It’s around hour 32 that the thought starts to simmer: “This may often be billed as the last Shangri-La—heaven manifest on earth—but, dear God, the journey here feels more like hell.” I like to think of myself as a pretty hardened traveler, but this final leg—which follows a two-transfer flight from London, and a landing at a mountain valley airport renowned as one of the world’s trickiest (with only around 24 pilots globally licensed to conduct it)—is bringing me to the edge.

Quite literally—we’re zigzagging down a cliffside road in western Bhutan, swerving hairpin bends in thick, wet fog. Gauging by his unfazed countenance, the stubborn cows and mounds of rock that turn our drive into a real-time game of Temple Run are old hat for my driver. Just as my sleep-deprived cynicism starts to linger a little too long, the banking turns lull me into a slumber. The sight my eyelids lift to, though, has me pinching my thighs to confirm I’m not still in a dream state.

The mist now burnt off by the cresting sun, we’re zipping along the riverbed of a perfect V-shaped valley, hills carpeted with emerald paddy terraces and orchards heavy with fruit rising on either side. In the middle distance, the golden roof of a tiered hillside stupa catches the late morning sun, and high on the horizon, jagged, snow-spattered peaks scratch at a perfect cerulean sky. It’s the sort of view that immediately makes the (bureaucratic and logistical) efforts to get here worth it—a snapshot so mighty it immediately instills an almost cosmic sense of awe and calm.

Located around a kilometer lower in altitude than Paro, your inevitable point of entry to the Himalayan mountain kingdom, this is the Punakha valley. Known as Bhutan’s bread basket, the region—a subtropical Eden bisected by the babbling Mo Chhu river—is a rarity in a country defined by harsh, high-altitude crags of granite and sandstone. Pulling up next to the river, my guide for the week, Bap Chencho, points up towards a swaying footbridge over the roiling water. He winces and chuckles in a way that makes me think he can read my petrified mind—or, more likely, my face—but the only way is over. On the other side, after all, lies Pemako Punakha.

Now, Bhutan isn’t exactly virgin territory for travelers of a certain cachet. Since Aman’s arrival in 2004, a number of the world’s distinguished hospitality brands have followed in their wake, to Punakha in particular—Six Senses, andBeyond, and Como among them. Pemako is the latest to take up residence along this heavenly stretch of lush nature, and surely not the last. What sets it apart, however, is its origin story and its intent: Pemako is the first Bhutanese-owned and operated luxury hotel brand, run by the Tashi Group, the country’s largest private conglomerate. Rather than an aestheticised, seen-from-the-outside impression of Bhutan, it commits to offering an experience rooted in the country’s spiritually-anchored customs and traditions—with no compromise on the exacting caliber of its offer.

Its flagship—the property here in Punakha, which opened in early 2024 after a seven-year build—is a retreat in the truest sense. Set across a 60-acre sprawl of riverside meadow and hill-climbing, silver pine forest, its setting is truly otherworldly—a truth acknowledged in Pemako’s very name, the same as that of a legendary beyul, a sacred Himalayan valley where the veil between the material and spiritual realms is at its thinnest.

Even a belligerent antitheist would be hard-pressed not to sense the heightened energy of the place. It colors everything from your wobble across the bridge, fluttering with a rainbow of prayer flags, to your arrival at the marigold-walled reception courtyard, where Tshering, Pemako’s resident monk, swathed in burgundy woollen robes, awaits you with a white satin scarf and a chanted blessing. A stroll through a timber-framed corridor, past busts of dragons, snow lions, tigers, and garuda birds—the four guardians of Bhutan, integral to the national mythology—and you emerge onto a vast, stained pine terrace that gazes over the heavenly sanctuary that Pemako calls home.

At this point, I was convinced that I was experiencing a delirium brought on by sleep deprivation and decided to turn in for a nap. Dechen, my assigned butler for my stay, insisted on driving me up to my tented villa—a phrase that, on first hearing, visibly raised my brow. But camping (or glamping, even), this sure ain’t.

