I scooped a tablespoonful of butter and gingerly placed it into my blender. �??I can�??t believe I am really going to waste some perfectly good tea and butter to make this,�?� I muttered to myself.

But my right index finger had a will of its own and pressed pulse. The blender started up and butter, milk, salt and tea spun in the glass bowl to emerge as a thick beige liquid. I had made po cha. Now, I�??d have to drink it.

I can�??t remember where I first read about po cha, Tibetan butter tea. I know it was several years ago, and the idea of a tea made with butter somehow stuck into my head. Not that I had really considered trying it. Somehow, I didn�??t think butter and tea would make a happy marriage. But then I embarked on this tea tour, and decided that I wanted to experiment tea customs from around the world, as well as teas themselves. And few places have a stronger tea drinking habit than Tibet. Tea is the country�??s main drink�??to the point that recent research links it to the incidence of dental and skeletal fluorosis among the local population.

In Tibet, brick tea is boiled in water for a long time. Some of this liquid, called chaku, is then diluted with boiling water and churned with milk and sugar, or with butter, milk and salt. Both teas are fortifying and warming�??perfect for cold Himalayan weather and particularly useful to digest yak meat. Tea is to Tibetans what coffee is to Italians and wine is to the French. More than a drink, it�??s a way of life.

That�??s why I found myself fiddling with brick tea, butter and blender this morning. Finding the right recipe was a challenge in itself. The Internet gave all sorts of contradictory instructions. Use two teaspoons of tea for five cups. No, use one oz. In the end, I settled for a recipe I found on Lobsang�??s Tibet recipes website, which sounded slightly more credible than the others. Except I really wanted to use brick tea to make it, as it is done in Tibet, so I replaced the tea bags with 5g (about two teaspoons) of brick tea that I had bought from Soana, in Milan. I made it the Tibetan way�??putting it in cold water and letting it boil. I don�??t have a churner, so tea, milk, salt and butter went into the blender for a couple of minutes. And of course, I had to use cow�??s milk and butter�??yaks being distinctly unavailable on this side of the world.

The liquid�??I still find it hard to call it tea�??was creamy, the color of a pale, milky latte. It had an intense buttery nose�??that sweetish, dairy scent�??with just a vague hint of tea in it. The flavor�??yuk! It reminded me of airline tea when they put that thick plastic-packaged cream thingy in what is already a weak brew. It had a creamy texture with definitely a lot more butter in it than tea. Sod the understatement: it had so little tea, it was like sipping melted butter. I can easily see how this drink can warm Tibetans through a day�??s work in Himalayan temperatures. I definitely appreciated making the experience�??but I am lucky to live in a better climate and I doubt I will drink po cha again anytime soon.

I was about to give up on Bangladesh. Although tea production plays a crucial role in the local economy, yielding some 55,000 tonnes from more than 140 gardens, I simply couldn’t find a leaf or two to sample.

All my usual sources failed me. I even went to Harrods, which had hosted a presentation of Kazi and Kazi tea, an organic estate from Bangladesh, about a year ago. Alas, they didn’t have it in stock just now. Instead, they were now hosting a white tea tasting which touted it as the next big thing�??a year or seven behind times, if you ask me. But I digress.

I was about to throw in the towel when a providential message on the rec.food.drink.tea group came to the rescue. One of the group’s members, who is originally from Bangladesh, although he no longer lives there, pointed me in the direction of Le Palais des Thes, a French online tea merchant.

I had come across Le Palais but never purchased from them before, so this was as good an excuse as any. I had a seamless buying experience, and a week or so later my tea from Bangladesh (and another five or six) arrived at my door. Just in time for my tour.

I had heard plenty about Bangladeshi tea, and not just from rec.food.drink.tea. I knew the industry dated from the mid-19th century and, although it had been severely hit by the war of independence from Pakistan, it had somewhat bounced back, making Bangladesh the ninth largest tea producing country in the world. I had also heard that Bangladeshi productivity remains low and about half of total tonnage is consumed at home. But I didn’t really know what flavor to expect.

