Shimla is perched on a sharply pointed ridge, some 6000 feet up, with a main street, called the Mall,  roughly flat along the top, with buildings on the steep slopes on both sides. For nearly 100 years it was the summer HQ of the British Raj, extending from Aden to Burma. The British tried to make it look like home: Surrey?

There was an extraordinary variety of styles, some rather decaying

This is the Traffic Office. The closer view shows the extent of the conservation problem.

The Viceregal Lodge was altogether grander, in Scottish Baronial style. Now a university department, but once the scene of momentous decisions concerning the partition of India.

The extent of the British influence in the region was brought home to us by a conversation with an elderly Englishman we met. He had returned to visit the scene of his childhood, at an army post some 8 hours drive into the mountains from Shimla. He had just visited the place, now an Indian army base, and the present occupants had thrown nothing away. He was shown a group photo that included his father, and also the menu for a banquet, held c 1926. It included champagne (Moet et Chandon), and French wine (St Emilion). The base, obviously in a most remote area, had been equipped with a grand piano and a billiard table. Our own visit was also to reveal some extraordinary contrasts. The roads were often spectacular...

and could be obstructed:

The bus on the left, while attempting to pass the bus on the right, has broken down. The able bodied passengers are pushing the bus on the left, up hill. There is, of course, a steep drop immediately to the right of the right hand bus.

The bulldozer is clearing the road for us.

Our route took us to Sarahan

En route we passed Rampur, where we visited Palam palace. It is strange to us to realise that until 1947, this part of the world was ruled by hereditary monarchs who lost their powers and palaces so relatively recently. 

Near Sarahan,  we stayed at a basic guest house, set in an apple orchard. The owner had been the winner of the All India apple competition, 1988. The blossom was out. It all looked very attractive, but the apples were sold, so we were told, by a local co-operative, to Wal-mart. We sucked through are teeth and made cautionary comments

Nearby was the Bhimakali Temple

Immediately in front of the main temple (Scene of human sacrifices in the past) you can see scaffolding for a replacement now under construction, for a much older temple. The setting was superb.

From Sarahan we continued on national Highway 22, once part of a main India to Tibet trade route, but now really a cul-de-sac, to Karcham, here following the river Satluj, where we turned up a side valley. The Sangla valley had no road access until the 1970s, and we saw a bridge under construction providing the first road access to Batseri.

The original footbridge is in the background (with plenty of Buddhist prayer flags). The only machinery for the new bridge is the cement mixer by the new bridge foundation on the left. The ladies on the right replenish the cement mixer using wicker baskets carried on their heads. Meanwhile, less than 20 miles down the valley, this same river emerges from a 400MW hydroelectric power plant, and where vast further projects under way, with all the equipment and chaos of serious civil engineering.

Batseri was not only getting a new bridge, it also had a new temple, for which both Buddhists and Hindus had contributed money. The furthest village up the valley is Chitkul.

The older small wooden houses were being replaced by newer larger houses with corrugated iron roofs.  We were able to walk a little further up the valley, but just beyond here was an army check point, beyond which a special pass was needed, close to the boundary with China.

We visited the local school. No desks, childen seated on carpet in the playground/cricket pitch. The children were learning Hindi, by rote, as their second language. They did get one lesson a week in English, but sadly that lesson had had little impact.

We were the only guests at a campsite in Sangla, and it was very cold. The food was unappetising and we were feeling rather sorry for ourselves until the arrival of 3 people from Calcutta, a pop singer, his fiancee and her mother. He was a professional musician: he wore John Lennon glasses and Sting was his hero. In the evening they plied us with whisky and entertained us hugely with guitar and voice: Bob Dylan songs in Bengali (Yes really). That cheered us up. We had been down quite a lot of roads.

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