Pemako Punakha’s 21 canopied abodes sit along a 2.5-kilometer path that winds up the wooded mountainside. Starting at 72 square meters, and conceptually designed by Bill Bensley (the landscape architect and interior designer of Capella Ubud and Four Seasons Koh Samui fame), interiors abide by a playfully maximalist philosophy, tempered by an unequivocally Bhutanese sense of place. Think: blackened pine beams and bedheads; plush stone-grey Serge Ferrari drapes, interrupted by warm flashes of ochre and jacquard trims; clawfoot tubs and deep, sunken sinks in hammered copper (a metal which, according to Bhutanese custom, bears spiritually cleansing properties); felted yak figurines atop bookshelves; weathered Bhutanese swords and armor suits are repurposed as characterful décor. Step outside and you’ll discover your very own deck and heated lap pool, water trickling over its infinity edge towards the uninterrupted vistas of the valley below.

While the tented villas’ hard amenities are of the highest caliber, their almost implausible seclusion is the greatest luxury. In my advanced state of late millennial brainrot, on my first day, I mistook the dawn chorus for my phone’s birdsong morning alarm, and once found myself on the verge of texting my butler to help me turn off the room’s speakers before realizing that the rushing river and windswept trees outside were the ambient soundtrack’s source.

Nature isn’t just a scenic backdrop, though. Opportunities for more active immersion abound, whether guided treks through the paddies to hilltop stupas, a world-renowned fertility temple with flaming phallus paintings on the walls, or Punakha Dzong, a grand fortress that serves as the winter seat of Bhutan’s grand abbott, the nation’s spiritual leader. You can even reach the latter by kayak, bobbing along the Mo Chhu’s churning glacial waters like a cork on a current.

I, of course, did not do this. My inner ear finally rebalanced, and no longer thinking that I was experiencing an enlightenment-themed psychosis, the spa called. And what a spa it is. Housed in a cluster of slate-roofed huts, the Lotus Realm is Pemako’s wellness haven, featuring five gorgeously appointed treatment rooms, private steam and sauna suites, and dedicated rooms for the must-try hot stone bath. At the counsel of the spa concierge, I opted for this traditional Bhutanese bathing ritual, which takes place in a sunken cypress tub filled with an infusion of fresh artemisia, juniper, and rhododendron plucked from the riverbank. Once you’ve lowered yourself into the fragrant broth, you’ll quickly clock the wooden grille shutting off the rear quarter of the vast basin—it’s around that point that a flap will open to reveal a cluster of glowing red river rocks that quickly shunt forwards, squealing and sputtering as they plop into the very same waters as you.

As hardcore as it sounds, once you get past feeling like a boiling frog, it’s one of the most soothing bathing experiences you’ll ever have, melting away tiredness and tension like butter. Speaking of butter, should any particularly stubborn knots linger, be sure to opt for a deep tissue massage conducted with the yak variety—for the uninitiated, its tang might take some getting used to, but trust me, it’s worth it. On waking the next day, I felt a sense of physical release that I hadn’t felt in years.

Pemako’s approach to wellness extends beyond sybaritic indulgence. There’s a state-of-the-art gym for anyone keen to maintain their home routine, as well as a glass-walled yoga studio, where private classes across a range of styles—from more familiar vinyasa and ashtanga to the breathwork-focused sorig—can be arranged. For the more spiritually attuned, morning prayer flag hoistings and astrological readings come courtesy of Tshering.

While spirituality is an inextricable facet of Bhutanese life, and therefore of Pemako’s hosting philosophy, you never feel like you’re at a God camp. Rather, the door is very much left open to you to “choose your own adventure,” so to speak—if holiday reads by your private lap pool, marg in hand, is more your speed, your wish will be as dutifully heeded as if you’re here for transcendental meditation. It’s an ethos that’s mirrored in Pemako’s impressively expansive culinary offer, which covers the basics of pretty much any major Asian and Western cuisine you can think of, largely drawing on the property’s extensive organic kitchen gardens, too.