Le Palais des Thes described its Bangladesh TGFOP as mild and amber. Amber it was indeed. My cup, from a level teaspoon of leaves steeped for 5 minutes as recommended, was a rich, dark amber color with a lovely floral scent and just a whiff of smokiness. But the flavor, I’d have hardly called mild. It was a strong caffeine punch, with a fleeting sweet note at first that evolved in a hugely powerful sip with a slightly bitter note in the end. It screamed oversteeping to my taste buds. For the very first time ever, I found a merchant that recommended longer steeping times than I would use.

I made the Bangladesh tea again with the same amount of leaves, but steeping for only four minutes. Miles better. It still had the lovely aroma, the caffeine punch and the powerful mouthfeel, but the bitter note had gone. Still, this is a tea I’d rather have with milk than on its own. And although it is described as suitable for drinking throughout the day, I definitely found it a kick-your-eyes-open morning tea with all the strength of a Futurist painting.

Champagne of teas. Little irks me more than this inane definition. Just about every high altitude region that makes light, aromatic teas claims a similarity with Champagne. It is so atrociously trite. Call it the Sauvignon Blanc or Gewurztraminer of teas, and perhaps you�??ll capture my imagination. But Champagne? Yawn.

To be completely honest, though, I must admit this comparison also irritates me because I don�??t much like Champagne. There, now I have said it. But really, nose-tickling bubbles with a yeasty or acidy sweetness�??what�??s that to do with tea? Thankfully, very little.

The Nuwara Eliya tea I drank today, in particular, was as un-bubbly-like as it gets, despite being touted as the Champagne of Ceylon. The region has the highest elevation among Sri Lanka�??s tea districts and its teas have a reputation for being light and very aromatic. So I expected a golden, featherlike cup. Instead, I got a complete surprise.

My teaspoon of Nuwara Eliya OP, which I got from Special Teas and brewed for the recommended 2 minutes, yielded a deep, rich copper cup with a fuller mouthfeel than I anticipated. Only its intensely heady aroma�??floral, lemony, with just a hint of earthiness�??matched my mental picture, although I was hard-pressed to recognize the cypress tree, mint and eucalyptus which apparently scent the air in this area of Sri Lanka and make their way into its tea.

Brewed light, this Nuwara Eliya had a balanced flavor with sweet and citrusy accents and some astringency. But Special Teas also said that longer steeping times would yield a pleasant bite, so I tried a three-minute brew. The body became much fuller�??definitely strong enough to support milk�??and those elusive earthy notes became more pronounced both in the nose and in the mouth. A good astringency gave it the bite promised by the vendor�??s tasting notes. It brought to mind Picasso�??s Las Meninas series, which progressively morph from a copy of Velazquez�??s painting into a Cubist masterpiece.

Today, I captured the scent of Ceylon. After yesterday�??s disappointing experience with the rather noseless Dimbula, I was hardly expecting much from a cup of Pettiagalla. But what a change was in store.

Pettiagalla is one of the most established tea gardens in the Dimbula district. My tea bible, Le Livre de l�??Amateur du The by Sabine Yi, Jacques Jumeau Lafond and Michel Walsh, calls it one of the Great Lords of Ceylon and says it produced a very aromatic tea. And aromatic it was indeed. I bought a sample size from Special Teas and brewed the recommended heaping teaspoon into siz oz water for four minutes. The cup was a dark red, almost brown with a strong nose that, in my mind, screams of Ceylon. A floral fragrance with something sweet in it. Not much of that scent came across in the mouth, where the tea was satisfyingly sweet. Perhaps the enchanting scent of this Pettiagalla promises more than the sip delivers, but it nonetheless makes for good drinking. Definitely Turner’s Colour Beginning.

Ceylon seems to have fallen out of fashion lately. Look around any number of tea blogs and you�??ll find most people talking about either China tea�??green, black, Pu-ehr, oolong�??or Assam and Darjeeling. Which is rather suprising when you think that Sri Lanka is one of the most extraordinary tea countries in the world. They have even been keeping up with the green trend, producing several good green Ceylons, and have come up with an unbelievably expensive white to beat all whites.

