My Life, A Cocktail

It was the morning of 26th of June, a Monday. My dad's shrill wake up call came at about five thirty in the morning, and by eight thirty, we were all seated in a Volvo bus, speeding its way through the national highway, towards Salem. Close to one fifteen in the afternoon, we reached, and got another bus that would drive us through our last thirty five kilometers over the hill, to Yercaud. About the geography of this place, its located about 1515m above sea level, and you have to go through a good one hour's journey up the hill, consisting of 20 hair pin bends. Like every other hill, this one too is draped in slender, tall green trees, and assures a scenic view as you drive by the tarred roads bounded by little white parapet walls. The hill itself is called Shervoyas. Yercaud's a little more than a village, thanks to tourism, totally unexploited, aptly called the Poor man's Ooty. Famous for coffee, oranges and spices like pepper, cardomom and cinnamon, you are greeted b