My grandfather served in the Gurkhas – I visited Nepal in search of his legacy

“I don’t belong here,” I blurted out – to no one in particular – as our twin-propeller plane ricocheted through the turbulent rift between Kathmandu and Pokhara. Through the scratched, hazy window, the snow-capped ramparts of the Himalayas loomed well above the cruising altitude of our weathered puddle-jumper. And I felt quite assuredly out of my depth. As the plane lurched and bucked through another wave of mountain turbulence, I tugged the lap belt tighter and winced at the idea of the travel-sized dose of hubris I had stowed in the overhead bin.

Nepal, I thought before setting off, I know Nepal. This should be familiar, even easy. But as the peaks seemed to lean closer, I realised that while Nepal loomed large in my imagination, it had never felt farther from my understanding.

Nepal has always had a presence in my life. Not just in my grandmother’s stories of her time there with my grandfather, a Major General in the British Gurkhas, but in the fragments of their lives that had made their way to me – in borrowed rituals and turns of phrase, in the faded photo of my grandfather, mother and uncles seated on a ridge in front of Machapuchare, the sacred “Fish Tail” peak.

In words such as “sherpa” and names such as Gurung that were persistent refrains in my grandparents’ day-to-day. Nepal had such a consistent presence in their routines, attitudes, legacy and lore that I felt an unearned affinity with this place.

And yet, for all its weight in my family’s history, I had never been. The Nepal I knew was second hand – an indistinct shape lacking texture, smell, flavour and sound. By the time our interminable 19-minute flight jolted to its unceremonious conclusion at Pokhara Airport, I had come to the sobering realisation that second-hand travel, no matter how vivid, cannot possibly prepare you for a place like Nepal.

The road from Pokhara Airport is immaculate – a straight dual carriageway with floral lane dividers and freshly painted markings. But after 400m (1,300ft), reality set in. Without warning, the smooth tarmac turned to pitted and pockmarked gravel that sent our 4x4 jumping and writhing. We merged gingerly into a cavalcade of noise and dust and metal, taking our place alongside wobbling mopeds, overloaded buses, and hand-painted trucks stacked with gas cylinders, egg crates and car parts. Horns honked, adding their own dissonant rhythm to the cacophony.

As our driver, Raju, wrestled the car through another pothole, he caught my eye in the rear-view mirror. With a smile, he said, “Welcome to Nepal.”

Soon, we moved through the DMZ every city has between airport and downtown, and Pokhara proper began to reveal itself. The road calmed. The dust and noise gave way to quiet alleys, tidy shops and traditional homes with beautiful hand-carved facades. We stepped out into the old bazaar, and one thing became immediately apparent: Pokhara is spotless. No rubbish, no overflowing bins, no waste, no detritus.

Looking up and down the narrow road, shopkeepers swept their stoops right down to street level. There was a tangible sense of pride in their small footprint. In a snug café just off the bazaar, over plates of dal bhat – rice, lentils, pickled vegetables and a spoonful of spicy achar – Raju explained simply: “In Pokhara, we believe in clean.”

Turning a corner, past tidy chemists and cafés, the smell of freshly brewed chai hung in the air. At the top of the road stood the British Gurkha camp, where my grandfather had once been stationed. The camp bore a quiet reverence, its simplicity belying the profound history it held, not just for my family but for Pokhara. I stood on the parade ground where my grandfather had stood countless times, and looked out at the same hills he must have gazed upon.

Attached to the camp is The Gurkha Welfare Trust, a charity my grandfather helped establish, and another vital thread in my journey. Meeting with its staff, I saw first hand the enduring impact of my grandfather’s legacy. They spoke of programmes providing pensions and medical care to retired Gurkha soldiers and their families – services that, for many, meant the difference between dignity and destitution. They showed me photos of old soldiers, their faces lined and proud. These men had fought alongside my grandfather, and in retirement, he had fought for them.

That afternoon, Phewa Lake stretched out like a mirror, so still it seemed to hold its breath. The only way to reach my accommodation, the Pavilions Lakeview Resort, was by small wooden boat, painted blue and faded by time and sun. An earthy humidity hung in the air, perfumed by alder wood smoke from the bonfires smouldering in the hills above.

In the bow of the boat, my guide, Ambika, surveyed the horizon. Suddenly, his arm whipped out, pointing towards a snatch of reeds. “A ruddy shelduck,” he said. “Tadorna ferruginea in Latin.” While I squinted to spot what he was pointing at, Ambika lifted his hands to his mouth and delivered an uncanny imitation of the bird’s call. It sent the waterfowl and its companions into hoots of what I could only assume was overwhelming approval. “Ruddy shelduck,” he concluded, before returning his gaze to the shoreline, leaving only the quiet hum of the outboard engine and the ripple of our boat through the still water.

In the early evening, sitting beside a crackling campfire on the south shore of the lake, Machapuchare appeared as an imposing grey scrape on the indigo sky. As Ambika poked at the embers with a crooked stick, I realised I was sitting in the same place, looking at the same monolith as my grandparents, mother and uncles in that sun-bleached photo that hangs in my grandmother’s bedroom.

I had come to Nepal to understand my grandparents’ lives, to walk the hills they trekked, and to meet the people they so admired. And I did. But I also returned home with something just as valuable: my own line on the map linking my family to this beautiful and unique place.

Essentials

Alex Hunter was a guest of the Pavillions (00977 98560 27997) the Farm and Lakeview, both of which have rooms from £118 per night, based on two sharing and including breakfast.

Various airlines fly from London to Kathmandu, connecting via Doha, Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Bangkok and even Hong Kong, with returns from around £1,100.