Long before he died in 1992, Dwarika Das Shrestha spoke to Desmond Doig who wrote this profile of a resort that has over the years become a tourist attraction in its own right.

There is nothing like it elsewhere. Nowhere, except in some ancient courtyard of Kathmandu, or Patan or Bhaktapur, or in a once prosperous village time forgot. And then, the similarity is only in style: the elegant proportions, the handsome extravagance of wood carving, the rosy sheen of old brick set one upon the other without pointing, the aura of antiquity. Mr Dwarika Das Shrestha gestures towards the facade and whispers "thirteenth century", which means the early Malla period. He talks soothingly and softly in the manner people effect in museums and cathedrals "Look at the door from here," he says, selecting a spot under tall fruit trees, and I imagine it leads to a secret shrine.

The beautifully carved window screens might hide ladies of a long-ago court, lovers assassins of a distant past, or the merely curious of another age. Wait and some sloe-eyed Juliet will appear on a carved balcony. More likely than not, she will have blue-rinsed hair and deliver her famous lines in one of several languages your Romeo might not understand. For, this is no palace, or stately home on the hill of thirty-two butterflies-or is it thirty-two dolls?-as the area is known. It is a small, very personalised hotel still in the process of being completed. "It will be nothing when I've finished. Here, where this lawn is now, will be a concealed courtyard. Along that wall, and over there among those trees will be wings embodying the styles of different centuries.

These large, spirally carved stones are pieces of a serpent pedestal. I'll erect it somewhere-perhaps there. And all those beautiful pillars and windows and doors will be absorbed in the new buildings. No two of them are the same. That's the beauty and wonder of them."

We pause on a platform of ancient paving stones to admire what Mr Shrestha or DD as his friends call him, has already accomplished. The three storey building, raised lovingly among old trees-"I hate cutting trees, don't you?"-is best described as neo-Newari: a clever blend of new design and technique embodying centuries' old masterpieces of carved wood. So the facade, because it has been built with the old, polished brick and is embellished with a thirteenth-century door, windows and carved struts supporting the tiled roof, represents the beginning of the Malla style. I wonder aloud if the second floor balconies are not a little modern in their uncarved simplicity and Dwarika Das hurries me into a workshop where a treasure trove of old bits and pieces of carved wood are being painstakingly fitted together. Where sections are missing, exact copies are made. "Here," he says, holding up a length of elegant carving. "Pieces like these will cover the balcony railing and those rows of new bricks that look objectionable among the old. They provide the required strength below the heavy windows.

But they'll be comouflaged-there, like that there." True, there is a window set in ancient brick that shows no trace of its transplanting. This is part of the magic of Dwarika's Village Hotel. Though comfortably modern where its amenities are concerned, it has a feel of age, a double-take look of having weathered the centuries. Even its interiors are liberally decorated with old works of art like a carved and gilded Rana ceiling. Painted glass doors from Victorian England, a wooden window of exceptional beauty from a sixteenth-century nobleman's house; terracotta plaques signifying achievement and failure, joy and sorrow hope and despair, life and death. Interpret them as you will.

Conservation, not in the language of museums, but in every day usage, is a long-standing dream of Dwarika Das "It's my life," he says, his eyelids almost closing with memory. "I remember being horrified to see people stripping old doors and windows of their calving, to make modern ones. They were chiselling away centuries of priceless art. So I gave them new wood in exhange for the old and they were very happy That's how the whole thing happened. You know, people were so unthinking, they were selling their old windows-the country's heritage-for as little as thirty rupees each. My mali brought me two from the historic city of Kirtipur. He said there were many more. No one wanted them. They were being burnt as fire wood and on funeral pyres. I wept."

That was in 1955. With no clear idea then of what he would do with them, DD began collecting the abandoned doors and windows of an outmoded age. "Slowly a passion developed. I spread my search all over the valley and as my collection grew, so did the idea of building a living monument. It was a dream. If I could influence the youth of my country, I could save the ruins of our culture-the dead body of my mother." First there was the land planted with fruit trees. Then a small house, just enough for DD, his wife and growing family.

Tentatively, he erected a chalet-type lodge that seemed forgetful of his dream and his treasures. "It was a mistake, it will go," DD says. Then slowly, so that the swift rumour of Kathmandu hardly took notice, DD began building his dream house with the help of few friendly architects. It was not yet done, when in 1980, it won for DD the prestigious PATA Heritage and Conservation award. In a few weeks time it played host to delegates of the Pacific Area Travel Association, Tourism and Conservation Convention, when they come by in their time machine.
That should be the happy ending to a success story, but it isn't. DD still dreams and it seems much work is yet to be done. "I want to create. I don't want to go on holding a corpse because it is my dad or mother. No. I want to burn the corpse and start again. Create, or recreate heritage so that my son will benefit and carry on with our traditions.

I dedicate this to all those who care. I'm not taking it away with me. I cannot rebuild all Kathmandu but let this be a small nucleus for a new beginning." Obviously DD means what he says. He has designed his own furniture employing traditional motifs; the patra, used in the workship of Vishnu; the Khadga, Durga's sword, and the elephant head of Ganesh. He restores old chests to become tables, makes writing desks from old paving stones, and mirrors from old window frames. Already there is a small amphitheatre for traditional dances and music. "I'll improve it. Advise me. Help me. Find me people who are interested. Let me tell them about what I have in mind. Let me wake them up, inspire them. There is so much yet to do."

A coach parks under the fruit trees. A small horde of tourists disgorges and makes for the office.
I wonder for a moment as I watch their noisy progress who will meet them there. The very efficient
Swiss manager with a shake of hands, or some brocaded courtier out of another age, with a deferential bow.

(Excerpted with permission from In the Kingdom of the Gods, HarperCollins, 1999)