India 2025

Capability Overdrive And Delhi By Default

Monday December 1st. It’s one of those very English days where the sky is heavy, rain falls in intermittent bucketloads and it never really seems to get properly light. The tube from St Pancras to Heathrow is ridiculously rammed, full of wheelie cases, backpacks and sweaty bodies in overcoats. I am a sardine in a tin, Michaela is trapped in a corner, overheating visibly.

We make it to Terminal 2 early for our 21:05 flight. 21:05 quickly becomes 21:20, then 21:45, then 22:00, 22:40 and eventually “CANCELLED” appears on the app and “GATE CLOSED” on the screens. Everyone crowds around the desk, haranguing the poor airline staff as if they have personally disabled the aeroplane, until four burly policemen – well, three burly and one little guy with attitude – appear, having been summoned due to the “possibility of a disturbance at Gate B36”.

Possibility. Of. Disturbance. Some passengers are admittedly a bit overly vocal, but police necessary? Not really. 

A hot meal will be provided, we are told. Hotels will be made available for those who need one, and we will all receive emails advising the departure time of whichever flight we are reallocated. Hot meals do indeed arrive – those which we would have been served on board had we left punctually. Cue chaos. Picture circa 400 people, the vast majority Indian, clamouring for meals which are being brought out maybe ten at a time. Orderly queuing this is not. Maybe someone should call the police. Ah. 

In their wisdom and, we have to say, their manful attempts to keep matters calm, Air India staff hand out the meals as swiftly as they can. Unfortunately, none of them twig that handing out cutlery at the same time might be a good idea, so now there are dozens of people juggling red hot foil boxes with no way of devouring the curried contents. Still forkless as the message that we can head to the baggage reclaim hall comes through, we leave our fine smelling curries on the counter, unopened and uneaten.

Bags reclaimed, we are ferried to a Radisson, tired enough to fall asleep despite our hunger – it is, after all, nearly 2am now. Somewhere around an hour later the phones ping, advising that we’ve been allocated a flight on Wednesday lunchtime. That’s Wednesday. Today is Tuesday. We have 36 hours to kill. At rain sodden Heathrow.

Be at breakfast 6 till 7, then we’ll see you tomorrow, the airline man had said. By 7 we’re fed and ready, but Air India are conspicuous by their absence. The Radisson staff, understandably, know nothing. What’s more, we’re now told the short shuttle bus journey back to the Terminal will cost £14 for two. “Didn’t Air India give you a voucher?”. Err, no.

So while some of our fellow passengers harangue hotel staff, call the Air India helpline, head home to kill 36 hours or just hang around grumbling, The Hungry Travellers hit the Capability Overdrive button. Uber to Terminal (LESS than £14, by the way!), straight to the Air India desk. All we want to know is what we do for a bed for tonight. But it goes something like this:

“You need a second night? When is your new flight?”

“Tomorrow lunchtime”.

“Hmm. Maybe I can find you a flight today. Hmmm…yes…I can put you on a flight that leaves in one hour, if you are ready and you don’t mind hurrying”.

“Whaaaat!? Errr…yes!”

About fifty minutes later we’re in our seats and about to fly to Delhi. We can’t help thinking about all the other passengers who have either accepted their lot, are still venting their anger at those who don’t deserve it and are unable to help anyway, or are just still grumbling about the unfairness of things. Whatever, we bet none of them are on this flight. Not like us two, smugly eating our second breakfast of the day just after 10am. 

Flight time and time difference added, we touch down in Delhi at exactly midnight, and are through Immigration and checked in at the Hotel Almate Inn within a couple of hours. Into bed around 2am again. This is becoming a habit.

And of course we aren’t supposed to be in Delhi at all. We had train tickets from Delhi to Alwar booked, together with a hotel in Alwar for our first two nights, all of which bit the dust when the “CANCELLED” word appeared. But with her Capability Overdrive in Supreme mode, Michaela had, during the short time at the boarding gate, managed to cancel the Alwar hotel (without penalty) and replace it with one in Delhi. Train fun will have to go on hold.

So we now have, unexpectedly, a day to explore a city which we already know, having visited twice before, but fortunately Delhi is a giant of a city and it won’t be hard to find something new. 

That something new is first Humayun’s Tomb, and second the Old Fort, aka Purana Quila. Both are havens of peace in this city of manic craziness, vast gardens providing karma and respite from the incessant noise of Delhi which, here in these two corners of tranquility, is no more than a distant hum somewhere beyond the squawk of parakeets and the squeal of pariah kites.

Humayun’s Tomb is reminiscent of the Taj Mahal – indeed, the story goes that it was in fact the inspiration for its more famous counterpart, effectively the blueprint for the more majestic version built some 75 years later. It is, of course, nowhere near as grand or as spellbinding, but nor is it thronged with the huge numbers which crowd the Taj. 

Splendour was clearly to the forefront of Mughal Emperor Humayun and his people judging by the grandeur of both the tomb and the fort, intricate decorative detail combining with follies like squat domes and roofed balconies to create any number of pleasing viewpoints. Mughal Emperors were, of course, fabulously rich.

Humayun himself, by the way, died a rather unseemly death. Standing on the highest point of the roof of his fort, Humayun heard the call to prayer and realised he had left it a little bit late to reach the prayer mat in time, thus setting off in haste to observe the ritual promptly. In his rush to get there, he tumbled down the stone staircase and sustained injuries which were to bring about his demise only three days later. Divine intervention of a wholly different kind, you might say.

Above us, sizeable flocks of the oversized birds of prey known as pariah kites circle and call – there must be a considerable amount of life here to keep quite so many sufficiently fed each day. One would perhaps normally say that the circling birds fill the sky, but here in Delhi there is no sky, merely the scarily heavy fog which is the pollution cloud hanging above the rooftops in perpetuity. Air quality here must be sub zero.

There’s something about India, and whatever that something is, it’s most definitely not for everyone. For us, we broke through the discomfort barrier on our first visit years ago and quickly found its glory and its hook. We can feel it again now, straight away, the deafening soundtrack of the city, the odours in its air, the fuzzy outlines in the cloying haze, the dirt, the poverty, the glory, the colour, the splendour. 

And beneath its unappealing surface, a magnificent, vibrant country full of history and character. Whether exciting or galling or both, India is never dull.

Delhi, we’ve met you before. Now new parts of India are calling….

Indian Safari: On The Trail Of Tigers

Well here’s something different, India without humidity. All of our memories of this country are of clothes drenched within half an hour and sultry cloying heat which saps the strength, but it’s not like that now, in December, where even in Delhi despite its ever present pollution there is an uncharacteristic freshness to the air. And as we are shortly to discover, it’s properly cold at 6:30 in the morning.

With Alwar now off the agenda and trains to our next destination at unfriendly times of day, we explore the cost of travel by road and find that, remarkably, an “inter-city Uber” will take us the 350 kilometres for only a fraction more than it would cost in petrol alone back home. The near 6-hour journey from Delhi to Sawai Madhopur on the edge of Ranthambore National Park reveals another element of India we haven’t seen before: a long, straight tolled freeway dotted with Western style service areas.

“Breakfast is from 9 till 11”, he tells us on arrival, “after the morning safari”. Part of how it works here at Ranthambore, where there are restrictions on entry times, restrictions on numbers of vehicles in each zone, and restrictions on the length of stay which is capped at 3 hours per ride. So the routine here at Shani Villas is meet at 6:30, explore a single designated zone in search of tigers, return for 10am breakfast, enjoy lunchtime sunshine then head out again around 1:30/2 for another 3-hour stint in a different zone. Ranthambore is a beautiful place full of attractive scenery, but, let’s face it, the real reason everyone comes here is to try and catch a glimpse of the elusive tiger.

