At 6 am I left the house on my own, wrapped up in my warmest coat (which I

wear every day) to make the 3km trip. I met up with other children from

my village, and we huddled together beneath the mountain to keep warm,

waiting for the last couple of stragglers to arrive. As soon as we were

all together, two of the dads put their sledges and emergency packs on

their backs, and we set off for school.

It was a particularly cold day, and I could barely move my fingers. I don't think my boots had quite finished drying from the day before, so my feet ached with cold. But I can't really complain; I'm lucky I live so close to the school. One person in my class lives 6 whole miles away! He has to travel twice the distance I do.

We scrambled over the ice, jumping over ravines and clambering over rocks. I almost slipped twice, but managed to balance myself just in time. When we finally got off the ice and onto the mountain, I was so relieved. I feel ashamed, really, because I should know by now that my education will be worth everything, but I sometimes wish I could just stay home. My mother tells me I'll be grateful in the future, but what about now? Maybe I would rather have a happy childhood, than be a rich scholar when I'm an adult.

As we trekked up the side of the mountain, every part of me aching with exaustion, I looked back at our small village. The round tents, the flickering fires, the roaming yaks. That was my home.

My feet carried me up the mountain. The route was so familiar I could walk it with my eyes closed. Slowly, the shape of a building came into view, and I could see the small outlines of children running around. We'd made it! I ran along the path and collapsed on the floor, my back against the school wall. The long journey was over, at least for now.