Possibly no road network is so hostile to finding your way around a new town in the dark as Darjeeling’s baffling tangle of lanes and walkways.

Every time you are forced to retrace your steps, pavements appear to shift themselves in confounding ways.

Cunning alleyways cut across these lanes. By night, they throng with chefs and stallholders who squat by smoky open fires to keep warm.

Some alleys loop completely back on themselves.

Some end abruptly at perpendicular junctions that look down upon the rear of hotels and shops perched on the narrow street below.

Others run straightforwardly, up and down the hillside.

Deeper into the town, these steaming alleyways are completely closed in by wonky buildings, so that you can see nothing of the hillside and very little of the sky.

Occasionally, you might stumble out of one and get a view of the entire town glinting above and below you like a fire opal.

Great places to eat while visiting Darjeeling

Darjeeling’s is home to many famous bars and restaurants, old and cherished enough to feature in novels as well as travel guides.

On a sheaf of receipt paper in my Lonely Planet guide to North India is printed a map of the town.

It was published in 2001, but the advice on where to eat and drink remains accurate.

The confectionery Glenary’s Bakery, opened by an Italian called Vado, has been trading for over 130 years.

At Joey’s pub, visitors and backpackers have been rounding off their treks with a hard drink since the 1940s.

A pure veg eaterie called Hasty Tasty has been slinging local delights for several decades.

For a more opulent experience, the Windamere Hotel is a colonial landmark that preserves the era of British Raj and offers a high-end afternoon tea.

To reach Darjeeling, I’ve travelled over 2,500 kilometres across the plains of northern India (much of it by train) with my friends, Cameron and Finn.

We feel like we’ve packed in a lifetime’s worth of adventure and, with no deadlines or public transport to take until we leave for home, we head for an edifying drink at Joey’s.

Drinking in Joey's bar

Hidden behind a wooden door at the top of a disguised staircase above a nondescript shop, and having become accustomed to India’s ramshackle, broken-tooth everything, stepping inside is a surreal experience.

Bathed in a light the same colour as the crispest of lagers, it’s a hopeless pastiche of Western-style watering holes.

An unsuccessful fusion of raucous American sports bar and cosy English inn.

The overall effect is too poor to be “transported” anywhere, but it’s so stolidly out of place, I can’t help but immediately like the place.

Bon Jovi is playing on the jukebox and a group of young Asians are getting happily wasted on jugs of spirits, laughing and betting.

We take a seat beneath the window diagonally across from the bar, which is stocked with a courageous if not ample assortment of liquor.

Three pints of Kingfisher and two codeine pills do wonders for the headache I’ve been nursing since I got off the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway (DHR) earlier this evening.

An ailment that wasn’t helped when, on the walk to Joey’s, I received a nasty electric shock to the neck from a demonic saddle of twisting power cables hanging low over the pavement.

A sign reading, “CAUTION! 11,000 Volts!” was hung next to the live wires.

I’m glad I didn’t receive the full dose of electricity, else I would have died a very thirsty man far from home.

For the first time in a long while, food menus are shoved under our noses.

Joey’s has no kitchen, and the menus are for the takeaway downstairs, which takes our order via WhatsApp and delivers it to our table.

Darjeeling lies about 120 kilometres from Tibet, and that’s reflected in the food on offer, which is an Indo–Chinese mixture of vegetable curries, steamed or fried dumplings, and chow mein.

Satisfied, we settle up and head for our hotel.

The Smart Bazaar sells the essentials

Before jumping in a taxi, we decide it would be wise to pick up supplies for a week’s stay here while in the town centre.

From the nearby Smart Bazaar (smart because the prices are fixed, and it’s the smart choice for tourists who don’t want to haggle and get ripped off), we manage to cobble together a fairly cohesive shop, despite being tired and a trifle drunk.

Waiting for the taxi, I smoke a cigarette and try to mould my head around our newest set of surroundings.