Friday, 6:30am. Cold. Breath visible. Mist hanging over ponds. Even colder when the open top truck called a canter heads speedily down the Ranthambore Road towards our first entry point, the gateway to Zone 1. This is very different from an African safari: no open plains and easy spotting here, this is jungle safari where every living thing can hide in the dense forest. But as it turns out, it goes well….

Deer, monkeys, mongoose, wild boar and a whole host of colourful birds cross our path, including the “Rufus Treepie” which sounds more like a character from Roald Dahl or Rudyard Kipling than a bird. Suddenly, an hour or so into the ride, we’re instructed to be silent: the calls we can hear are, we’re told, the alarm cries of deer and monkeys, warning their fellow mammals that there’s a big cat somewhere in the vicinity. Time to be patient, and silent. We are, and it brings a huge reward: it may not be the secretive tiger which emerges from the trees, but out comes a prowling leopard ambling its way through the undergrowth and across the trail. Superb.

And if that first effort was good, then our afternoon sortie into Zone 4 is a massive wow of a success which we can scarcely believe. We came here with only vague hopes of really seeing a tiger – we know of several who have visited and failed – yet in this ride of all rides we see no fewer than three of these splendid animals, providing the opportunity for some wonderfully clear shots. It’s an altogether fabulous experience. Tigers in the wild. Beyond amazing. We seem to get lucky so often.

Our third tour in Zone 10 the following morning is unfruitful apart from some great kingfisher and peacock sightings – our reaction to this “failure” is simply to pinch ourselves that yesterday was so incredibly good. There are no guarantees with jungle safaris and we feel as if we hit a jackpot that many don’t get to hit.

Saturday afternoon, fourth adventure, change of tack. Rather than chase more animal sightings we head instead to Ranthambore Fort, but that will have to wait for the next post, there were far too many of Michaela’s wildlife photos to fit into this one to have space for that as well…..

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From Ranthambore To The Pink City Of Jaipur

Breakfast is curry. Dinner is curry. Lunch, if you have it (we haven’t had room) would be curry. By our first Saturday we’re on curry number 10. That’s going to reach a very big number by the time we see anything like a change of cuisine. Tummies, you better be ready.

Saturday afternoon and our fourth sortie into the Ranthambore National Park sees us take a break from seeking out animal sightings and instead we climb to Ranthambore Fort, the huge 5th century hilltop construction from which the National Park takes its name – indeed the vast area covered by the park once formed the fort’s hunting grounds. Today the fort lies well within the Park itself. Claimed and occupied by successive dynasties through the centuries, Ranthambore is now a designated UNESCO World Heritage site as one of the Rajasthan hilltop forts.

It’s a mightily impressive place, featuring multiple separate buildings still standing proud some 1600 years after construction. It’s also home to large troupes of black-faced langur monkeys who continually amuse us with their playful antics.

As we reach Saturday evening we are still talking about yesterday’s tiger sightings, the undoubted highlight of what has been a thrill-filled couple of days. Unsurprisingly the tigers form the basis of most of the conversation over that 10th curry.

It turns out that our last two Ranthambore sorties are complete let downs, firstly a ride into Zone 7 which is high on the mountain ridges and devoid of interesting wildlife (great views mind) and second a boat ride described as a “river safari” which is about 30 minutes on a wide river with only crocodiles to see and about as far from a “safari” as you could get. In both cases the guides hardly say a word and in the former the driver seems more interested in meeting other drivers than anything else. It’s good that we had our better experiences first – if these two experiences had been on our first day we’d have been questioning the wisdom of our choice of provider. But we have those first two days – and the tigers – to remember, and that’s what matters.

Time to up and leave Sawai Madhopur, time to get a train fix too, as we head off on the next part of this journey, a section which will take us through four of India’s most famous and spectacular cities before we head to the south. Except once again I am thwarted on the train fix front – as departure time approaches we hear that our “express” is running nearly four hours late on its long, long journey from Mumbai. We can wait in Sawai Madhopur for four hours before we even set off or we can grab a driver and be in Jaipur in three. 

Train journeys booked 2, train journeys actually completed 0. Ever so slightly gutted but some things just aren’t meant to be, and the Pink City awaits….

Jaipur bakes in the afternoon sun. Its streets, all but gridlocked with cars, mopeds, tuk-tuks, people and cows, are typically manic, barely an inch of road surface visible as the fight for space goes on. Horns blare, engines rev and somewhere, masked by the cacophony which is the soundtrack of Indian cities, a muezzin’s call to prayer echoes from a minaret. Odours alternate between delightful and offensive, incense and perfume fill the air only to give way to the stench of rotting rubbish; now the heady scent of curry is lost to the putrid stench of garbage-filled stagnant water. Pigeons, cows and dogs hunt for scraps in piles of discarded waste, streetside stalls steam with marsala tea or fragrant dosa. Men use chapati to scoop daal from bowls; a middle aged man urinates against a wall in the midst of the crowd. We are back in India. 

Jaipur though is to wow us very quickly – before, in fact, we even venture outside of our new home which is a delightful traditional haveli. For generations home to the exceedingly wealthy Bissau family who still occupy the upper floors, this wonderful old building may have seen better times but is still steeped in character, its decor and furnishings making us truly feel that we have either stepped back in time or entered a museum of colonial grandeur. It creaks with age but positively oozes with character.

It’s not just the furnishings which are distinctly colonial, the staff at this place which is still run by family members, are extremely well versed in the deferential nothing-too-much-trouble customer service style of a bygone era. Carry your own bag or fetch your own tea and someone will come running to take over.

The city, founded by and taking its name from 18th century regional Rajpoot ruler Sawai Jai Singh II, forms part of India’s famed and much visited Golden Triangle with Delhi and Agra and is a city boasting more than its fair share of worthy sights. A proportion of its architecture is finished in a pink hue which has given rise to one of Jaipur’s monikers, The Pink City. As it happens, we will be moving on to The Blue City and The White City from here. 

What an appeal Jaipur has, a heady mix of the typical craziness of Indian cities with a sizeable collection of eye catching attractions. There is an upbeat, vibrant feel to the city, a city which seems to have multiple layers of character. A large, sprawling metropolis of nearly 5 million inhabitants, its places of interest are scattered around the city with many some distance apart, so careful planning of our time here is essential.

Thus, we opt to snare a tuk-tuk for Day 1 in order to view most of the sites, after which we will spend a couple of days digging more deeply into those we wish to explore further. So it is that we meet Soni, who immediately endears himself with his ultra helpful attitude. For a start…

“Please. I am not a guide, just a tuk-tuk driver”, he insists, and then proceeds to be a more than adequate guide to a city of which he is clearly proud. And then, to emphasise that we can take as long as we like at each stop, he has a little catchphrase…

“Remember. No hurry, no worry, no mutton curry”. 

And so our exploration of this rather wonderful Pink City begins….

Exploring The Sights Of Jaipur 

The city wall of Jaipur, visible from all around the city, is not your normal city wall by any means. Rather than the remaining sections being deep within a congested sprawl the likes of which one might see in many cities, this is an undulating major construction which circles the city some distance from its outer limits, following the contours of the land even where the inclines become steep and the peaks become seemingly inaccessible. It is in its way rather reminiscent of a scaled down version of the Great Wall Of China.

