Waking up slowly, shuffling around to the balcony for coffee to be met with a mist of grey and then turning to find the mountains shrouded, a Turneresque landscape of clouds and slopes, infinity caught in each passing glimpse. 
The sound of flashless thunder crashing and echoing in the distance, the wind howling as a cloud dragon flows up the valley before dispersing into fragments.
A sudden clearance, tree lined slopes, the risen sun painting brief patches of white, weaving a counterpoint to the shifting grey. 
Wind, blasting chill up the valley, demanding jacket and hat as myriad tones translate into monotone shades, sheets of cold rain falling. 
Another change. Broken puffs and threads of bright cloud below the summits, clinging, new snow above shining in the clearing air, peaks and ridges sharpened into what Li Po might call mountain clarity.


Down to Rekong Peo, Flower offering us a lift. A series of treats for lunch, a search for a small kettle ending with an element on a wire. Perfect. And wandering the shops through streets which feel busy, a town, differences noticeable. 
Down by the permit office a gathering of backpackers, a feeling of distance or alienation, surprise: wondering how this will translate upon leaving.
In the village the day passes and then the resurgent storm, wild thunders flashing as clouds funnel up the valley, the curtain of precipitation bringing fierce rain and, when the clouds clear, fresh snow on the mountains.
Later mountain clarity resumes as dazzling stars are tossed above the dark skeleton of the hills, the tonality of the Himalayan night.