Unlike the rest of lowland India, no thronging crowds harangue us to purchase things or pay for their services. In fact, we are ignored in the most Anglican way.

Gone too are the Tuk Tuks. They would be useless on these gradients.

The air still stinks of diesel, but to a familiar level, like commuting on a bicycle through backed-up traffic in winter.

An army of squat water lorries charge up and down, supplying Darjeeling with fresh drinking water.

And there’s no evidence of livelihoods wrought exclusively from trash, although there is still plenty of it.

All in all, the scene is very similar to the aftermath of night out.

This similarity is redoubled during the high-octane taxi ride to our accommodation.

Groups of young girls out on the town stumble by, and we have to dodge a fantastically drunk guy struggling to stand up straight.

Our taxi driver’s son is sitting in the front seat, and he narrates the scenery and hedonistic indulgences outside the window as we fly by like we’re in the opening of a Need for Speed game.

After ten minutes, we arrive at our accommodation—an abysmally cold colonial-era mansion that overlooks the Happy Valley Tea Estate.

I’ve been cooped up with my friends all across India, so there is no especial need for sweet goodnights.

I flip on my electric blanket, toss a few hand warmers down my bed, and climb in.

Notes on Darjeeling tea

Happy Valley Tea Estate is the second oldest in Darjeeling.

Many of the tea bushes here are over 100 years old.

They are planted in a patchwork of islets, rather like a giraffe's coat, to maximize aeration of the prized tea leaves.

It’s February, so the army of 1,500 tea pickers that the estate employs are at rest, but the heavy mists that impart Darjeeling’s delicate and fruity flavour have firmly set in.

The tea bushes in Darjeeling bloom in phases, known as “flushes,” throughout the year.

Because of Darjeeling’s high altitude and the associated weather system, each flush produces a distinct character of tea when properly brewed.

The first flush won’t be picked until March. These leaves make a pale, subtly-flavoured tea, because they have grown over winter when there is comparatively little sunlight.

The second flush is prized by tea connoisseurs, and is what most people will drink when they order a pot of Darjeeling. It’s stronger than the first flush because it matures during the warm months of May and June.

Unusually for a black tea, the second flush has a fruity, citrus flavour called “muscatel” after the white wine “muscat” grapes that produce a similar flavour profile.

Towards the end of summer, the monsoon rains set in.

This warm and wet season between July and September produces the “monsoon flush,” which lacks the complexity of the second flush and consequently ends up being used in cheaper teabags and blends.

Before winter arrives, the tea plants produce a final “autumn flush.” It makes a cheaper, less prized tea than the second flush, but is picked to maximize production as the bushes will afterward become dormant until the following spring.

This morning, the thick fog sifting through the hillside tea bushes paints a very enigmatic scene that we enjoy in amicable silence with piping hot brews.

By late morning, we have gathered the pieces of ourselves, and decide to head back into town to see how we might want to spend the rest of the week.

Blue and white

Dressed for winter, we lean into the switchback lane we drove down yesterday.

It’s so steep that before long we are all sweating and have to rip off all our layers.

Dhobis hang out washing on the rear of their homes, and I make a cheap joke that there are no whites in India—fabrics, that is.

On my next visit, I vow to bring some Daz wash powder and become very rich.

The top of the lane joins Hill Cart Road, the main thoroughfare that rises up from Siliguri, and that passes through Darjeeling before joining the road that leads to the uphill towns of Kalimpong and Gangtok.

The blue and white of Darjeeling’s signature colour scheme is displayed everywhere.

Road signs, water trucks, buildings, and, of course, the DHR are all painted in these colours.

I’ve narrowed down the local significance of this colour scheme to three possibilities:

1. It’s the historic livery of the DHR
2. It’s colour scheme of the Trinamool Congress Party, the incumbent party of West Bengal
3. These colours simply stand out through the fog and help reduce road accidents

The rhyming road signs are very near the district hospital and are very sweet. There’s:

Accidents Are Painful - Safety Is Gainful.