Our three days in Jaipur are spent exploring many of its notable sights. Rather than trot out endless facts which can be found via a quick Google, below is a brief description of each, with (mild) apologies for any lack of detail. Michaela’s photos do a better job, anyway….

Hawa Mahal, Palace Of Winds

Almost without doubt Jaipur’s most famous building, it’s something of a surprise to find this unusual yet majestic palace housed in just another street of madness rather than in a regal plaza. Constructed from red and pink sandstone, its latter day more obvious pink finish is said to emanate from an order by Maharaja Ram Singh in anticipation of a visit by British royalty in 1876, when many of Jaipur’s major buildings were given a makeover in that colour. It is from this event that Jaipur earned its “Pink City” nickname…though, incidentally, we’ve come across different accounts of which royal visitor was thus received.

Hawa Mahal is a uniquely striking building, its oversize pyramidal facade resembling a giant pink honeycomb, complete with no less than 953 windows. It’s actually the breezes whistling through these multiple apertures which give the palace its name. Behind the illustrious frontage the palace is a labyrinth of passageways and chambers surrounding a small but attractive courtyard where fountains dance in the breeze, but in truth the joy of Hawa Mahal is viewing its remarkable facade from a short distance away – climb one of the dimly lit stairways between the shops opposite and grab a table at a rooftop cafe for uninterrupted views.

Like Jaipur as a whole, Hawa Mahal is a tourist hotspot, though on today’s evidence the vast majority of visitors to the city are from across India rather than from further afield. Colourful and elegant sarees abound.

Jal Mahal, The Water Palace

Beautifully positioned out in the middle of Man Sagar Lake, Jal Mahal gives the illusion of a floating palace, its inverted image shimmering in the waters below. With two floors on its eastern side completely submerged when lake waters are at their highest, Jal Mahal is under constant threat of irreparable damage and in need of never ending repair and maintenance. It’s survived since 1699 though so those repairs have obviously been successful.

Inaccessible to the public and largely today the domain of cormorants, this ostentatious representation of Rajput architecture houses rooftop gardens with sizeable trees visible from the lakeside vantage points.

The Step Well, Panna Meena Ka Kund

Standing looking down into the Step Well is kind of mesmerising. Built of course as a way of storing natural water for the massed population of the city, its ingenious design provides access and platforms regardless of the water level, via symmetrical staircases which play tricks on the eyes.

Amer (or Amber) Fort & Palace

A tuk-tuk ride from the centre – followed by, advisedly, a jeep up the long steep hill – the Amer complex is a fascinating, rambling place, proudly sitting atop the highest hill and dominating the skyline. Once one is within the vast area covered by the fort, the opulence and wealth of its creators is absolutely obvious. Walking around its rambling structures we are constantly wowed by its detailed, ornate architecture.

Jantar Mantar

A remarkable place for many reasons, Jantar Mantar owes its existence to Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II, whose fascination with astronomy attracted leading lights from the world of science to graduate to Jaipur to assist in its creation. Permanent structures measure the movement of planets and star constellations, monitoring passing seasons and keeping time to an accuracy of seven seconds. Although many of the on-site descriptions are too esoteric for us to fully comprehend, Jantar Mantar leaves the visitor in awe of both the knowledge of earlier generations and the determination to bring such major idealistic projects to fruition.

Cenotaph

Hidden from the bustling city, the burial site of royalty is an absolute haven of peace, as well as affording expansive views back across the city.

Albert Hall Museum

Set in an imposing position above a wide, open apron, the museum features displays and artefacts from around the world and from different eras, though for us we found the examples of local specialist artwork probably the most fascinating section. By the way, the many photographs on the internet of the Albert Hall reflected in a pool out front are deceptive and must have been taken on a rainy day: the water was merely a puddle on the paved frontage.

The Monkey Temple (Galta Ji)

Our last call and an unusual temple in a fabulous setting above the city, delicately placed between the rocky cliffs of the mountains where a surprisingly strong water source cascades through the centre. The endless and considerable supply of fresh water has for centuries been seen as miraculous, hence the siting of the temple – the water thus considered sacred. Judging by the visitors today, pilgrims from across India still come to douse themselves in the revered pools. Its nickname comes, of course, from the huge numbers of macaques who have made this lovely setting their home.

Once again, apologies for any brevity of detail, but it would take far too lengthy a post to do justice to the many worthy sights of Jaipur. Clearly a destination city for visitors from across India, Jaipur is an absorbing city with multiple layers of character, from breathless manic activity to places of meditative serenity.

Oh, and our Ayurvedic massage wasn’t bad either. Jodhpur next….

Walking Jodhpur And Meeting The Lentil Man

Jodhpur plays out its days in a decidedly lower key. Such things are relative of course – you probably wouldn’t describe Jodhpur as “low key” in many countries of the world – but compared to other Indian cities it is precisely that, especially among the narrow twisting streets of its old town. Under the watchful eye of the gigantic Mehrangarh fort looking down from the hills above, Jodhpur is probably the most tourist friendly Indian city we have seen so far. Throughout the old town any number of dark staircases lead up four or five storeys to rooftop restaurants affording fabulous views of the fort which is imposing during daylight and tastefully floodlit after dark.

Climbing down the handful of steps from The Arch Homestay on to the dusty street we find ourselves just a few strides from Jodhpur’s Step Well. Just as the Jaipur version was, this one is an interesting collection of symmetrical stairways and platforms, but there are significant differences between the two. Whereas Jaipur is behind railings with whistle-blowing security guards ensuring nobody transgresses, here in Jodhpur the Well is more than just accessible, it’s a popular meeting point for townsfolk.

At all times of day people sit on the steps and chat or share street food, youngsters snap each other for social media posts, others simply sit alone, contemplating life as they gaze across the dark waters in quasi meditation. Vibes of both tranquility and conviviality fill the surrounding square. Chatter merges with the music of traditional stringed instruments to bounce off the lofty walls, yet somehow solitude is also able to endure. People gravitate here whatever their needs it seems.

We turn back past our homestay down towards the clocktower, welcomed to Jodhpur by multiple smiling faces and outstretched hands, past art galleries, saree shops and chai stalls, then through the brick archway into Sardar Market. Nobody hawks to foreigners like us here, this is a market selling dustpans and plastic buckets to locals more than souvenirs to tourists. Jodhpur’s sturdy clocktower stands in the centre simultaneously heralding time and timelessness, ignoring the tuk-tuks and the barking dogs below just as it has done since ever.

“Would you like to meet The Lentil Man?”, says a voice from behind, “I can take you there. Come. He is famous”.

The Lentil Man, real name Vijay Prajadat, is THE leading exponent of the local craft of miniature art. He definitely IS famous, too. “You can find me on Google”, he says, “and I was on the BBC, in series five of Race Across The World”. He is. You can. He was. Desperate to avoid the loss of this rather wonderful localised craft, Vijay now runs a school of 180 students as well as producing prodigious amounts of artwork himself.

Lentil Man and miniature paintings

Mostly telling historical stories of Jodhpur or depicting the wildlife of Rajasthan, the paintings which adorn his shop/studio are incredibly delicate, tiny brush strokes creating intricate works in minute detail. The traditional paint brushes used in this art form are made from the hair of squirrels’ tails, in fact the tiniest of these brushes feature just a single such hair, so fine is the required detail.

The “Lentil Man” nickname comes from Vijay’s ability to create a tiny painting on a single lentil bean. Satisfyingly, we are given a demonstration as Vijay produces a tiny elephant painting coupled with Michaela’s name on one side of the minuscule lentil. We accept our gift. And, of course, we buy a painting. We have to really.

