Vagamon: The hill station that whispers, then stuns
We had been to Vagamon before. Once or twice. Stayed. Left. Felt mildly amused, vaguely relaxed and entirely forgettable. A typical hill trip, like drinking herbal tea: good for you, but nothing you crave. But this monsoon? Vagamon decided to throw a party.
So much so that I now say without hesitation, without fear of reprisal from Munnar loyalists that unless you’re headed to Munnar for a wedding or to fix someone’s broadband, don’t bother. Vagamon is what Munnar used to be before it got drunk on its own fame. It's greener, gentler, cheaper, and devoid of the honking chaos that now plagues the queen of hill stations.
The road to Vagamon, especially during monsoon, is like driving through a storybook with a suspense twist. We ambled at 40–50 kmph, not out of timidity but reverence. The route is dotted with surprise waterfalls charming little overachievers who leap out of the hills to remind you they still exist. One even gently flowed across the road, like a monk calmly crossing a street during rush hour. For a brief moment, it felt like nature had organised a flash mob. Of course, with recent landslides in the news, each waterfall was both a delight and a dare. But Vagamon’s rocky terrain kept things reassuringly grounded.
Unlike Munnar, where you’re forced to bundle up like an Arctic explorer, Vagamon keeps it casual. Locals roam around in cotton shirts and half-sleeves. The air is cool, not cold. The vibe? Less “suffering for the selfie” and more “this feels like home”.
Even the roads behave well. Narrow, yes, but gracefully paved. Like a well-choreographed ribbon winding through pine forests, meadows, and sudden views that make you fumble for your camera and composure.
The moment we entered town, we were ambushed by tour guides holding laminated brochures like they were pitching stock options. We scoffed politely. "What’s there to see in a place this small?" we whispered.
Oh, how wrong we were.
Sights that soothe and surprise
Vagamon Meadows: A green amphitheatre where hills roll and cows perform cameos. No traffic, no touts. Just you, the breeze, and your overthinking brain slowly shutting down.
Pine Forest: A leftover gift from the British, this towering grove wraps you in quiet. As rain filtered through the trees, it felt like Narnia was open for public viewing—no ticket required.
Murugan Mala: A spiritual pause atop a scenic climb. Just enough effort to make you feel healthy, just enough view to make you feel humble.
Thangal Para: Our stay near this iconic rocky outcrop was a scene straight out of Sholay. Mist, monsoon, and mystery. A revered Sufi saint’s resting place, it’s spiritually grounding—and physically demanding if you’ve had one too many parottas. Closes by 5pm, so plan wisely (and skip the toddy beforehand).
MPM Exotic Fish World (That’s the place!): A converted quarry now reborn as a mini eco-paradise. This was the surprise of the trip. Birds fluttered in and out. A restaurant let you pick your fish and have it cooked just for you. But the highlight? Feeding hundreds of fish with your bare hands while on a kottavanchi. They came like a hungry mob—slapping, splashing, and lunging. One nearly got my hand. The boatman, unimpressed, shrugged: “No teeth.” Comforting.
Clouds, calm, and culinary delays
Our hotel near Thangal Para boasted an absurdly beautiful view. "On clear days, you can see all the way to Alleppey," the receptionist boasted. We couldn’t see past our balcony. Rainclouds arrived like uninvited relatives, smothering everything in minutes. But it was magnificent. We didn’t need views, we had vibes.
With barely any other guests, we became royalty. Food arrived on cue. Service was clockwork. But the next day? A flood of guests. Suddenly, dosas got delayed. My toast arrived apologetically, as if it knew it was late. Still, smiles all around.
Now, let’s address the grown-up problems.
No liquor outlets in Vagamon. The nearest is a 14-km pilgrimage. Fuel? Diesel is available from a parked tanker, Petrol? Sold in black, priced like premium perfume.
So, dear travellers: bring your bottles, fill your tanks, and for God’s sake, carry cash.
Vagamon 2.0: Quietly growing up
There’s change brewing. We noticed antique shops, boutique bakeries, and shawarma joints springing up. Tamil Nadu tourists clearly thawing from 42°C dove into freezing pools with alarming joy. Our hotelier smiled, “They come for the chill. We give them that.”
And he’s right.
With all this going for it, you would expect Kerala Tourism to be shouting about Vagamon from the rooftops. Instead? Silence. No major campaigns, no spotlight. Meanwhile, we have brochures pushing overcrowded, overpriced, and overhyped destinations. It’s a shame. Vagamon deserves more than indifference. It deserves intelligent investment, curated experiences, and a little respect.
As we drove away, watching the mist pull its curtains and the waterfalls return to their hiding spots, the feeling wasn’t satisfaction. It was regret.
Regret that we hadn’t done this sooner. Regret that we gave in to clichés for so long.
Regret that we let Vagamon sit in our blind spot.
Vagamon waits for people who are willing to slow down, look around, and listen. And when you do, Vagamon doesn’t just show up. It shows you something rare: what travel should feel like.
The writer is picture editor, Malayala Manorama.
Tourism