The alarm went off at five. Outside the window of the guesthouse, Munnar was invisible — just a wall of white. By six, the mist had begun to lift, and I understood why people set alarms for this.
The road up to Top Station leaves Munnar town at a gradient that makes the engine complain. On either side, the tea bushes begin almost immediately — row upon row of them, trimmed to waist height, covering every slope in a geometry so precise it looks designed rather than grown. In the early morning, before the sun has burned off the cloud, the whole hillside is the colour of jade.
I had hired a local guide named Suresh, who had grown up in a tea estate worker's colony and knew these hills the way you only know a place you have walked since childhood. He pointed out the different varieties of tea plant, explained how the altitude affects the flavour, showed me where the Nilgiri tahr come down to graze at dawn. He spoke quietly, as if the mountain required it.
At Top Station, the clouds were still below us. You could look out over the Tamil Nadu border and see nothing but white, with the occasional dark ridge of a hill breaking through like the back of a whale. A chai seller had set up a small stall and was doing brisk business. The tea, made with milk and ginger and served in a small glass, was the best I have ever had. The altitude, the cold, the view — context is everything.
By nine o'clock, the first tourist buses were arriving. The car parks were filling. The chai seller's queue had tripled. Suresh and I walked back down through the estate, taking a path that cut through the bushes rather than following the road, and for another hour we had the hills to ourselves. The lesson of Munnar, I decided, is simple: arrive early, stay late, and walk whenever you can.