lot of archery, which is the country's national sport, and by far the most popular pastime. We even had a go at it ourselves, but you may not be surprised to learn that we were spectacularly unsuccessful. We would like to blame our failure on the fact that they shoot their arrows an almost unbelievable 140 yards, aiming at a teeny tiny target the size of a paperback book. But they only made us shoot from a distance of about 20 yards, and we will have to conclude that we are not going to make it to the Bhutanese Olympic archery team. Although Brian did give the tethered goat in the next field a nasty scare.

It was a national holiday (again) a couple of days after we got into Paro and everywhere we went there were day-long archery competitions taking place. They are very boisterous affairs with lots of mid-match singing and chanting. The men play in teams and, every time they hit the target, they get given a coloured sash to tie to their belt and perform a victory dance. None of this getting pissed and having a massive argument with the opposing team, remember the happiness thing?!

The women meanwhile were busy with their own sport, a form of darts called Kharu, which seems to have the same danger level for small children and goats as Brian's archery. The 'darts' are fat and bulbous and made of wood with a sharp metal tip and they are thrown 20 yards, not quite as far as the archers' arrows, but far enough and with sufficient force to do some considerable damage to unsuspecting spectators. Or goats.

Apart from our early close encounters of the royal kind we also had the opportunity to go into ordinary homes and see how people live here. Away from the centre of town, most families seem to live in a very simple way; relying on the land for most of their needs. In fact 70% of the country are subsistence farmers. We went into one family's home and were surprised to find they still keep their cows and horses on the ground floor of the house - for security, warmth and convenience.

The house was relatively unfurnished, apart from a large poster of a very youthful Wayne Rooney and a creaky old 'Viktari' computer in the corner on which the youngest son was happily playing Super Mario. For a family of about 8 people there was just one single bed, everyone else apparently slept on the floor. When we asked who got the bed, they looked at us as if we were mad. "Whoever wants it" they replied, as if this was the normal way of doing things the world over. Well it certainly wouldn't have worked in our family. Poor old Stephen and Ruth would have been on that floor for years!

There was a large earthquake here only three months ago and many buildings suffered a lot of damage. In the house we visited one wall had such a large crack in the corner that daylight was visible, allowing quite a gale to come whistling through the room. No one seemed terribly bothered by this turn of events though. 'Eventually' they explained 'someone from the government will come and look at it and then they will fix it. Maybe next year....'. In the meantime they could always set fire to that old Wayne Rooney poster and generate a bit of extra heat I suggested. Quietly.

On Christmas Day we were up early to launch our assault on the Tiger's Nest Monastery, which is perched precariously on the side of a mountain just outside Paro. The climb is steep and hard - we had to ascend nearly a kilometre in height, the last bit required climbing down the side of one mountain and then back up again the other side at quite high altitude, so we were exhausted but exhilarated when we reached the top. It's a stunning sight and a place of pilgrimage for many Bhutanese who believe that their revered Guru Rinpoche flew there on a tiger from Tibet (hence the name). Of course it wasn't a real tiger, it was really his consort, but that's another story, another time....

Seasons Greetings
from
Robin Hood and Maid Marian. Xxx