And:

Accidents Bring Tears - Safety Brings Cheers.

Their message suggests the 3rd hypothesis as the most likely, as do the metal rods hammered into the tarmac for added grip.

The cultural history of Darjeeling

Further along Hill Cart Road, towards the town centre, the blend of cultures that reflect Darjeeling’s location and past welcome the traveller in a heady mixture of cuisine, temples, goods, gods, and posters.

Along the main drag into town, Chinese chow mein is fried up in giant woks.

Nepalese Gorkhas stand around in camo, looking fierce.

Once part of the Kingdom of Sikkim, Darjeeling was occupied by the expanding Nepalese Gorkha kingdom between 1788 and 1817.

After the Anglo–Nepalese War, the British forced Nepal to cede Darjeeling back to Sikkim under the Treaty of Sugauli (1816).

In 1835, the Chogyal (King) of Sikkim ceded Darjeeling to the British East India Company, and following Indian independence in 1947, it was incorporated into West Bengal.

Sikkim remained a monarchy until 1975, when a power struggle between the Chogyal and the elected, Nepali-majority political parties led to a referendum in which voters overwhelmingly chose to abolish the monarchy and make Sikkim India’s 22nd state.

Some ethnic Nepalese groups continue to push for more official recognition of their culture and language, which has led to violent clashes in these hills as recently as 2017.

Darjeeling’s history is as tangled as its lanes.

Walking past the Christian churches, you might hear the Westminster quarters striking or a muezzin singing a call to prayer across the valleys.

At the very top of town sits the Shri Mahakal Temple, a sacred place to Lepcha and Bhutian Buddhists and Hindus alike—a peaceful place where adherents to both of these interconnected faiths can perform peaceful devotions.

With the afternoon ahead of us, we hike up to it.

The Chowrasta—the centre of town

Through the lopsided bazaar at the centre of town, we emerge at the bottom of the Chowrasta.

It's a comparatively boutique marketplace filled with high-end shops, tourist centres, and eateries, including the first KFC we’ve seen since New Delhi.

Every fourth shop sells tea and fetching tea paraphernalia, including glass mugs, strainers, and decorated pots. What else would you bring home from Darjeeling? They’re too fragile for us to bring home, so we reluctantly turn down the offers.

From a taxi rank where you can book jeep rides out to Tiger Hill and other locations that would quicken the heart of any mountain lover, a pedestrianized lane runs gently uphill and opens up onto a high and airy town square.

Families munch sweetmeats and sip masala chai to keep warm, while tourists pose for selfies.

Incredibly fit joggers take advantage of the cool air to jog up and down the hills.

A golden statue of the Nepali poet, Banu Bhaktu Agharya, watches over the shoppers and the tourists and the joggers.

Across the open square, the Chowrasta forks and becomes Mall Road that encircles Observation Hill—the highest point in town.

Kangchenjunga and the Eastern Himalayas

To the north and the east, the buildings fall out of sight beneath the clouds.

Low green valleys stretch for dozens of miles. Beyond them, rise the world’s mightiest mountains.

The most important mountain in this region is Kangchenjunga.

In Sikkimese Buddhist culture, the mountain is regarded as a guardian deity and mystical gateway to valleys of immortality known as Bayul.

The five peaks of this colossal massif stand sentinel over the entire region, and are stencilled reverently onto every jeep.

The name Kangchenjunga is derived from Tibetan, and literally means “five treasures of the high snow.”

To westerners, it represents a challenge, rather than a holy sanctuary.

First summited by Joe Brown and George Band in 1955, it was believed to be the highest mountain on the planet until the Great Trigonometric Survey of India passed that title to Everest, in 1849.

Today, it’s entirely obscured by a pall of heavy winter fog that has transformed Darjeeling into a picture-perfect temperate forest hanging in the clouds.

Shri Mahakal Temple. A shrine sacred to Buddhists and Hindus

Ragged prayer flags send a million mantras fluttering into the wind at Shri Mahakal Temple.

