The realization of how utterly pathetic my middle-aged plodding has become zings me like a nine-volt on the tongue as I crawl into my tent at Mori village on the Tons river, the first night of our driving holiday. My family and I start our journey at the once charming Dehradun, capital of Uttarakhand, now a fast-spreading rash of concrete. We escape the jaded charms of Mussoorie, “Queen of the Hills", sagging under her concrete crown, and take the road to Kempty Falls. Kempty probably comes from camp-tea as the British organized their tea parties there. Today, it is filthy, crowded and any vestiges of past grandeur lie buried beneath chai-stalls, restaurants, plastic wrappers and tacky souvenir shops.