My first solo trip to Kerala began with a late-night arrival in Kochi. I checked into Ibis MG Road, and the next morning hopped into a tuk-tuk to explore Fort Kochi. The lanes brimmed with old-world charm—colonial facades, street art, and Chinese fishing nets swaying against the sea. In a small corner café called Kerala Café, I sipped coffee and bought banana and jackfruit chips to snack on before heading into the hills.
I left Kochi early the next day and drove into the Western Ghats, arriving at Calm Shack in Adimali in the afternoon. Calm Shack is a family home converted into a farmstay by Ajay and his parents; Ajay told me the warm story of how he transformed the house into this welcoming retreat. When I arrived, the weather was theatrical—sunlight, a fine drizzle, a gust of wind, and then calm cloud cover. My wooden room opened to a green slope, and that night rain drummed a steady lullaby while a homely Kerala dinner warmed me from the inside out.
The next morning, Ajay made a soulful Kerala breakfast and a banana roasted in ghee that I still dream about. I took the bus to Eravikulam National Park (INR 200 per person). The bus drops you at the trailhead; from there, it is roughly an hour of uphill walking to the public viewing area. The mist hugged the hills, the drizzle made the leaves gleam, and the crowd was thin. I was lucky enough to see four Nilgiri tahrs ambling across the slopes near the parking point—a quiet, surreal encounter. On the way back, my driver stopped at a secluded tea estate where mist threaded the neat rows, and I walked alone, savouring the hush of a place without crowds.
From Adimali, I continued to Rajakkad and checked into a hobbit house at AyaNatural. Matthews, the caretaker, greeted me with a warm smile and quickly became the steady presence of the stay—he knew every trail, called out birds, and clicked many of my photos. The hobbit house felt snug and whimsical, and a river flowed so close that I could hear it through the night. I spent an afternoon picking mulberries and following a short trail to a private waterfall on the property, where the water felt cool and wonderfully alive.
On my second day in Rajakkad, I did my first zipline. Standing on the platform, I was nervous and excited; the seconds before the launch stretched and then vanished as I flew above tea gardens and green slopes. The whoosh and the sudden, silly laughter afterwards felt like permission to be braver. That rush planted a new kind of courage—if I could step off that platform and soar, maybe skydiving is the next adventure. Later, I walked to Lockhart Gap and the Door of Heaven viewpoint, letting drizzle and mountain air soak into my shoes and memory, then returned to the hobbit house for tea and good conversation with Matthews.
Vagamon felt softer and wetter. I reached Little Flower Farms at two in the afternoon and heavy rain drenched me within minutes, so the natural pool had to wait. I still wandered the garden, danced unabashed in the rain, and then ate a warm Malayali meal in the dining area while the owners’ dogs curled up nearby. That night I sipped hot chocolate, dimmed the lights, and slept to the steady rhythm of rain.
The next morning I rose at 6:30, climbed to the property viewpoint, and watched the sun pull the mist away to reveal endless meadows. Breakfast and coffee involved a ten-minute walk downhill to the dining area, where Rekha and Thoma, the owners, welcomed me like family. I collected rudraksh seeds from their tree and later found a small waterfall while exploring the property; there, I had my first leech bite, a gross but oddly memorable part of hill travel. Rekha and I then swam in the natural pool; I’m not a swimmer, but sitting under the waterfall that fed the pool for an hour felt like being held by sunlight and water.
Bikram, the property manager from Arunachal Pradesh who has worked at the farm for two years and makes an unforgettable salad, took me on a short jungle trek to a riverside spot. I had another leech encounter on that trek, and afterwards, I spent time in the small library reading and making thank-you cards for Rekha and Thoma, as well as one for the person who had urged me to take this solo trip. Dinner that night was a comforting Kerala spread — rice with rasam and sambar, tindey fry, pickles, unlimited papadams (my favourite), and a small piece of chocolate to finish while Rekha played soft music in the dining area.
On the final morning, it rained again as I packed; leaving felt bitter and sweet. I carried home a few rudraksh beads, photos with raindrops still visible, cardamom clinging to my clothes, and a braver self. Nine days — Kochi’s coastline, Ajay’s calm homestay and the misty Eravikulam hike, Matthews and the hobbit house with a daring zipline, and Vagamon’s rain-washed meadows — taught me how a first solo trip can turn small acts of courage into a new appetite for more. The zipline whoosh still hums in me, and skydiving now feels like the next page I’m ready to write.