Back through the twisting streets we wander, aiming for the start of the steep path which will take us up to the fort way above the town, stepping over the piles of dog dirt and splats of cow shit, avoiding the swerving tuk-tuks and averting our eyes from the man pissing on a pile of garbage without even turning to shield his penis from passers by.

The climb is definitely steep, the paving shiny and slippery through centuries of footfall, though nowadays most people opt for taxis or tuk-tuks to make the ascent and we have much of the climb to ourselves, finally arriving at the grand entrance twenty minutes later under the beating sun. There is no doubt that this journey through India is getting warmer day by day as December unfolds.

With its mighty imposing presence looming moodily over the city from above, the Mehrangarh Fort is just as impressive once inside its vast spaces. Ostentatious, unambiguous, an unashamed show of wealth and power, originally built in the 15th century, this giant complex was significantly enhanced 200 years later by successors of its creator. One of the seven gates to the palace commemorates victory for the Rajput over the Mughals – given the immense wealth of both, that would have been a mother of all battles.

Descending from the fort we turn a different corner into the back alleys of the foothill, through areas which, despite being the domain of the less well off, shall we say, still sport the blue painted walls which give Jodhpur its “Blue City” moniker. Originally, the pale blue exteriors were so decorated in order to reflect the sun’s heat and keep the properties cool, much in the way that houses of the Mediterranean are painted white. 

Slowly but surely murals appear amongst the blue houses, bringing spectacular artwork to downtrodden neighbourhoods. Known locally as the Blue Corridor, the area provides a noticeable splash of colour from afar and reveals pleasingly artful creations within. This route, though, is not for the faint hearted, the poverty of its inhabitants painfully plain.

Turning back towards town, we find ourselves in something markedly different, a shopping street packed with beautiful sarees, elegant suits, ornate bouquets and boxes of fireworks. “In Rajasthan December is wedding season”, the guy at the cafe explained, “stay here another week and you will see many”. Wedding street or not, the atmosphere is electric and we feel energised by our undeniably, unmissably authentic surroundings. This. Is. Real.

After walking miles around this fascinating and utterly absorbing city, we complete our time in Jodhpur with a tuk-tuk ride on our last day, out first to Jaswant Thada, labelled a “cenotaph” but actually more what we would call a mausoleum, final resting place of the great and the good of the Rajput dynasty of Rajasthan, then further out to Mandore Gardens, burial grounds of the same fraternity before Jaswant Thada was adopted and the capital moved to Jodhpur.

The temples at Mandore demonstrate a different style of architecture, generally conical rather than grandiose, in a way reminiscent of the temples of South East Asia. Touch of the Angkor Wats here, we say to ourselves. It’s been striking at the temples, forts and palaces we have seen this week, to note the vast areas occupied by these places – they cover considerable ground – as much a statement of the wealth and power of the Mughal, Marwar and Rajput empires as it is a representation of the sheer size of India.

Jodhpur is almost done. One last meal – roughly we reckon curry number three thousand by now – at our favourite restaurant, Open House, with its terrific views down into the Step Well one way and up to Mehrangarh Fort the other, where the food and the marsala tea are both excellent and the boss man Kuku (pronounced “cuckoo” – no really) is friendly and welcoming.

“The British are our favourite guests, ever since we opened”, says the guy back at the homestay, “you are always polite and never rude”. Nice to hear, though how Michaela’s patience doesn’t wear thin with the 50-odd times a day she has to pose arm in arm for photographs with locals is remarkable, and, I suppose, proof that he is right, in her case at least.

One last note. On the way back down the steep path from the fort, again with the way mostly to ourselves as others take the car, an elderly smartly dressed couple are trudging up the hill in the heat towards the fort. Just as we are about to pass them, the man hoists up his clothing and turns sideways to urinate against the wall. His wife stands dutifully by his side as he pisses loudly against the stonework. Honestly, you just see anything and everything in India.

To The Lake City Of Udaipur

Suddenly I feel like I’m on television, on a travel documentary or similar, at that point when the presenter turns either to the camera or to their co-presenter and makes a poignant comment indicating just how special is the moment, and then looks wistfully out at the scene before them. It really is like that, just as awe inspiring, just as exotic. 

We’ve just arrived in Udaipur, late afternoon, and we’re standing on the balcony of our haveli gazing at the scene before us: classic India, maybe even classic Asia. The lake – Lake Pichola – is flat calm, the amazing City Palace sits away to our left, temples and mountains are shrouded in haze in the distance. Indian music – strings, drums, bells – drifts across the lake, a handful of gently chanting voices lift it to another level. This is a special moment. Quintessential India. Cue end of programme credits.

Actually, as it happens, Udaipur in the end doesn’t turn out to be quite as serene as it initially appears, but at this point, our first impression, we don’t know that, and it feels nothing short of idyllic. 

On our way here, by road from Jodhpur, we had called in at another rather mystical place, the Jain temple of Ranakpur. Far away from cities and pollution, Ranakpur (aka Chaturmukha Dharana Vihara) enjoys a peaceful setting in beautiful surroundings, lush mountain scenery next to the Maghai River – it feels tranquil and atmospheric even before we pass through its auspicious gateway. The whole remarkable temple is constructed from white marble, made in the image of a vision seen by local businessman Seth Dhanna when reaching a state of nirvana in the 15th century.

Featuring a remarkable 1,444 marble pillars, no two of which are identical in design, the sheer amazing quantity and detail of the thousands of carvings and sculptures of this temple sends the mind reeling almost as much as the heady odours of incense and jasmine which permeate its every corner. There is a true feeling of divinity here, a true sense of deep faith.

At places such as this we like to try and learn some of the beliefs of the faithful devotees – having no religious affinity ourselves we can be open minded as we listen and learn. However, as I in particular often find at such times, the mantras of Jainism, like other religions, turn out to conceal contradictions which border on hypocrisy, one of which actually really makes me feel quite angry in a temple which is designed to induce serenity. I suppose I should temper that by saying I am the least spiritual person you will ever meet – but, honestly, I could never be indoctrinated into something so blatantly and overtly hypocritical.

Let’s get back to Udaipur before I write something I shouldn’t. Udaipur is a beautiful place, the calm waters of the lake bringing a stillness to the air which quickly turns to a cool freshness after sunset. Already there is evidence of a different India, one we haven’t previously seen – dress codes are more western and less traditional, particularly among young women, food presentation is more stylish, India’s ubiquitous underbelly is far less evident.

Udaipur is filled with beautiful young people, not “beautiful people” in the hippy sense, but genuinely beautiful people, impossibly handsome young men arm in arm with girls with the looks of a film star or a princess. Just so many beautiful faces. December is, we discover, one of the most popular months for Indians to take vacations, and Udaipur is, understandably given its appeal, a destination city. Consequently, what we are seeing here is that element of society which can afford a vacation, enjoying precisely that. 

The city’s huge, rambling palace, the second largest in India apparently, hogs a sizeable section of the lake shore facing westwards across the water. Inside its vast expanses are absorbing museums, rooms reassembled as they once would have been, and sumptuous lounges for dining and socialising. Peacocks and elephants feature heavily in the extensive artwork in various forms. There are two former royal palaces out on islands in the lake too, accessible by boat from town and little havens of peace where it’s possible to stay the night if parting with an arm and a leg in order to be isolated from the town is your bag. It’s not ours.

Sundown in this lovely lakeside city brings more than just cool air, it brings reliably gorgeous sunsets on a nightly basis, honey and peach shades passing through burning orange and stark yellow in turn. After dark the slightly less serene elements of Udaipur’s character come to the fore. Reflecting its status as a holiday destination, this city has its fair share of night clubs: garishly coloured neon signs punctuate the dark night and the throb-throb of club music supplants India’s more usual gentle musical strains.

