It was dark when we arrived. We had driven six hours from Bagdogra, climbing steadily through the foothills of the Himalayas, the steamy air of the plains becoming fresher as we made our ascent. We twisted through thickly forested mountain roads, crossing bridges that were regularly washed away by monsoons, skirting cliffs that in the past had sometimes fallen away into the Teesta River that burbled below, and gazed out on to the moonlit slopes in the hope of catching a glimpse of a brown bear or elusive leopard. Eventually, the bumpy track came to an end, signalling our arrival at Yangsum Farm, where a large bonfire burned in welcome.

This was the first stop on my village walk itinerary, in the western mountains of Sikkim, India's greenest and least populated state, close to the Nepalese border and far from well-trodden trails. The plan was to visit places in the Lesser Himalayas so remote that they don't appear on any maps. Indeed, in three days, I didn't see a single tourist or souvenir shop. You could call it soft adventure, this concept dreamed up by ecoadventure company Shakti Himalaya which introduces people to the history, culture and lifestyle of remote areas through supported walks and overnight stops in simple village houses. Comfort, however, is ensured, as Shakti helps local owners to convert their houses, by adding bathroom facilities, for example, and introducing homely touches: a Buddha statue here, framed thangkas there, or a comfortable sofa to flop on.

Siddhartha, my guide, tailored the daily programme to my interests, and scaled the walks to my abilities. Indra, my driver, was to follow at a discreet distance with the jeep ("in case you get tired"), while an advance party welcomed us at each stop with G&Ts by a roaring fire, and ensured that everything was tickety-boo.

It's all part of Shakti's plan to develop small-scale, rural tourism to help the local economy. At Yangsum Farm, my host was Thendup, who, unusually in these parts, spoke English. Thendup lives at the farm with his wife, a teacher, who fed me pork momos (dumplings) and fried fiddlehead fern with cheese for dinner. Generations of Thendup's family, who came originally from Tibet, had occupied this stone and wood farmhouse before him, as witnessed by the black-and-white portraits of his ancestors, formal and unsmiling in ritual Tibetan dress. I dined beneath their gaze, sipping Sikkimese wine
called Et Tu Brutus [sic], whose treacherous promise remained happily unfulfilled as I retired to my cosy barn, one of three converted for guests.

I awoke at dawn to the call of a cockerel, and bounded out of bed to survey Sikkim's star attraction. Yangsum Farm nestles beneath the magnificent hulk of Kanchenjunga, the world's third highest mountain, said to represent the sleeping giant, Kumbhakarna. But the giant, alas, was shy this morning, and remained veiled in mist. Instead of the snowcapped peaks I had expected, lush, sub-tropical vegetation greeted my eyes. At 1,450m, I found myself surrounded by terraces of kiwi, mango and avocado, banana and betel palms living happily amid slopes clad in wispy pines, crimson rhododendrons, stuted oak and hardwood sal, from which Thendup carved his own furniture. Plum and peach trees were in delicate blossom and pink magnolias bloomed. Vegetables grew in abundance, along with the traditional cash-crops of oranges, cardamom and ginger. Cows munched contentedly on fig leaves. Chickens roamed freely.

After breakfast of potato, ginger and coriander pancakes, with omelettes cooked on a wood stove (eggs courtesy of the cockerel's consort) and juice squeezed from oranges straight off the tree, Thendup guided me through his 60-acre farm and around the local village, home to two dozen families. Already, the village was bending to its daily chores. A woman sat on her porch, grinding grain in a stone mill, while the men headed for the fields. We saw the small school which Thendup had attended, and a ramshackle health centre which was countering superstition with medicine. "Don't Die of Ignorance!" exhorted an Aids poster, while another proclaimed: "Leprosy is 100% curable; NOT the result of a sin or curse."

We bade farewell to Yangsum Farm, and set off on a walk to our next destination, along the beautiful Maggi Durra ridge, fluttering with prayer flags. Up and over we walked, through forests draped in Spanish moss, past scattered houses with dung-caked bamboo walls and through the valleys, majestic despite the swirling mist. Handsome black pigs had the run of the place, and we saw children carrying water from mountain springs in churns hanging from head-straps. Wives waved hello while their husbands ploughed the terraces with oxen.

