Before leaving Kathmandu my inbuilt excitement level at finally getting to Bhutan was tuned to an all-time high of 11, possibly even bordering on a 12. I still can't quite believe we are actually here after dreaming about it for so long. And mentioning it about 17 times a year, according to Brian. Tch.

Someone first told me about this tiny hidden kingdom in the Himalayas when I was in Tibet 25 years ago. But, they warned, like some old cackling witch in a fairy tale, you'll never get there, oh no - according to my 'source' only 6 people a year were allowed in. This, like many a tall travellers tale, turned out to be a slight exaggeration of the truth, but it certainly captured my attention. As with a lot of things that appear to be impossible, illegal or illogical, it just made me want to go even more. Only six visitors a year? Let me in!

And so, finally, quarter of a century later we arrived, flying (again) past Everest, although not quite close enough for a wing-waggle this time, landing at Paro's tiny airstrip; the second highest in the world after La Paz my fact o'fiend informs me. Only Druk Air, the national airline, are allowed to operate to and from Bhutan; having small planes and few flights also helps to restrict the number of visitors. Good, keeps the riff raff out.

It's winter here, so whilst it's warmish during the day, its pretty near freezing at night. We've brought lots of old warm clothing with the cunning idea of dumping most of it when we leave for India, thus freeing up acres of space in our cases for some judicious souvenir bargain hunting. Brian has, as always, got the heaviest case. I just don't know what he finds to pack in there, although it always becomes apparent a few weeks into the trip. Today he has just revealed that he has about 30 pairs of socks. Don't ask, that's my policy.

The Bhutanese just don't seem to feel the cold here. Not like we do. Rooms are warmed by fan heaters or portable radiators, they don't seem to have heard of central heating. And then they leave the doors wide open for the wind to come whistling through. Brrrrrr... Or as Brian says when I forget to close a door ' where you born in Bhutan?'. We might be cold, but the laughs never stop.

Although there was no tv or Internet here before 1999, they haven't stepped straight out of the dark ages; even the shabbiest ramshackle hovel perched on the side of the road boasts a magnificent satellite dish beaming all the latest soap operas and Hollywood films. And now there is the BBC - the Bhutanese Broadcasting Company, who even broadcast their local and international news in English at 9pm. Even more excitingly for Brian they show the football, so he's been able to watch his boys beat another team of lesser skill. So I gather.

All the locals are supposed to wear national dress at all times. Men wear a gho, which is like a large dressing gown with smart white detachable cuffs. It's teamed with knee length socks (plus tights in winter) and a chirpy little smile. It's surprisingly attractive. Women wear a floor length sarong, called a kira, which is topped off with a smart little silk jacket, that does not appear to have to match the skirt in any colour or pattern way whatsoever. Call the fashion police.

Not that that is so far-fetched - apparently five years ago everyone had to be correctly attired or they could actually be stopped by the police and imprisoned for 24 hours. Sadly the influence of those Hollywood films has had the inevitable effect of making all the young men want to wear their interpretation of cool and interesting clothes, yup, denim jeans and t-shirts.

All travellers in Bhutan are restricted to using only local tour companies and paying a set daily rate which includes accommodation, food, a guide and a driver. Once we got over the initial discomfort of getting used to having the car door opened for us by men in dressing gowns, we quickly became accustomed to the luxury. We're not quite used to the check out procedure which involves tiny young girls in sarongs sprinting downstairs carrying our luggage above their heads as if it weighed no more than a large leaf but I guess we'll get used to it; or chuck out a few pairs of socks...

Part of the all-inclusive thing means that the majority of our meals are buffet style and therefore mostly only just the right side of warm. Quickly cooling to tepid, as the Bhutanese do not appear to have discovered the delights of plate warming. And of course those open doors don't help. Dinner is usually spent with us shivering in full hat, coat and scarf thermal wear huddled over a rapidly cooling plate of rice, noodles, mashed potato and, the national speciality, chillies and cheese. Sometimes with a side order of naan bread. Yum. As you can tell, it isn't diet food, not by a long stretch of the imagination.

The second day of our trip was 'National Day'; there was a gathering in the stadium in Thimpu, attended by the King and Queen, who only got married 2 months ago. Bless. They are an attractive couple, he looks rather like a young Elvis, complete with sideburns and she is, well, the Bhutanese equivalent of Kate Middleton, beautiful and incredibly thin. After the obligatory boring speeches and award giving there were displays of mask dancing which involves a lot of men prancing around in extravagantly accessorised costumes, and another dance was done by a troupe of guitar players dancing with their instruments - all very interesting and colourful.

Then the Royal couple did a walk-about through the crowd, heavily guarded by lots of police, bodyguards and government ministers. They started to walk towards us but then they stopped, shook our hands and asked us where we were from and how we were enjoying Bhutan. We muttered some bland replies and they moved on, it took us a good half an hour to think of all the things we should of, could of said, but isn't that always the way? But of course we have now invited them round to our place in Hove next time they are in the UK for a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive. Who knows?

Rock and roll.....