"Darling,” read the road sign as we hammered past, “I like you — but not so fast.” That was all very well, but I was in something of a hurry. Dawn was breaking across the Indus Valley, the yawning sun spot­lighting the snowy tops of the Himalayan peaks all around.

When the rays reached the roof of Thiksey monastery, the monks would put conch-shell trumpets to lips and honk a mournful call to prayer across Ladakh. It wasn’t something I wanted to miss.

Two of them were poised in purple robes as I ran up the monastery steps. The view would have been breath­taking if I’d had any breath left to be taken. Running up stairs at an altitude of 11,500ft is not to be recommended; it makes you feel dizzy and confused.

I could have sworn I heard a mobile-phone ring tone as the monks raised their horns.

10 classic India stories

The travel editor at Times Online delves into the collection to choose his favourite features on India in 2007

Related Links

• 19 things you must know before going to India

The shorter of the pair stopped and reached inside his robe. A tinny version of West Coast hip-hop rang out again across the ancient building. He pulled out a slim phone, silenced it with a few quick prods and tucked it away again. Not an eyelid was batted. Up came the trumpet, out came the honk.

Nothing, it seems, is quite as it should be in Ladakh. You’re in India, but the locals look Tibetan and practise Buddhism. You’re in a dusty desert, but all around are icy mountains. The hills are brown scree, the valleys so lush you could be in Somerset.

Even in the monastery’s austere prayer room, the atmosphere was like that of a school assembly. The remaining mobiles might have been on silent, but the chattering and horseplay was at top volume. Cymbals clanged. Hands clapped. As the old boy in charge speed-read from a holy book the size of Yellow Pages, a teenage monk took advantage of the dis­traction to gleefully thump his mate on the head with a drumstick.

I slipped outside into the bright sunlight. Encouraged by my guide, Siddhartha, I flipped coins at the wishing stupa (monument) in the courtyard. The third one landed on the top ledge, wobbled and stuck. Buoyed with the news of a lifetime of good luck, we set out on foot across the arid ochre.

Even that early in the day, the sun was fierce. In the shadows you froze, but there was so little shade in the ­valley that even the bare rocks were sweating. It seemed inconceivable that there could be snow leopards lurking in the hills.

“It’s not the leopards you want to worry about,” Sidd said cheerfully. “It’s the packs of wolves. If they catch you, they’ll tear you apart.”

We dipped down into a deep gorge, slipping and sliding over loose stones. The silence when we stopped was interrupted only by the sound of dry air rasping through my gasping lungs.

There was an eerie, brutal romance about the place. Tiny pockets of purple lavender sprouted hopefully from cracks in the baked earth. The occasional antelope skittered into view before streaking off into the distance. To the north lay China, to the east Tibet and Nepal, and to the west Pakistan and Afghanistan. With a squint and a daydream, you could imagine yourself as a 19th-century Flashman-type politico, playing an undercover part in the Great Game between Russia and the Raj, seeking alliances and advantages in a land lying on the borders of the two avaricious empires.

Times recommends

• The world's 10 weirdest things to eat
• Correspondents: hoteliers revenge for Tripadvisor
• A slow, ponderous journey up the Mekong