We’re hiking through pine-scented hills above Paro, the city fanned out below in a patchwork of rice paddies, timber-framed houses and temples. Our guide, a giggly man named Thunder who is dressed in a traditional gho (a knee-length robe tied at the waist), pauses to point out wild wormwood and Sichuan pepper sprouting along the trail. The air is crisp, the light soft.

Our first of eight days in Bhutan, and already my husband and I feel as though we’ve landed in the pristine Shangri-La that the brochures promise.

Like many travellers, I’d long felt drawn by Bhutan’s image as a carefully protected cultural haven, where the king’s quiet power borders on the mythical and the measure of Gross National Happiness (GNH) – Bhutan’s unique index that weighs wellbeing across nine domains, including psychological health, education, living standards and ecological diversity – is equally weighted with gross domestic product.

But I’d heard the critiques, too: that GNH is vague and difficult to measure; that Bhutan’s “high value, low volume” tourism model, with its sustainable development fee and mandatory guides, risks exclusivity and holds tradition in aspic; and that young Bhutanese are leaving in droves, returning with degrees but often struggling to find work to match. I wanted to find out for myself. Is this celebrated mountain kingdom the beacon it’s said to be, or is the truth more complicated?

On the three-hour drive to remote Haa Valley, we wind through forests and hairpin bends, past rhododendrons, moss-draped cypresses and shaggy yaks grazing beneath snapping prayer flags. Haa is one of the kingdom’s most traditional regions, its customs and farming practices largely untouched by modernisation.

At our driver’s family farmhouse, we sit cross-legged on the lounge room floor, eating ema datshi chilli cheese stew and hoentey dumplings, made almost entirely from ingredients grown on-site. After lunch, we wander the family’s small farm, one thread in the tapestry of self-sufficient plots that upholster the valley.

That night at Haa Sangwa Camp, the sense of harmony deepens. Tucked in a pine grove beside the Haa Chu River, staffed by locals and solar-lit, the seasonal camp treads lightly, echoing Bhutan’s ethos of balance and reverence. With the camp to ourselves, we sip tsheringma herbal tea in the yak-hair dining tent, plunge into the icy river, then warm by a bonfire as masked dancers perform yangchen lugar, or sacred Bhutanese dances.

Bhutan’s complexities begin to surface as the days pass. Mist clings to the trees as we climb to Phajoding, a 13th-century monastery above Thimphu. We arrive to find monks crafting torma cakes from coloured butter in preparation for a ceremony. As dusk falls, we play with the youngest monks in the dim glow of the guesthouse. They practise their English, telling us what they know about Australia: kangaroos, and that “Bhutanese people go to Australia to make money”.