During our first night – a night in which I am ambushed by an assault from the feared Delhi belly – the relentless beats go on until almost 5am, though thankfully this proves to be a one off and subsequent nights are quieter after midnight.

Several years ago at the start of our first visit to India, somebody said to us that it’s ridiculous to think of India as one country, so vast is its landmass and so disparate are its individual states. Culture, religion, terrain, cuisine, climate, language, costumes….they, and more, all change radically as you move through this varied and diverse country. On that first visit back in 2017, we saw a lot of what we still think is India’s …. errr ….. more rustic side.

Now, we’re starting to see something very different: an elegance and a shine which we didn’t see in Old Delhi or the Sunderbans or the poorer districts of Kolkata. Of course, this is still India, the underbelly is still here, but things are definitely beginning to change.

The rest of this journey will take us through Mumbai, down through Goa and across Kerala. It’s distinctly possible that those changes will become yet more pertinent. We shall see.

A Different India: The City Of Mumbai 

Udaipur. Thursday, 6.30am. Chilly. Dark. Not many people about, those that are, are wrapped in quilted coats, caps and scarves. We’re in T-shirts. Taxi to airport, flight to Mumbai. Disembark Mumbai a short time later. Just gone 10am and it’s already a sweaty 27 degrees. How is that even possible?

Baggage tags have the 3-letter airport code on – you know, like LHR for Heathrow or LGW for Gatwick. Except that if you’re heading to Mumbai then you now have a bag with a label clearly stating “BOM”. Got to see the dark humour in that, yeah? 

Brand new metro system, Line 3, the Aqua Line. All the way to the end, Cuffe Parade station. Fast and efficient. 45 minute journey, about 60p each. Hotel right next to the exit. Must be 30 degrees already. The hotel has Christmas trees, fake snow, a sleigh and a Christmas Carol playlist. Don’t know what’s more weird, the fact we have fake winter in 30 degrees or the fact there’s suddenly a bucketful of Christianity when for the last three weeks it’s been Islam, Hinduism and Sikhism with not the slightest hint of a Virgin Mary or a baby Jesus asleep in the hay, now all of a sudden it’s Santa, glittery baubles and Oh Come All Ye Faithful. Our heads are spinning.

Choosing accommodation in Mumbai isn’t straightforward, it’s basically a choice of one extreme or the other, cheap enough to be risky or international prices for better guarantees. There’s precious little in the way of middle ground. We opt to shell out on the more expensive option, we’ve been bitten by lower standards in India before and have concluded that busting the budget is better than dirty buckets and cockroaches. Which is how we come to be looking out across South Mumbai from the 15th floor of the President Hotel.

(Michaela says it’s worth every penny for the bathroom alone. After three weeks of showers where the water pressure was such that we had to run around to get wet, this one is heaven).

Mumbai is a different India. There are taxis instead of tuk-tuks, people with dogs on leads, and not a cow in sight. Business districts and financial quarters occupy infinitely more space than chowks, wide tree lined streets are not rammed with horn blowing traffic and some drivers even stop to let us cross. It is, in a nutshell, a city which is far more recognisable as such than most Indian cities: there’s more than just the metro to make Mumbai look familiar.

That’s not to say this bustling, authoritative city is lacking in tradition, absolutely not so, as we are first to discover at the hive of activity which is the Sassoon Dock. This fabulous, manic fishing harbour and market is steeped in tradition having been operational since 1875, and, as we make our way around, it’s obvious that some of its practices are little changed in all that time. The wooden boats look battered and unsafe, fishermen decant the catch into heavy plastic baskets – which they then throw upwards from deck to quay where they are athletically caught midair by waiting colleagues without spilling a single fish.

Dozens and dozens of women sit all day on the dirty wet quay shelling prawns and descaling fish, working their way through mini mountains as more and more boats dock every hour. The sheer quantity of secondary jobs is startling: ice makers and deliverers, fishing net repairers, diesel pump attendants, oil suppliers and, last but not least, caterers delivering meals for returning boatmen. There’s an entire micro economy here supporting the fishing industry itself. 

It also stinks beyond belief. In a country where it’s not uncommon to have to hold your breath, Sassoon Dock stakes a claim for a seriously unwanted accolade: Worst Stench On Earth. Rotting fish, discarded shells baking in the sun, the quay awash with fish oil and blood, the smell of fishing nets drying….and then, at a point where one can only assume the fishermen, err, relieve themselves, the whole putrid cloud is laced with the stench of stale urine. Is that graphic enough? Imagine working here all day, sitting on the wet quay, handling seafood for eight hours or more. Envious we are not.

Despite all that, watching this hive of activity is fascinating, an absolutely non-stop workload for hundreds of people. Away from this rather unique setting, Mumbai’s greatest asset is for us its copious supply of outrageously grand buildings, there are some fantastic examples of gratuitously wonderful architectural masterpieces. We wander past many…

The incredibly majestic Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, museums and public buildings with the hallmark of the best of British colonisation (say what you like about the British Empire but boy we knew how to build railway stations – just look at Mumbai Central!) and a whole gamut of head-turning glory and glamour. At the University of Mumbai, there’s even the Rajabai Tower, a clocktower based on the Elizabeth Tower (as in Big Ben, synonymous with London), designed by Sir George Gilbert Scott, he of St Pancras fame.

Mumbai, not London

Strung between the impressive buildings and leafy streets, a succession of maidans provide wide open green spaces where back to back boundaries encircle numerous cricket squares. There must be hundreds of organised matches (players in their whites, umpires correctly attired) taking place at any one time in cities like Mumbai and Kolkata, no wonder India keeps producing cricketers of quality.

Back down at the seafront, the Gateway Of India stands tall and proud, commemorating the first visit by a British monarch to India when George V landed here in 1911. This triumphal arch, not actually completed until 1924, soon became the ceremonial entry point for visiting royalty and dignitaries from across the World and subsequently the principal symbol by which Mumbai was recognised. Poignantly, it also served as the exit point for the last troops of the British Army when India achieved independence in 1948. That must have been a moment of huge excitement and national pride, seeing the very last of the Empire symbolically leaving via the Gate itself.

Close to the Gateway these days, ferries depart regularly for Elephanta Island where a collection of cave temples pay homage to the Gods Hindu and Shiva via extensive carvings hewn into the basalt rock. Most of the carvings are thought to date from the 6th century and have endured changing periods of sanctity – closed off and isolated by the Portuguese as they sought to impose Catholicism, protected from further damage (but not resurrected as places of worship) by the British, restored fully by the Indian Government in the 1970s. It is today a popular pilgrimage site for visitors from across India.

LImited time means we don’t, unfortunately, get to visit the famous dobhi ghat, which was on our list until some shenanigans with Air India forced us into a visit to their local office and restricted the time available. Something had to give, so regrettably the world’s biggest open air laundry got sidelined.

And so our run of four cities is done and it’s time to head south to Goa. As we wander out of the beating sun and back into the hotel lobby for the last time, the mixed and heady scent of cumin and incense drifts through the air – accompanied first by Ding Dong Merrily On High and then by Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.

Santa himself steps out of the shadows and hands Michaela a couple of chocolate bars. We are still wiping sweat from our brow as we pass the pile of fake snow and two plastic reindeer.

Incongruous or what. They’ll be serving figgy pudding curry next.