But I am rather old fashioned at heart. For me, Ceylon remains very much a black tea that, like mountain air, becomes increasingly aromatic and rarefied as elevation increases. Ceylon tea was a masterstroke of Victorian growers, who spotted the weather and altitude opportunities the country offered and introduced the bushes here in the second half of the 19th century. One of the first districts they planted was Dimbula, on the western side of Sri Lanka�??s tea growing region, so it seemed fitting to start my Ceylon tour from there.

I brewed one heaped teaspoon of Dimbula Orange Pekoe from Special Teas for 3 minutes, It yielded a pretty, golden red cup with a lightly fruity aroma. It tasted sweet throughout with just a very subtle hint of mild astringency in the end. It was very smooth and I definitely found it more sweet and fruity than chocolatey/citrusy, which is how Special Teas pitches it. It was a decent, serviceable tea, but its lack of complexity left me ever so slightly unsatisfied. An Elizabeth Vigée Lebrun.

I happened to pass by Fortnum & Mason this morning�??the kind of passing by that requires two subway changes�??and decided to buy a couple of teas.

I must admit I was slightly disappointed. Oh, the shop is as dazzling as ever. It glitters more than a jeweller�??s. And the list of rare teas still reads like the very best of Darjeeling and Assam, with a sprinkling of excellent China and Formosa. But this perhaps is the problem. It failed to offer anything new, challenging or unusual.

Now, I hardly expect as established a temple as F&M to go wild on tea fashions. Still, I�??d have wanted at least a tea I hadn�??t heard of before, something that would pique my curiosity. The list didn�??t even mention “Tregothnan�??the first tea ever produced in Britain�??which I know F&M buyers got into the shop. Maybe they ran out of it. Be as it may, I was a little underwhelmed. I did learn, though, that Darjeeling’s Margaret�??s Hope wasn�??t at all related to little Margaret of Norway, but to another Margaret�??the daughter of an English tea planter. Let�??s hope she had a better fate than the other Margaret.

PS: In case you�??re wondering: yes I did end up buying something. A Grand Keemun and a Yunnan Pu-erh.

Misty. That�??s how I think of Nepal. A country permanently wrapped up in a milky, muffled whiteness. It is, of course, somewhat untrue. Nepal has many weathers�??the monsoon rains, the subtropical summers of the southern lowlands. It is hard to imagine more biodiversity in a place that small. But then, as a Nepalese friend of mine once put it, Nepal is like many islands connected by elephants.

The tea slopes, however, firmly belong to the swirling mists and achingly clear light of the Himalayan foothills. And misty is the flavor of the cup of Special Teas�?? Golden Nepal I drank today. It tasted like a Darjeeling enveloped in a thick hazy blanket. Which is to say that it was too subtle for me.

I brewed to instructions, using one level teaspoon for a six oz. cup and steeping the leaves for three minutes. The resulting liquor was a beautiful golden color with a hint of red. The nose was nearly imperceptible though. And the flavor was closer to the nose than to the look. It was light and soft, with vague fruity notes and a sweet end. Delicate. Pretty. And as nice as the work of a minor landscape watercolorist, which is fleetingly pleasant but soon forgotten.

I usually loathe flavored teas. The aromas are often artificial and overpowering, killing the delicate taste of tea. The one exception to this is chai. I love the way tea and spices combine to create a warming drink. For me, chai tastes of winter and days spent lazing in front of the log fire. Not that I have one�??it�??s just a daydream. But of course chai is the product of a warm climate.

Monica Bhide, my Indian cuisine guru and one of the most entertaining food writers I know, once confessed she too finds it funny that �??the favorite drink of a “hot” subcontinent is tea!�?� Her recipe for chai is pretty much that anything goes. It could just be tea and a few cardamoms or a complex spicy blend including cinnamon, cloves and other ingredients.

I took the spicier route and made my own chai with an Assam base (Whittard�??s blend) and adding cardamom, pepper, cinnamon, cloves and a touch of allspice. My idea was to compare it with Whittard�??s ready made chai, which has the same ingredients minus the allspice, plus some unspecified flavoring.

