Hundreds of dove grey pigeons fluttered up, stirred into action by a uniformed man waving his arms and shooing at them only to settle the moment his back was turned. The pigeons resumed eating the grain being tossed to them by a tourist, these were the true city dwellers, capable of adaptation wherever they went. Cooing softly amongst themselves, they ignored the pilgrims prostrating themselves before the enormous white domed Boudhanath Stupa.

On the far riverbank several fires burned sending dirty smoke lazily up to mingle with the haze of Kathmandu. The river flowed languidly past, a dark, murky olive, certainly not the kind of river you’d choose to swim in. A faint smell of spices and something else, sour milk perhaps, reached us as we sat on the large concrete steps, captivated by the scene before us.

The atmosphere was hushed, “no photos, no photos, turn it off, please turn off your phone” politely repeated the curator to a tourist who appeared oblivious to the privileged position we found ourselves in.

Since stepping through the foyer, the hustle and bustle of the busy square quietened behind us. The small courtyard we were now in was surrounded on all four sides, the three storey, red brick walls decorated with intricate wooden carvings and the windows latticed.

He was lounging on the step about halfway up, distracted by an empty water bottle and took no notice of us as we stopped to catch our breath, one hundred and fifty steps completed, still more than two hundred to go.

We’d timed our early morning visit to follow the hundreds of Buddhist and Hindu pilgrims who tour the site as the sun rises each morning.