To The Beach: Arrival In The Wrong Part Of Goa

Well. It just goes to show, even grounded and experienced travellers like us can mess up, although we’re mystified as to how we of all people made this error.

In trying to work out the best places to stay in Goa to get a decent coastal fix but steer clear of the overblown party towns, we spent ages poring over the merits and demerits of just about everywhere until we settled on two locations in South Goa, missing out North Goa and its party scene completely. It’s not until we leave Goa International Airport that it dawns on us that something is amiss, when the hotel driver (we’d pre-arranged collection) turns north instead of south and crosses the gigantic New Zuari Bridge. Surely we’re heading the wrong way?

After our long deliberations we’d settled on the attractive looking town of Palolem. Palolem is south of the airport, not north. Rather than question the driver – I mean, he must know the best way to his own hotel after all – Michaela checks our reservation. Somehow, goodness knows how, we’ve managed to book a location 50 miles up the coast, North Goa instead of South. We are unintentionally heading for Candolim, a place we’d rejected because we suspected it may be one of the party towns. Our chins drop a bit as the reality hits.

Those idyllic coconut palm beaches of Palolem where we’d been anticipating spending Christmas have just disappeared over the horizon and we’re heading somewhere entirely different. Neither of us can quite believe it for a moment or two.

But actually everything works out fine – there’s no massive party scene here after all, just music at beach bars after dark. Yes, there’s lots of Brits on holiday, and Candolim is definitely a seaside holiday town, but there’s no real hint of the clubbing party vibe which we’d feared. We don’t know yet if this is true of the Goan coast as a whole, but one thing is for sure – this is no longer anything like India. In fact, Candolim is the sort of bohemian bar-and-restaurant-filled, souvenir shop beach town which one can find anywhere from Thailand to Turkey to the Caribbean. There’s even an “English Restaurant” serving roast dinners and steak and ale pud, and it’s always busy……no, of course we don’t!

But we came here to chill after our run of Indian cities, and spend a relaxing, sun drenched Christmas doing not very much, and, despite being at an accidental destination, Candolim looks set to deliver more or less what we were looking for in those respects.

At the beach

It’s an amusing place to be, completely geared to the holiday trade, very much focused on British, Russian and Indian holidaymakers – the absolute vast majority of British visitors here seem to be northerners from Yorkshire and Lancashire, many of whom spend their whole winter here. Guaranteed weather, great beaches, dozens of restaurants and food choices which mean it doesn’t have to be curry every time. And it’s cheap. We absolutely get why they choose Candolim, and Goa.

The differences between Goa and other parts of India really are extreme, this is in effect a different country just as we had been advised; we really are no longer in the India we’d come to recognise. Sarees and salwar have all but completely disappeared, replaced by summer dresses, shorts and jeans, and there’s been a significant shift in religious demographics – 66% of the population is Hindu, but only 8% are Muslim. No muezzins’ call to prayer round here. 25% of the population are Christian, for the most part Catholic, mainly due to the 450 years of Portuguese rule which only ended when Goa was annexed by India in 1961, some 13 years after India’s independence from Britain.

There are clear Portuguese influences in the cuisine, the most interesting (to us anyway) of which is that when the Portuguese arrived and found spicy curries difficult to take, they added wine and garlic to create what was for them a more palatable flavour. “Wine with garlic” in Portuguese is vinho d’alhao…or vin d’alhao….and hey presto, you have the origin of the word vindaloo. We had no idea that vindaloo was of Goan origin, let alone partly Portuguese.

A few miles down the road from Candolim is the Goa state capital, Panaji, which hides the rather wonderful Fontainhas quarter where the examples of Portuguese architectural design are at their most prevalent. It’s an incredibly attractive enclave of colourful colonial houses with so many interesting features, yet the whole area is festooned with signs prohibiting photography – and policed by whistle blowing officials who step in to move on anyone daring to snap a picture. Apparently this ban is a result of what the signs call “noisy uncouth Instagrammers”… OK we understand that residents might get a bit fed up but doesn’t that all seem a bit heavy handed? Especially when the area is so attractive.

There’s not much else to report from Candolim. Nobody needs a description of lazing in the sun. However, there’s one last tale to tell…..

It starts on Christmas Eve, probably with the giant prawns we ordered from a beach bar at lunchtime. By evening Michaela’s not feeling too bright and struggles to eat half of her grilled fish dinner. By Christmas morning we’ve both been struck by the dreaded Indian tummy and even a seriously light breakfast is a tester. The race downhill is a dual one and by late afternoon we both know we’ve got to give up the fight for today. And so it is that our entire consumption of food and drink for Christmas Day 2025 is a slice of toast, a packet of crisps and….water. Great timing huh.

From North Goa To South: Chilling In Benaulim

It feels a bit like we’re cheating. Public transport – trains, buses, ferries – and the occasional rental car, are our normal ways of making it from A to B, getting into the local spirit by travelling the way they do, rather than what we’re doing here, finding a driver to take us all the way to our next destination. Trouble is, here in India, public transport can be very time consuming with its regular delays and slow progress, plus also the cost of car and driver for long journeys is ridiculously low, which makes it just too easy to say yes. To our spirit of adventure though it still feels a bit like cheating.

Long distance rides are still cheap even if you get your driver to make detours, as we do when we make our way from Candolim (North Goa) to Benaulim in the South via the state’s ancient capital, these days universally known as Old Goa. Old Goa was once a thriving city which rivalled London and Lisbon in terms of population size; now the only remaining clue as to its former glory are the remains of a succession of churches threading their way down the hillside.

At the top, the church and monastery of St Augustine must have been a huge place in its time, the extensive ruins now dominated by the imposing bell tower standing 46 metres high. The Augustine order which existed here was, predictably, ousted and outlawed by the Catholic church as the Portuguese endeavoured to impose their own faith, finally abandoned in full in 1835.

Further down the hill, the huge hulking Basilica de Bom Jesus looks across the gardens to the Sé Cathedral, both bearing the familiar hallmarks of Portuguese architecture and design. As it happens, we have to be content with viewing both from the outside: the cathedral is hosting a funeral, and the queue to enter the Basilica stretches halfway to the moon.

Bom Jesus

Back on the road, our driver Sahailesh negotiates the crazy traffic and kamikaze cows to reach the South Goa coastal village of Benaulim, our home for the next six days. Unfortunately for Sahailesh and luckily for us, his car breaks down just 50 yards from our base – “Now I need to find local mechanic”, he sighs, as we bid farewell thanking our lucky stars that the hitch hadn’t come earlier in the day.

Benaulim. We’re suddenly looking at each other thinking how perfect this place is for our tastes: a rustic and slightly ramshackle village with the most stunning palm frilled beach which stretches, literally, for miles. Restaurants which are a perceptible step up in quality yet still fantastic value for money; top notch beach bars, amazingly, a very decent coffee shop (Cinnamon) and, even more amazingly, a craft beer bar (Feli) with ten different local brews on tap. Our apartment is in a gated estate half way between the village and the sea, in which several of the properties are large houses with permanent residents. 

Right next to our apartment is a stretch of marshy wetland where herons, storks and egrets spend the day seeking out food, resplendent kingfishers call in to our open spaces, eagles and kites circle overhead waiting to spoil the day for at least one of the above. Palms line the roads as well as the beach, the village centre has every amenity, and the locals are to a person immensely friendly. 

