Why you should travel to Ladakh at least once in your Life

There are two kinds of travellers, in my opinion. Those who’ve been to Ladakh, and those who’ve truly lived it. I know that sounds dramatic, but once you’ve set foot there, you’ll understand. Nestled where the mighty Himalayas meet the stark, windswept cold desert, Ladakh feels like a place plucked straight from another world. It’s not just about the scenery—though, trust me, that’s jaw-dropping—it’s about the feeling. The kind of quiet magic that seeps into your soul and stays with you long after you’ve left.

I’ve been travelling for over 15 years, across cities, forests, beaches, mountains, and every type of terrain in between. And yet, something about Ladakh just hit differently. It wasn’t a holiday. It felt like a homecoming I didn’t know I needed.

The first thing that hits you is the landscape. It’s nothing like the lush green hills or postcard-perfect mountains you might expect. Ladakh is raw, wild, and full of contrasts. The mountains rise up in dusty shades of rust, gold, and ash, stretching endlessly under skies so blue they almost don’t look real. And then you stumble upon lakes like Pangong Tso or Tso Moriri—crystal clear and shimmering, reflecting the sky so perfectly it feels like time’s stood still. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

But the magic of Ladakh isn’t just in its natural beauty. It’s in the way life moves there. Slowly. Gently. Honestly.

A Ladakhi Ane le (aunty) from western ladakh, cleaning greens for dinner foraged from the nearby fields.

In the tiny villages tucked away between valleys, life continues as it has for generations. I remember sitting with an elderly woman in a remote hamlet near Nubra, sipping butter tea (it’s an acquired taste) as she knit a woollen cap for her grandson. Children played nearby, barefoot and beaming, chasing each other without a single gadget in sight. The entire scene felt like something from a time capsule—simple, self-sustained, and quietly resilient.

And then there are the people. Oh, the people. I don’t think I’ve ever met warmer, more grounded souls. Ladakhis are the kind of hosts who will invite you into their homes, feed you until you can’t move, and share stories without a hint of pretense. Staying in a local homestay wasn’t just budget travel—it was a masterclass in hospitality, culture, and kindness. You don’t feel like a guest. You feel like part of the family.

Spiritually, too, Ladakh has a calmness I’ve rarely felt anywhere else. Influenced deeply by Tibetan Buddhism, the monasteries—like Thiksey, Hemis, and Diskit—aren’t just tourist spots. They’re living, breathing spaces of reflection. I remember standing at Thiksey one early morning, just listening to the chants echo through the halls. There was something grounding about it. Like the mountains and the monks were reminding me to just breathe and be.

And if you’re the type who craves adventure, Ladakh won’t disappoint. You can ride a bike over Khardung La, one of the highest motorable passes in the world, or trek through the Markha Valley. White-water rafting down the icy Zanskar River is no joke either. Every challenge tests you—your lungs, your patience, your need for comfort. But it’s all so worth it. Because every struggle brings with it a strange sense of clarity.

What sets Ladakh apart from all the other places I’ve been is that it’s not trying to be anything. It’s not curated for Instagram or trying to impress you. It just is. Wild. Honest. Profound. You can find lakes elsewhere, or mountains, or Buddhist temples. But you won’t find them all together in a way that feels this… real. It’s not filtered, and that’s exactly why it stays with you.

In a world where travel has started to feel more like ticking boxes and less like true discovery, Ladakh is a gentle reminder of what it really means to journey. To slow down. To look inward. To be present.

So if you’re searching for something deeper than a holiday—something that touches more than just your camera roll—go to Ladakh. Let the mountains challenge you. Let the people embrace you. Let the silence heal you.

I promise, you’ll come back changed.