Lunch, a reprieve for aching legs, was a picnic of sandwiches and salad in the grounds of an ancient Lepcha heritage house. No ordinary abode this, but a grand and beautiful creation of intricately-carved wood embellished with natural dyes, which had belonged to the Kazi, the local fief. His descendants, subsistence farmers stripped of influence, still lived there, and invited us inside. I discovered a traditional design - including a Buddhist shrine and accommodation for visiting monks - curiously juxtaposed with architectural traces of British influence: a cupboard under the stairs, a chimneypiece, even a tarnished soda siphon. As neighbour to Nepal, Tibet, Bhutan and Bengal, and an independent Buddhist kingdom until annexation by India in 1975, Sikkim's sensitive borders attracted the British Raj, and secured the country a role in the Great Game. "Look at this!" cried Siddhartha, opening an ancient trunk he had discovered in the attic, to unleash a musty, ammoniacal cloud. Piles of foxed papers lay within: a jumbled, as yet un-archived repository of the past. He pulled out a card at random. "To Meet Sir Basil John Gould, Political Officer in Sikkim," read the invitation, "His Highness the Maharajah of Sikkim requests the pleasure of the company of [illegible name] to a garden party to be held in the Palace Grounds, Gangtok, on 4th October 1941". Enchanted, we spent some time sifting through the fading documents before a chill air blew away the cobwebs, and we went on our way.

Sangdyang Lee House was our next destination. Perched on a hillside, it is owned by a politician whose family occupies the main building, while I was housed in a self-contained wing, in the care of the travelling Shakti team. We had walked 15km in a day, which felt a lot more to a townie used to living at sea level. While the chef prepared a restorative Indian feast, Siddhartha had organised a surprise: a troupe of young girls from Kalimpong, to entertain us with traditional dances. Friendly and curious, they spoke of their hope for careers in tourism. Word of the event had spread, and soon half the village crammed into the courtyard to watch, while I sipped evil-tasting tongba - fermented millet - from a bamboo mug, and slipped into the rhythm of the night.

The next morning I was woken by the distant braying of trumpets. We followed the sound down to the tiny, colourful monastery of Rinchenpong, blissfully remote and corralled by white prayer flags. Despite the influx of Hindu Nepalis to Sikkim, Buddhism, which was introduced to the country in the eighth century by the Guru Rinpoche, remains a way of life. We greeted a young monk stoking a fire of juniper leaves to ward off evil spirits, removed our shoes and squeezed into the temple, packed full between walls depicting gods and mandalas.

On the altar behind flickering butter lamps sat a blue-faced Buddha, a female shakti, representing feminine energy, straddling his lap. On either side, magenta-robed monks, some as young as six years old, crouched on low benches, lost in an eerie chant. Their hands moved in synchronised gestures, according to the esoteric Tantric practice, while the hypnotic sound swelled and abated, then swelled again. The reverie was shattered by the sudden cacophony of bells and trumpets, before the chanting resumed to the insistent thud of the drums. The ceremony, which I witnessed by chance, remains the most spell-binding and memorable experience of my journey.

As for the sacred Kanchenjunga, I had to take its omnipresent, snow-capped proximity on trust, since it remained resolutely, tantalisingly hidden behind the protective mist for the duration of my stay. Nothing unusual about that, apparently. "Sometimes a tourist has waited 22 days and then been obliged to go away without a sight of it," wrote Mark Twain from Darjeeling in 1896. But I take this as an enticement to return. Wild Frontiers (020-7736 3968, wildfrontiers.co.uk) offers four days' allinclusive village walks in Sikkim with Shakti Himalaya (shaktihimalaya.com) plus two nights' B&B at the Windamere Hotel, Darjeeling, and two nights' B&B in Calcutta from £2,125pp including all flights and transfers.