We absolutely could live here – though not all of the year. Mukesh at the coffee shop tells us about the monsoons which, in the ten years he’s lived here, have increased significantly both in length and intensity. Benaulim’s main street was, he tells us, pretty much a three inch deep flowing river from May to November this year. Our marshy wetland, leftover from this onslaught, is apparently normally dry by December. Now, at the turn of the year, this village is an absolutely lovely place to be. If it was possible to rent one of those big houses for a few months……well…..what if….yep, our minds are wandering….

The morning sun rises behind the thin mist which hovers above the marshes, pushing pale yellow beams through the wispy vapour. It’s an ethereal scene which casts faint elongated shadows across the mud yet bounces sparkling reflections off the rippling pools of water. Wading birds call, bee eaters wait on telegraph wires. Shopkeepers lay out their wares, two young men lead a muscle bound bull by rope along the main street. The sandy coloured street dogs, camouflaged when on the beach, rise from slumbers, stretch legs and trot to who knows where. Benaulim blinks in the strengthening sun. The world is in slow motion.

By afternoon the beach bars are in full swing, music from some, chatter from others. The beating sun, directly overhead now, competes with the warm sea breeze which tempers the heat. Punters gather to fasten their harness and be lifted skywards by the parasailing team, the tide turns and the waves of the Arabian Sea creep ever further up the beach.

After dark, the beach morphs into a quasi city, colourful neon signs illuminate the name of each bar. Roger’s, Little Tiger, Johncy’s, Blue Corner. Candlelit tables line the sand, hushed chatter across flickering lights, diners by the sea. Beyond, the silver moon casts light on the water, brilliant white flashes of surf as each wave breaks on to the shore. There are few things more romantic than that glint of white foam in the darkness, the timeless, rolling surf of the relentless waves, all-knowing, all-conquering, never changing. However volatile life and the world may be, the sea is our great constancy, the permanence, the reassurance.

The restaurants along the beach are frankly unbelievable, such great quality food for such low prices. Surely there can be few places in the world where wonderful gourmet food is presented so beautifully in such perfect surroundings, at such incredibly low prices. At one, The Southern Deck, everything is at yet another level. Larger, just a little bit more expensive, live music every night, always full despite its size, the food is beyond amazing. I mean, imagine having a craft beer, ordering a snack of “crispy bacon with spicy cheese dip” and it arrives looking as pretty as this….

Prices? Roger’s. Two double G&Ts (Bombay Sapphire), water, two outstandingly good meals, £16. Southern Deck. Two craft beers, two double G&Ts, truly gourmet food in the shape of two fabulous mains, two desserts (I know, very rare!) and water, entertainment, £31. Pinching ourselves.

It’s hard to imagine what this village must be like during the monsoon: deserted, drenched, under siege, so utterly different from this chilled summer vibe which has so enthralled us over these last few days. Two wholly different phases, every year. How odd to live with such radical changes every year of your life.

For us, we will be moving on from Benaulim with very, very fond memories of the place, even its ramshackle centre is absolutely to our taste. Our two week beach-side sojourn is done. Adventures in Kerala await.

Kerala Calling

It’s one of those strange days of travel, one on which we have no base for most of the day: checkout is 11am and our flight to Cochin leaves so late that we don’t even need to head to the airport till after 5. Consequently a sun bed on the beach is our home for more than 6 hours, the backpacks left near the security gate back at the digs. It goes surprisingly quickly, then suddenly it’s time to say farewell to the friendly guy at Roger’s, goodbye to our favourite beach dog who claims one last tummy rub, and finally goodbye to the lovely trinket seller Karina with whom I have flirted so much that she’s been able to sell Michaela no less than six bangles.

Off the beach, a quick alfresco change of clothes at the roadside while no one’s looking, and it’s off to the airport with salty skin, dishevelled hair and sand in our shoes. There’s something amusing and self satisfying about travelling in a state like this. Makes you feel real. Just don’t look in the mirror.

We leave Benaulim with a certain sadness, not only because we really have fallen for the place, but also because we were never quite able to enjoy it to the full. The tummy bug which blighted Christmas Day has been annoyingly stubborn and has kept reappearing after a succession of false dawns which teased us that it was over. But no, it keeps gnawing away and we leave this lovely village with neither of us having really fired on all cylinders at any point. Another reason to return, maybe.

It takes an absolute age for the IndiGo flight to board – what in God’s name takes people THAT long to sit down and buckle up? Row 8. Our seats. She’s sitting in our seats, her in one and her bag in the other. The expression on her face as we oust her would suggest that she’s never come across the concept of seat numbers before, so next she clambers over to the other side of the aisle and settles down. That’s not her seat either. When the true occupants arrive, they are oddly apologetic about getting this woman to move. Astonishingly, the errant sitter responds with…

“Oh don’t worry, my seat is only over there”, and moves to the row in front of us. WELL IF YOU KNEW WHERE YOUR SEAT WAS, WHY THE BLOODY HELL DIDN’T YOU SIT THERE IN THE FIRST PLACE, YOU STUPID DIMWIT HALF BRAINED INDIVIDUAL, screams my alter ego. But I say nothing, of course, because I’m British.

Incidentally, this is the second flight in a row that this has happened. On the flight from Mumbai to Goa, a family from Rotterdam was strung along the entire row which contained our seats. “I’m sorry”, said the Dad as they moved, “but finding your seat on an aircraft can be so confusing, can’t it”.

Errrr…well, a big fat NO actually. Finding a seat in sequential rows which start at the number 1 and end with the highest number, with secondary lettering identical on every row, and matching it with the number which is on that little piece of card in your hand, has got to be one of THE LEAST CONFUSING THINGS in the entire world. What IS the problem with these people? Is the internet turning everybody into dimwits who can’t solve the tiniest problem for themselves? My alter ego screamed all this at the Dad From Rotterdam. But I said nothing, of course. Because I’m British.

It’s half an hour before midnight when our backpacks appear on the carousel and we trudge out of the terminal building and into the outside air which is still stiflingly hot despite the late hour. We can ignore the placard-carrying chauffeurs, give cold shoulder to the badgering taxi drivers and just walk the 100 yards or so to our bed. Booking the “aerolounge” hotel right in the Terminal complex was a smart move for tonight. Especially for forty quid. Goodnight World, Kerala awaits.

Drinks update. Not been a boozy trip, this one. The early stages were in places where alcohol isn’t really a big part of life and it wasn’t until Goa that a genuine “bar” appeared. Plus, I haven’t got on too well with Indian beer. Kingfisher is bland, cold and gassy, its “Ultra” a slight improvement but still nothing special, and it’s not until Goa that we find some decent alternatives. Even then, they are “craft beers” and so taste of either citrus or washing up liquid, but at least they’re a small step up from the one dimensional flavour of bog standard Pilsners.

Wine. When you’re in a country where everything is sooooo cheap, do you really want to pay a premium to drink an imported wine which you can get anywhere, especially when it’s accompanying a blow-your-head-off curry? No, you don’t. So. Indian wine. We’ve tried ONE SIP, and I’m so glad we didn’t buy a bottle because neither of us could get beyond that first mouthful. It’s like….well….imagine taking a jar of strawberry jam and stirring in enough cough medicine to turn it into a liquid, and you’ve got a rough idea of what it tastes like. Yep, it’s THAT bad.

Indian gin. Tried three, all drinkable but when we opted for a Bombay Sapphire it kind of put the local ones in perspective. 

Feni. Not so much a drink as a Goan institution distilled from the cashew nut. Not unpleasant as local firewater goes but with a slightly buttery flavour. Trouble is, the locals insist on mixing it with a dreadful lemon fizzy thing which tastes like a remedy for a head cold.

