Flying in to Srinagar is simply spectacular. The Himalayas provide a dramatic backdrop with the Zabarwan mountains rising above Nigeen Lake and the more famous Dal Lake.

It’s only taken me 57 years to get here and I’m excited.  For years I’ve had a vision of floating out on Dal Lake, imagining idyllic days in a houseboat on a sparsely populated waterway, floating on serene blue water gazing at snow-capped mountains – a fantasy with a set design out of a Merchant Ivory film. 

In reality the 27 square kilometre lake is not playing along with my imagination.  Maybe it was like that in the late 19th century when the British used to travel up to escape the heat of the plains in Summer, building floating houses as local law prohibited Europeans from owning land in Kashmir. Yes, it is extremely calm, but and the houseboats are sardined in. To reach one requires a trip in a shikara, a small boat with a perilously low freeboard. So low a slight shift in weight seems likely to tip us into the murky shallows. 

Our boatman skilfully paddles us out from the shore. Hopeful traders soon sidle alongside offering everything from fresh flowers to jewellery.  They can take no for an answer and soon we’ve moved beyond the houseboats and into the extensive backwaters.  We pass the odd fisherman sitting patiently in his boat, wielding a fishing rod and vain hope.  Women pull absurdly long stems of water lilies, bundling them up to sell at the market as animal fodder.  

Away from the houseboats it’s tranquil, and we glide past thatches of lotus, harvested for its roots.  The lake is only about 4 metres deep and there are islands of solid ground. 

 We stop for lunch on a houseboat with a typical hotel conversion. After Independence, most were converted into luxurious floating hotels.  As it’s Autumn, the snows are absent so we are denied that backdrop.  I’m guessing opulence was the original design brief.  We enter a living area with chandeliers, intricately carved wall panels, woven woollen rugs, and heavy period furniture, likewise the dining room. Further along the narrow passage are bedrooms with ensuites. All the houseboats are connected to a main water supply and, thank God, have sewage pipes leading back to the mainland. 

With a few trips to India behind me I think I have a feel for its cities, but Kashmiris have their own strong regional identity. Don’t call Kashmir India or you’ll be corrected swiftly. The area is still disputed territory between Pakistan and India, and there’s a strong independence movement. It takes some time to get used to the significant military presence with checkpoints, patrols, and random soldiers wandering about hefting machine guns.

That aside, being here is culturally quite different from being in Delhi, Mumbai or Chennai.  Whether it’s because of the predominantly Muslim population, we see very, very few restaurants or cafes, and no bars. Our hotel is the only one in Srinagar with a licence to sell alcohol, albeit with eye watering prices.

Yes, it’s as chaotic and frenetic and frustrating and wonderful and as dusty as all Indian cities, but centuries of Persian, Central Asian, Mughal and Himalayan influence mean everything is different.  The Persian influence is distinct in the carved wooden houses and architectural features.

The huge Jamia Masjid, which at Friday prayers sees 40,000 flock to the vast mosque, dates from the 14th century, and is built around a large central courtyard, with 378 towering deodar pillars supporting its wooden roof.  Further through the old town beside the Jhelum River, the Khanqah-e-Moula is one of Srinagar’s oldest and most beautiful shrines. As non Muslims we aren’t permitted inside but can peer through the windows to admire its elaborate woodcarving, colourful papier-mâché decoration and painted ceilings. While I admire the outside Scott trustingly hands his camera to a rather demanding gentleman inside, who obligingly takes a few photographs before making it clear that this particular photographic service is not from the kindness of his heart, but for the good of his wallet.

i know you’ve been wondering why it’s taken me 57 years to get here. In March 1979 aged 22 and armed only with travellers’ cheques, alarming naivety and an ill-advised curly perm, I flew one-way to Madras (now Chennai), in SE India, with onward plans to London. In April a military coup in Pakistan culminated in the execution of former President Bhutto; the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan followed later that year. So much for my grand adventure, but there was still Srinigar and my dream of a houseboat on Dal Lake – But the New Zealand Embassy advised against travel because of continuing unrest – 57 years later it’s still disputed territory with a huge military presence, but here I am. No longer youthful and with much better haircut.

Coming up next blog: we go to the saffron harvest and have a traditional Waswaan dinner