Top day (hyperbole, Ed)

After a subdued dinner last night (see explanation in previous post), we all slept fitfully. It’s the altitude, see —self-evidently nothing to do with alcoholic intake, because there wasn’t much of that. Breakfast was as Oriental as we were promised. The mushroom was, in fact, a jam-filled dumpling.

We set off, and blimey, it was bitterly cold. Lessons not learnt, we all stopped to add more layers, but the climb to another record-breaking 4,890m yielded a truly wonderful scene of the eastern edge of the Tibetan Plateau. In my imagination, a plateau is sort of where you get to when you’ve stopped rising—probably a bit bland, then. Oh no! This plateau deserves capitalisation. This Plateau was vast and rock-strewn; skyline-grabbing mountains surrounding an eerie arena of mini lakes (somewhat like a Hebridean loch), with boulders as big as a house. In good Chinese fashion, the road was super-smooth tarmac, and we were the only cars there (this is not actually true, but for rhetorical purposes I’ll let it slide, Ed).

But it was COLD.

We arrived at the pre-ordained petrol station, filled up, and had emergency coffee supplied by that nice Mr Evans. On leaving, the Vauxhall went left and the others went right. Two-thirds of the rear party realised their error (never question Navigator Nellie), but one car (the other centenarian) chose to go the whole hog of wrongness and ploughed on.

Two hours later, when three of us stopped for lunch (an exaggerated description of eating a boiled egg and some nuts), we enquired as to the whereabouts of the Rolls. Communication is difficult sometimes, and indeed we failed to understand what had happened to our fourth car. Top Gear rules prevailed and we departed, thinking, we’ll see them when we see them.

We entered an incredible gully—if that’s how you describe a 40km interlocking gorge—which surely must rank among the world’s most dangerous roads. Every 100 yards, evidence of a recent rockfall had been cleared for the sparse traffic (no wonder; the locals know the dangers). When you think of a rockfall, try to adjust your imagination a little. Rocks so big they left a 12-inch hole in the tarmac had been swept away—no, that’s not right; swept suggests something insubstantial. No, we are talking vast boulders that would need mechanical leverage to move.

Initially, we thought, this is a bit of a jape. But as we continued down the gorge, we started to think about statistics and chances. You do the math: every 100 yards for 40 km (mixing my metrics) seems like a frequency which should be feared.

Eric gleefully told us that we were lucky, because next year the road will be closed as too dangerous.

But hey! Forget the danger. It was the most spectacular drive most of us have witnessed—utterly magnificent. To use my darling wife’s phrase, it was drama to behold.

Our only concern was that Chris and Arthur were going to miss it. When we eventually arrived at the hotel (some 2,000m lower than last night, with improved performance of cars to boot), we waited until the Rolls rolled in. Turns out they did the same gorge, but none of us can understand how they got there.

Tomorrow is another day.