Two weeks in and this is where we're at.

We're back at Bhagsu waterfall, the now favourite haunt of our kids. For Gus and Freya it's about climbing over the mighty rocks that litter the river bed, looking for the perfect stone to skim. For Martha, it's "the place where the crisps live," (in the tiny No Name Cafe perched on the path above).

I'm sitting on a large rock, undisturbed by busy kids, considering how far we have come. And I'm not thinking geographically.

We are all so at home here. This morning, Martha came out onto the balcony, clutching her bowl of cornflakes and said, "Where are the monkeys? Monkeys! Monkeys! Where are you?" 

It is totally normal for her to expect to watch monkeys playing as she eats her breakfast.

Freya continues to take everything in her stride and is now beginning to define her role within our little unit. Each night she puts a pan of milk on the stove and makes them all hot chocolate. She also has a total handle on where to find the restaurants recommended by her big cousin Milly and what foods should be eaten there. I struggle to find the man who makes the best samosas in town but Freya knows exactly which is his stall.

Fergus speaks to everyone and anyone. Out on the street if someone speaks to him and he doesn't understand, he holds out his hand and says, "Fergus," assuming, probably quite rightly, that they have asked him his name.

No one looks twice at the remarkable things we see. On our way here today we passed a goat standing in wheelbarrow on the steps of a temple. Totally normal.

Before we set off, I worried about how they would feel seeing beggars. But you know what, they see it through kids' eyes, which doesn't provoke deep thought as to how some of these desperate souls survive, they simply see someone they want to help. We give money or food to some of them (if he has money in his pocket, Gus is the first one to reach for it), but we can't stop for everyone. And whilst it feels to us a very temporary and unsatisfactory solution to their plight, for the kids, that's enough. We move on, the beggar doesn't leave a lasting impression on them. They feel sad for them, when they stand before them, but out of sight and the encounter is over. That's not to say it's forgotten. The kids just accept their existence without question.

Our apartment where we're staying is really quite grotty. But strangely, none of us mind. Not even me. The beds are hard, the walls need a lick of paint, there is no hot water in the kitchen, the shower is an embarrassment to itself as it dribbles down on us. It's really cold at night and we have no fluffy duvets. And if we take the short cut home from town, we have to climb 142 steps.

But when we wake up, warm sunshine floods our balcony. We can sit on our little wooden bench and watch the monkeys, we can look up and see the start of the mighty mountains standing over us. No one phones or knocks on our door to take our attention away. We are absolutely living in the moment, and we are living it together.