It was built in 1782 on the site of the Buddhist Dorje Ling Monastery, from which Darjeeling takes its name.

Despite being erected in dedication to Lord Shiva, today it stands as a serene seat of syncretic worship—a place where Hindus and Buddhists gather to perform their devotions.

Its perch atop Observatory Hill affords sweeping Himalayan views, when the fog lifts.

On the climb to the inner sanctuary, we spin prayer wheels clockwise, sending Om Mani Padme Hum through the towering cedars.

The cyclical nature of existence, fundamental to Buddhist teaching and released into the universe with each spin, becomes another point of syncretism with Hindu thought.

The 24 spokes of the Indian flag’s Ashoka Chakra represent cosmic order; its clockwise motion symbolizes life in movement and death in stagnation.

Buddhism’s lessons—reality rather than scripture for its adherents—and Hinduism’s cosmic order are both expressions of dharma, the sustaining law.

Despite their different interpretations, the spinning of prayer wheels and the Ashoka Chakra actualize dharma by setting a wheel in motion.

Just as we are about to enter the inner temple, a rhesus macaque betrays his mischief with a lusty look at the warm pile of worshippers’ shoes.

We decide to keep ours on, and head back down the hill for lunch.

Night falls early in winter

It’s fully dark by 6pm. Darjeeling’s winter evenings are very long.

Through the heavy iron gate, we climb the stairs up to our rooms.

It’s freezing inside. Colder than outside, it seems. Stripping off to shower takes considerable strength of mind, and we have to quickly dress ourselves in every layer we have bothered to pack.

We drag the dining room chairs out onto our narrow balcony overlooking the Happy Valley Tea Estate, and our breath mixes with the fog as we while away the long night, chatting irreverently over tea and whisky.

What Darjeeling sounds like

The following morning, the sun is reinvigorated and rises with new energy.

Sitting outside with our steaming morning brews, we savour the sounds of hilltop life.

The jubilant steam whistle of the DHR pipes out as it criss-crosses the valleys on a joyride to Ghum.

The practical drone of its diesel companion dutifully heading out on its day-long commute to Siliguri also rattles the morning hush.

Softening as the train passes lower and lower, this horn is our companion all day no matter where we are in town.

Tinny party music emanates up the tea slopes from some cheap radio.

Bucolic sounds of trowel scraping soil and spade hitting earth.

The sizzling of rendered fat from a fried breakfast you know you want to eat.

Dogs let out a massive morning piss into the tea bushes and yelp with excitement at a magical new day, fresh yet before their daily hardships of beastings and leash.

How strong the joy is of a morning wee!

Insects rub their lengths together and inflate their tymbals, too eager to fear the exotic birds swooping down to pick them off.

Only the butterflies are silent, flapping clumsily about, while mopeds and 125s carry their riders off to work. They are much quieter than their equivalents in the UK.

By late morning, the insects have fallen silent.

Only the trowels and the mopeds and the train horn are to be heard. The toy train has descended past the worst of the traffic and has to blast its horn but occasionally.

Pots and pans clang as the household cooks prepare lunch.

Midafternoon is a time of hushed, focused industry. A punctual muezzin, the distant hubbub of the town, and the Westminster quarters are the only sounds breaking the lull.

Evening. So early again.

Stray and domestic dogs all over the hills take up a yelping dedication.

The tinny music playing out over breakfast has been replaced by a passionate Hindu singer performing at some event.

It might be miles away down in the valley, yet every syllable is clear.

The hushed voices of invisible gardeners come across our balcony, sounding buoyed by the prospect of rest and a pull on some hard liquor.

Nightfall. Pet dogs are cursed at by their masters, taking them for their last piss before morning.

The winter fog descends, cloaking everything except the lights of the town and orange bulbs that light up the lane beneath us.

Only the stray dogs remain to be heard, whining or celebrating in chorus. It’s difficult to tell.