There’s an all-day dining lounge, a hilltop picnic hideaway… hell, even a private dining room complete with its own karaoke booth. By far the most memorable experience on offer here, though, is Alchemy House, a restaurant housed in a lovingly restored ancient farmhouse, decorated in the style of an archetypal rural Bhutanese home, with woven basket boxes and hand-hewn farming tools decorating the walls. Seated cross-legged on the floor, you’re served a full spread of seasonal, locally-sourced specialties—nutty, curled sprigs of fiddlehead fern; air-dried, spiced yak jerky; buckwheat momo dumplings; and, of course, ema datshi, the ubiquitous melee of chillies and tangy local cottage cheese that’s the proud national dish.

After three days of blissful respite, it was time to head back up to the big city, Thimphu. A narrow urban sliver stretching around 11km along the Wang Chhu river, this is as close to urban bustle as Bhutan gets. While the country’s government has been pretty fierce in guarding an authentically Bhutanese way of life for its 800,000 or so citizens, it’s here that you notice the inevitable creep of global cosmopolitanism—between salted butter tea houses and craft fabric stores, you’ll spot Muji outlets, K-beauty stores, and more karaoke bars than any city could ever need, reminding you that Asia’s most future-facing megacities are but a stone’s throw away.

Amid the relative pell-mell, Pemako Thimphu’s saffron fortress of a home exudes an air of stoic calm. Greeted by trickling water walls and a stark, cast-iron bell lobby centerpiece, the property immediately feels more ‘hotel’ than Pemako Punakha—in large part because the building itself was originally built and commissioned by India’s Taj group. Over lunch at Thongsel—an airy international bistro that gazes onto the garden’s pagoda-housed prayer wheel—Wangchuk Dorji, Pemako’s owner, discusses imminent plans for a comprehensive renovation to bring the property closer in line with the brand’s aesthetic and experiential philosophy. There are also ambitious expansion plans, the most significant being a new opening designed by Danish star-chitect Bjarke Ingels, slated for 2029.

Even in its current state, though, you’d be hard-pressed to find fault with the place. My suite, a top-floor enfilade of palatial rooms decorated in archetypal darkwoods and Bhutanese brights, featured a spa-standard bathroom—including a tub with direct views onto the Thimphu valley, and a bed that consolidated Bhutan’s reputation as a destination of dreams.

If isolation is Pemako Punakha’s trump card, then Thimphu’s is ease of access to what lies beyond its walls. While most of its competitors’ capital outposts sit in the surrounding hills, Pemako offers the very best the city has to offer on its doorstep—quite literally, with both the main craft and produce markets sitting just seconds away, offering up everything from sacred, hand-carved wooden phalluses to hand-harvested cordyceps and jars of raw shilajit resin. An absolute must, though, is a bucket-list-worthy day trip to Bhutan’s postcard emblem, the Tiger’s Nest—a monastery complex that clings to a sheer cliff face 3200 meters above Paro.

A steep, four-mile climb in the wake of berobed monks in high-spec On Running hiking boots, like anything worthwhile in Bhutan, reaching it requires real effort. The sight that greets you at the summit, though, is easily the most awe-inspiring human accomplishment I’ve ever seen firsthand: a tiered stagger of shingle-roofed temples built into the cliff face, first erected in 1692.

As Bap casually explains the origin story of the waterfall that cascades down the ravine from above—the result of a protective deity casting a magic dagger into the rockface—I’m again inclined to pinch myself to check I’m not in a Studio Ghibli film. At this point, though, I know I’m not dreaming—rather, this is a physical metaphor for Bhutan’s mindboggling magic; a material expression of a spirituality that organises and propels life to a truly profound extent. Here, the shudder of an earthquake, the tumble of rapids, or the whistle of the wind holds meaning beyond the rational. I can’t say that I left a converted believer, per se, but the next day, I boarded my plane at Paro airport with a deep sense that it’s a truly beautiful way to approach life—and a hope that, in however small a way, I’m able to carry that sense with me wherever I go next.