Talking is difficult and words are hard to come by at 10,000 feet amidst the cold, thin air at the mountain lakes in Pakistan’s northern areas. My family and I are having a 5 am breakfast of sweet, sugar-laced chai and hot parathas, watching the sunrise reflected on the surface of a still lake. This particular lake, located in the Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa region, recently hit by the devastating and tragic floods, is known as ‘Saif-ul-Muluk’. It rests on the very peak of a mountain like a volcano. But instead of molten lava, it is filled with crystal water. Fog lingers over the surface of the emerald green mirror while it seems as though the blue sky is staring at its own reflection. Rugged mountains surround this picture of perfection like watchful curators, silent guardians of the lake.

Getting to Saif-ul-Muluk isn't easy. Only special jeeps are allowed to zigzag their way up the mountain along the dangerously narrow dirt path that teeters over the cliff face, inches away from a dizzying drop. The jeep drivers, of course, make this same route a hundred times a day, so as I whispered my final prayers, the driver nonchalantly took a sip of his steaming coffee and fired a puzzled glance at me from the rear-view mirror.

On the other side of the lake, young children swarm around a gigantic glacier that looks like a pure white teardrop in the mountain's eye. They have managed to carve a groove from the top of the ice pack to the bottom, and with plastic bags and leather canvases as a buffer between them and the ice, they glide down the mountain at frightening speeds. From where we are sat we can only hear their screams of glee and they seem like small ants slipping across a tilted glass tabletop.

We are about to leave when a man, stooped and wrapped in thick shawls, stumbles towards us. He offers to tell us the famous story of the mythical genie that lives deep within the lake. His breath billows up in mushroom clouds of vapour and his small hazel eyes light up as he tells his tale. It is an entertaining story, and like all good stories it’s full of romance, fantasy and mystery. He was nearing the denouement of his fairytale when I noticed a familiar rhythm to his speech. I began counting with the fingers of my cold and shivering hands. ‘Di-dum, di-dum, di-dum, di-dum, di-dum.’ After two years of studying literature in A-levels, I was sure of it. He was relaying his tale in the unmistakable beat of iambic pentameter. This old and fragile man, who probably had no formal education, who earns his living telling stories to bleary-eyed tourists, was giving us a master class in poetry, and he didn’t even know it. Shakespeare would be proud.