I brewed it slightly stronger than recommended, using two teaspoons per pot and steeping them for four minutes. It produced a dark amber liquor with a sweet spicy scent. It was pepperish at first, tickling the tongue ever so slightly. Other spices�??cardamom?�??emerged as the sip traveled through my mouth. The tea is there but definitely plays second fiddle to the spices.

My chai, by contrast, was murkier and darker, with a pronounced cinnamon nose, but an altogether more delicate scent than the Whittard version. Exotic as a Gauguin in the Tahiti period, it had more spiciness at first impact but was altogether less aggressive throughout. The finish was very much malty tea and pepper. I liked it better than the Whittard version, chiefly because it had a stronger tea taste. But I don’t think it would have borne milk as well as the other one.

India did it again. About a hundred and fifty years after a British surgeon brought Chinese tea seeds to Darjeeling and unwittingly gave rise to one of the world�??s most successful tea stories, the district�??s gardens have borrowed another leaf from China and made a success out of it. Over the last few years, a number of estates�??led by the pioneering Poobong�??began producing white tea. Now it ranks on par with the best whites from China, where the tradition originated in the late 18th century.

I very much think of Darjeeling as black tea, but really wanted to give their white a shot, and jumped at a chance when I discovered I could buy a sample size of Darjeeling Silver Needle from Special Teas for $4�??white tea being abominably expensive.

I brewed it for the first time today, steeping 3g of leaves for two minutes in water that had been heated up to 185F (85C) as recommended. The cup I got was pale golden with an incredibly subtle scent. It smelled like a tea for relaxation or meditation.

In the mouth, it was delightfully light and sweet, with just an idea of leafiness in the end. I can�??t say I could find any of the honeydew melon promised by Special Teas. This could well have something to do with the fact that I am not hugely familiar with, nor do I particularly like, any melon, but the fruity sweetness was definitely there. It had the kind of fragrant, sweet softness of Monet�??s mature paintings.

St Margaret�??s Hope is a tiny village on the Orkney Islands off the scottish Coast. The Orkneys stand off the Scottish coast toward the Shetlands Scandinavia and the hope that named the village might have belonged to the unlucky Margaret, Princess of Norway and granddaughter to Alexander III of Scotland.

Margaret was only three when her grandfather died and she inherited the right to the Scottish throne. The little girl, who was betrothed to the heir to the English Crown, Edward, sailed to her Scottish domains in September 1290, when she was just seven years old. Heavy weather forced her ship to land in Orkney. But tiny Margaret�??s hope to escape the storm unscathed was shortlived. She died on the island a short while later, worn down by exhaustion and a very serious sea-sickness.

I have always wondered whether the remote Orkney village is in some way linked to Margaret�??s Hope, one of the oldest and most established gardens in Darjeeling. Perhaps the estate was named by a homesick Scot?

A big garden, Margaret�??s Hope stands in the district�??s Kurseong North Valley and spans 892 acres of China bushes. I tried one of their teas today, a first flush SFTGFOP�??that is, special finest tippy golden flowery orange pekoe. Incidentally, I am convinced that the tea experts that came up with orthodox tea grading secretly belonged to a school of sadist linguists bent on making the average drinker trip on his own tongue. Try saying SFTGFOP a couple of times and see what I mean.

That said, this particular SFTGFOP, which I got from Whittard, as worth all the effort of asking for it. First flush means that the tea is picked right after the dormant winter season and tends to be more delicate in flavor. This particular one was picked about eleven months ago. I worried that it would taste flat because it is coming at the end of its shelf life�??after eight to twelve months or so, first flush teas are prone to lose their aroma�??but I was pleasantly surprised.

Because this tea is only lightly oxidized, Whittard recommends brewing it light�??2 teaspoons for a six-cup teapot for 4 minutes. The cup it yielded was a beauty. Perfectly clear and golden with a sweetish, hint-of-muscatel aroma. It was light at first approach, with a barely-there sweet note and a very long green tea-ish�??that is to say, refreshingly vegetaley�??finish. Absolutely superlative and, for once, I didn�??t feel the urge to brew it stronger than instruction. A Renaissance masterpiece of a tea. I�??d say Raphael, but I like Botticelli better, so Botticelli it is.