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So there we were. Five days into our visit and, after lunching at one of Kathmandu’s chic restaurants, we were being driven across the Bagmati river into Patan – or Lalitpur, the old name by which the city now wishes to be known again. Outside, the temperature was still a cool 22C. – it was to reach nearly 30C later. In the Sunday atmosphere people were out walking and shopping: women in brightly coloured saris, men in either traditional shirts, trousers and waistcoats, or jeans and tee-shirts; cows flopped down wherever they felt like it; dogs were collapsed in the noon heat; children, attired either in what to western eyes seemed elaborately decorated dresses or shirts, played as children everywhere play; babies were carried wrapped up against the cold – yes, cold – in woolly hats and shawls; fruit vendors pushed bicycles with loaded panniers. Everywhere there was an atmosphere of vitality, a vibrancy of life. It might have had something to do with the fact that the monsoon was now over and that the Festival of Desai – a festival dedicated to rebirth and the family, the nearest equivalent being our Christmas –  was due to begin in two days’ time. So much colour and movement; so much poverty and squalor; so many contrasts, shocks, so much beauty and ugliness: Kathmandu.

   That day it was supposed to be the occasion of the launch of an anthology of UK Poetry I had edited for Spiny Babbler, the poetry society of Nepal, to be followed by a reading by William Oxley. The book had been printed and I had seen copies of it; I had even spent the previous day writing a talk I was to have given about the current state of poetry in the UK. But Pallav Ranjan, with whom I had corresponded by e-mail over the previous six months or more, greeted me with the news that the launch had been postponed for at least a fortnight as he was hoping that the Crown Prince would attend the launch. It seems that in Nepal, the Royal Family is very keen on the arts, even the Queen writes poetry which has been set to music and is regularly broadcast on the radio. Pallav is a genial and bright young man totally dedicated to poetry and the arts, and he runs the Spiny Babbler poetry society. Recently he had published a collection of his work and sent me a copy, together with a CD which had given me a flavour already of Nepali poetry: a poetry more obviously metaphysical and spiritual than most current British poetry; yet a poetry which also addressed social issues such as the place of women in society, male-female relationships, poverty, and even the social status of poetry itself.

   The other leading light in Nepali poetry circles whom I met was Greta Rana, a practical yet radically-minded Yorkshire woman married into the Rana family – the erstwhile ruling dynasty of Nepal, which had been overthrown – or overtaken – by the democratic revolution of recent times. In addition to her passion for poetry, and its promotion, Greta runs a series of self-catering establishments for the many tourists who visit Nepal – ‘to find themselves’, as my son-in-law says. But as British vice-consul there, he knows only too well how many, in fact, lose themselves in this remote land of incredible mountains, plateaux, deep valleys and jungle!

   The first event took place in the reception bar at the Shaligram Hotel. A sort of three-rooms-converted-into-one situation with a small end room containing a low table and chair for the reader. The main part of this elongated room, furnished with a mixture of floor cushions and chairs, contained an audience of around forty people of various ages. The more mature Nepalis wore traditional dresses, either saris or, in the case of the men, full-sleeved shirts and embroidered waistcoats. While the younger contingent, male or female, wore the global-village uniform of jeans and tee-shirts. Greta Rana provided the introduction, commenting how few English writers made it to Kathmandu, and even fewer poets, William being one of the first. She also made reference to Acumen, saying flatteringly that ‘When one has appeared in its pages, one knows one has arrived poetically! Needless to say, I have not yet arrived!’ Thus do one’s rejections come back to haunt one!

   It seems that all artistic events in Nepal are multi-media. So first we had music from Manjul, a famous singer of folksongs, and guitar player. During his performance, two of the older, sari’d women got to their feet and did traditional dancing, while the audience clapped to the music. It all contributed to a sense of harmony between audience and participants and created just the right atmosphere for the following reading.

   William read for about 25 minutes, the audience responding most to those poems with a metaphysical edge, or to his love poems – though they laughed at his lighter work, proving that humour is world wide. The questions which followed ranged from seeking his views on translation to matters of spirituality in English poetry. But as the afternoon wore on, the temperature in the long room increased, and we were eventually happy to move to the garden for a buffet laid on by Greta and her hotel staff. The only irritating thing to me was that I didn’t get round to eating much (especially as after five days I’d developed a love of Nepali cooking!) as both the poet and I were inundated with questions about the poetry and publishing scene in the UK and about UK magazines. William was also presented with books by Nepali writers and he signed copies of his own. This was the first of several poetry events during our stay, and as time went by we found that we were to meet more Nepali locals than ex-pats as a result; and this despite being based at the British Embassy Compound with our relatives. We found the Nepalese very, very congenial ...

   The following morning we were back at the Shaligram, where twenty-four – a photo cannot lie! – young poets assembled for a workshop. They were all desirous of improving their English, as being a more international language than their own, and were very keen to have their use of the language looked over by an English poet and myself as an editor. Four hours passed quickly in talk, poetry and enjoyable, if intense, encounters with these young people; who were very intelligent, committed to writing, and eager to learn about England and English poetry. A visit to the Spiny Babbler Headquarters followed in the afternoon; a Nepali house containing rooms which doubled as art galleries and reading spaces, many of which would have held more people than at the London Poetry Society. The organisation’s offices were in separate rooms complete with computers where a monthly magazine is produced and also books are type-set for the printer. This, the second of a number of meetings with representatives of the society, was most illuminating.

   The most exotic of the arranged poetry readings took place at Fishtail Lodge, Pokhara, 125 miles west of Kathmandu. Pokhara is known as the gateway to the Himalayas, being situated at the foot of the Annapurna range. It is a town which verges on Lake Phewe, in whose waters the Annapurnas are reflected together with the sacred and still unclimbed mountain, Machhapuchare, the Fishtail Mountain. To reach the Lodge, one has to cross the lake to an island by means of a raft pulled by rope, a most unusual ferry service. Fishtail Lodge consists of several octagonal rooms, in pagoda-style, set like diamonds in lush gardens. The reading took place in a low tin-roofed cabin at one end of these gardens: poetry not being quite so well-favoured as tourism! Even so, it was an interesting structure in its interior in that the far end of the cabin consisted of a large and attractive mural, covering the whole of the wall, depicting a traditional Himalayan village with mountains in the background. The event went well. I gave a talk about English poetry magazines in general and Acumen in particular; while William read for around forty minutes. Once more the multi-media approach was evident in that three musicians played typical Nepali music and a famous Nepali artist gave a talk. Just as the heat in the hut was becoming unbearable the event came to a close and we all went outside to enjoy a generous lakeside buffet. Some forty people attended this reading on a Tuesday morning: all male, the only woman present –apart from myself – being Param Meyangbo, the Spiny Babbler’s representative. Question-time had elicited numerous intelligent queries and observations from the eager audience: questions on the creative process, the role of the critic, translation, what part intellect and philosophy played in the making of poems and, finally, a lengthy discussion on the globalization of the arts. If the heat hadn’t driven us from the hotel’s cabin, we could have been there yet! And we might have been: the appetite for poetry and knowing about English poetry seemed inexhaustable. But, unfortunately, our visit wasn’t and all too soon, it seemed, we had to leave our new friends and take the long, boring flight back to the UK.