The road into Spiti narrows quickly. Green valleys fade, the air dries, and the mountains pull farther apart. Villages appear rarely, marked by whitewashed houses and fields held together by careful irrigation.

Driving here is constant and absorbing. Roads cling to cliffs, rivers cut sharply below, and the landscape feels stripped down to rock, sky, and distance. Hours pass without interruption, broken only by the need to stop and take in how wide the valley has become.

Spiti settles into you slowly. Not through single moments, but through repetition — the colour of the land, the silence between places, and the steady rhythm of being on the road far from anything familiar.