Neil Pittaway tells us about his recent adventure in Nepal – a dramatically different tale to the one he expected to be telling us...
"When I set off for Nepal at the end of March, I had a very clear picture in my mind – ironically, one that had nothing to do with painting. The plan was to complete the Annapurna Circuit, one of the world’s great treks, and to document it along the way through sketches, paintings and photographs. Think dramatic peaks, lung-bursting climbs, heroic artistic moments at altitude.
What I hadn’t planned for was collapsing on day two.
It turns out the Himalayas are not particularly forgiving when you arrive with undiagnosed Type 2 diabetes. Who knew.
After a brief but memorable attempt at trekking (which included what I like to think of as an interpretive performance piece entitled Man Tries to Walk Uphill and Fails Spectacularly), I was driven seven hours back to Pokhara. Not quite the scenic descent I’d imagined, but certainly efficient.
I ended up in hospital, where I stayed for several days on drips, rehydrating and – quite frankly – being extremely grateful to still be here. It’s a strange thing to go from planning mountain passes to being told you were very close to slipping into a coma. Not exactly in the brochure.
And yet, this is where the real journey began.
From Mountains to Stillness
Before I became ill, I had arrived in Kathmandu full of anticipation, wandering through places like the Garden of Dreams – an oasis of calm that felt almost too composed, too serene to be real. At the time, I thought it was a pleasant prelude to something much bigger.
In hindsight, it was a quiet introduction to what I would actually need.
Because once the trekking stopped, everything slowed down. Dramatically.
Hospital rooms are not known for their inspiring scenery. There are no sweeping vistas, no epic horizons – just white walls, medical equipment and the occasional drip stand that becomes your closest companion. But as an artist, you learn fairly quickly that subject matter is less important than attention.
So I started to draw.
At first, tentatively. A pen, a sketchbook, whatever I could manage while sitting on the edge of a bed, trying not to disturb various tubes and monitors. There’s something grounding about putting line to paper when everything else feels uncertain. It gives structure to time.
And time, in recovery, stretches in unexpected ways.
Art as a Form of Recovery
What I hadn’t anticipated – though perhaps I should have – was just how powerful art would become in the recovery process.
Painting and drawing forced me to slow down, to focus, to breathe. When your body has let you down rather dramatically, your mind tends to race ahead with all sorts of unhelpful thoughts. Art has a way of gently pulling you back.
You notice colour again. Light. Shape. Small details.
A rooftop view becomes a subject. A distant mountain line, softened by haze, becomes something to interpret rather than conquer. Sitting on a terrace at sunrise, painting rather than hiking, I found a different kind of satisfaction – quieter, but no less meaningful.
There’s a moment captured in one of the images where I’m painting as the sun rises over the mountains; the light gradually revealing their scale and form. A few weeks earlier, I would have been pushing to get higher, further, faster.
Instead, I was sitting still – and noticing everything.
A Different Kind of Expedition
As I moved from hospital to hotel, the rhythm of each day became simple: rest, eat, monitor blood sugar, paint. Repeat.
Not exactly the Annapurna Circuit, but a circuit of sorts.
The sketchbooks began to fill – not with dramatic summit views, but with scenes of everyday Nepal: rooftops, terraces, glimpses of the mountains in the distance, and the vivid, layered architecture of Pokhara. Working in a sketchbook meant I could be immediate, responsive, not overthinking each piece.
There’s a freedom in that.
One of the unexpected joys was sharing this work with the people around me. The staff at the clinic and hotel – who had, quite literally, helped keep me alive – became part of the story. There’s a photograph of me sitting with some of them, holding paintings, all of us smiling in a way that feels slightly surreal given the circumstances.
Art became a way of saying thank you when words felt insufficient.
Humour, Perspective and a Bit of Humility
It would be easy to frame the whole experience as unfortunate – and to an extent, it was. I didn’t complete the trek. I didn’t reach the high passes or produce the body of work I had originally imagined.
But I did gain something else: perspective.
There’s a certain humility that comes with being forced to stop. To accept help. To realise that your carefully laid plans can unravel in a matter of hours. It’s not a lesson most of us actively seek out, but it’s a valuable one.
Also, for the record, I can now confidently say that trekking at altitude while unknowingly dealing with serious health issues is not recommended. Consider that a public service announcement.
The Outdoors, Reimagined
One of the themes I had intended to explore was the challenge of working at altitude in the Himalayas. In the end, I explored something slightly different: the restorative power of the outdoors, even in its gentler forms.
You don’t need to be scaling peaks to benefit from being outside.
A terrace. A garden. A quiet rooftop overlooking distant mountains. These became my “expeditions.” And in many ways, they were more accessible, more sustainable, and – at that moment – exactly what I needed.
The outdoors doesn’t always have to be extreme to be transformative.
An Unfinished Journey
So no, this wasn’t the article I had planned to write.
There are no tales of conquering mountain passes or painting at 5,000 metres. Instead, there’s a story about interruption, recovery, and the unexpected role that art can play when things don’t go to plan.
In some ways, it feels like an unfinished journey.
But perhaps that’s the point.
The sketchbooks I brought home are full – not just of images, but of a particular time, a particular experience. They document not the Nepal I expected to see, but the Nepal I needed to experience.
And the mountains? They’re still there.
I suspect I’ll be back.
Though next time, I might start with a slightly more thorough medical check-up."
Some of Neil's artworks from his trip are available to buy online (along with more of his paintings).
See more of Neil's Nepal photos in his online album.
Neil will be doing an artist demo at our Annual Exhibition on 11 June, and is leading an NEAC workshop at Battersea Power Station on 27 June.