Marsala tea. In the north, it was so good that it usurped coffee as my morning wake up. Ginger, cardamom, Lord knows what else, loads of creamy milk, loads of sugar…. wow, good morning World I’m here again. Shocks you back into life at the first mouthful. Makes doppio espresso taste like tap water. As we’ve moved south though, those wonderful spices have been lessened and lessened until by Goa it’s just a cup of sweet milky tea and all the excitement has gone. Good while it lasted though.

I digress. 

We leave our airport digs and head from Cochin to Fort Kochi, a short drive in theory but one complicated by the fact that the latter is built on a series of islands with a limited number of bridge crossings. Following our route on Google maps is a bit like playing snakes and ladders – got to go all the way down here then back up the other side to get about four hundred yards from where we started. But we get here, to our first ever Indian homestay where Jensen (no really) and his wife Andria are our hosts. Jensen is such a giggler that he has permanent smile lines on his face and an unshakeable sparkly twinkle in his eye. We like him.

Fort Kochi is hot. Sultry, sweaty, hot, unrelenting. Now this is, without doubt, the India we remember, at least as far as the temperature is concerned, though the town itself is different again: not India, but not Goa either. We pay a tuk-tuk driver a few quid to do a quick reccy of the town’s sights by way of introduction. Even on this first tour, the different influences are clear: Portuguese, Dutch, British. Hindu, Catholic, Muslim. Traditional, Dated, Contemporary.

“Kerala is God’s own country”, says our tuk-tuk driver, quoting the slogan which greets arrivals at Cochin airport, “it is very green, very beautiful. I think you will love it”.

We have some interesting plans for our time in Kerala. We suspect he may be right.

Fort Kochi, Town Of Rich Cultural Heritage

Our journey through Kerala is set to take us to ancient coastal cities, up into the misty mountains, through tea plantations, into the backwaters then down to red cliffs, a seaside holiday resort and even a specialist ayurvedic retreat. But we start here at Fort Kochi, which soon shows itself to be an utterly absorbing, multi faceted city with so many elements to its character and so many different aspects that it’s difficult to know where to start.

So we’ll start with its rather unique geographical setting. Fort Kochi, its neighbouring towns and cities and even the giant sprawling Cochin city sit on what you might term a broken coastline, built on multiple islands, promontories and irregular sea inlets. It’s a coastline of which Slartibartfast would be proud. (Award yourself three house points if you understand that reference).

Ginger warehouse

So unusual is the setting that Fort Kochi’s metro system is waterborne – it’s called the “metro” but it’s a large system of ferry routes connecting all points of the towns and cities – see the map below. To catch a metro costs a flat fee of 50 rupees, whereas the old RoRo ferry to Vypeen costs just 3, and remember it’s 121 rupees to the £. It’s an efficient and clean system and is enough fun so as to be an integral part of the Fort Kochi/Cochin experience.

From geography to history. The strategic coastal position of the area saw the development of a busy and wealthy port even in medieval times, thought originally to bring together Arabian and Chinese traders. A gigantic tsunami in 1341 reshaped the entire coast (so it wasn’t Slartibartfast after all!), creating amongst other things the deep sea port which has been a backbone of the local economy ever since. Attracted by the potential wealth, the Portuguese muscled in during the 16th century, only to be ousted by the Dutch at the invitation of the Cochin royal family around 100 years on. Britain, of course, came later.

Successive rulers of a province with ever shifting boundaries built palaces here, forts were constructed to protect territory, and churches of many different denominations began to thrive. When India achieved independence from Britain in 1947, the Cochin province was the very first state in the country to voluntarily join the new Indian dominion. This illustrious and varied history has left a town today which is substantially rich in culture and heritage.

In fact, one of the area’s most iconic sights has its origins long before any Europeans brought their influences. The Chinese fishing nets which provide such a fascinating vista along the shores are thought to be a legacy of 5th century traders who brought the methodology from the Far East. Nothing has changed in the operation of these ingenious devices to this day, and it’s still possible to watch the fishermen endeavouring to snare the catch at almost any hour. Operated purely on a manpower and weighted pulley system, the large nets are lowered and raised every few minutes; the billowing nets then inspected for content as the savvy egrets and fish eagles wait, poised to intercept. Watching the process unfold is mesmerising.

The quaint streets of Fort Kochi town conceal courtyard cafes, beautiful low level colonial buildings grace the narrow thoroughfares, the whole town exudes a calmness so different from the north of India. Art cafes and art galleries abound, a year round penchant for artistry which is seriously magnified right now as the town plays host to the “Biennale”, India’s premier contemporary art event which this year has attracted contributors from 25 countries. The art cafes also give us our first taste of the rather delectable South Indian coffee. Man it’s good.

Fort Kochi art cafe scene

Yet the centre of Fort Kochi isn’t the only fascinating part of town as the streets wind and turn into Jew Town, once home to a Jewish enclave numbering 2,000 and still sporting beautiful architecture with clear legacies of that community even though their numbers have since dwindled significantly. The Paradesi synagogue here, believed to be the oldest synagogue in the Commonwealth, has a remarkable feature underfoot, the flooring with beautifully hand painted ceramic tiles. These tiles, which are still walked upon by all visitors (without shoes), were painted before paint as we know it was invented, finished entirely in vegetable extracts and yet still pristine nearly 500 years on. Amazing.

Turn more corners and continue to be surprised. In how many towns of the size of Fort Kochi can one wander past a synagogue, a Catholic cathedral, mosques, Hindu temples, a Syrian orthodox church and an Anglican church all within close proximity – surely evidence of a tolerant and integrated society.

Close by Jew Town stands the so called Dutch Palace at Mattancherry, originally built not as the name would suggest but by the Portuguese in the 16th century and gifted to local royalty. Its local name comes from the fact that the site was largely reimagined and rebuilt by the Dutch when it was their turn to hold sway. The Palace today houses an extensive museum charting much of the history of Cochin and its royal rulers.

Frescoes within the Palace

During our time in Fort Kochi we take just the one excursion out of town, to the waterfalls at Athirappilly. The falls, impressive even today in dry season, must be an astonishing sight when the waters of the monsoon come crashing over the lofty and lengthy shelf. It’s only as we enter the last half hour of the journey that we get a hint of Kerala’s beautiful countryside, the remainder of the drive having been a battle through the giant, sprawling tentacles of Cochin city, so much bigger than we knew.

There are so many other elements which enhance the delightful feel of Fort Kochi. Strolling its streets, one is enveloped by its history, absorbed by its relaxed atmosphere, wowed by its beautiful architecture and entertained by its artwork. It’s actually quite hard to do justice in words to this multi-layered, fascinating place so rich in culture, so steeped in heritage. As I near the end of this piece of narrative I feel that I have barely touched the surface of what an intriguing place this is; hopefully Michaela’s photography will plug any gaps.

Dhoby Khan – Fort Kochi’s laundry

Fort Kochi has seen us enjoy our first ever Indian homestay, which has been a highly rewarding experience. Jensen and Andria have unquestionably been amongst our best ever hosts anywhere on our travels – totally hospitable, caring, helpful and sociable; our farewells are heartfelt. But as ever for the traveller, the time has come to move on.

From Fort Kochi we head, literally, to the hills. Four hours inland lies the mountain city of Munnar, set amid wonderful scenery and extensive tea plantations, our next stop on the journey through Kerala.

Over The Hills To The Tea: Days In Munnar

“Welcome to misty Munnar” announces the road sign as we approach the mountainside town surrounded by lush greenery. There’s no hint of mist this afternoon and it’s anticipation rather than precipitation in the air as far as we’re concerned: this is going to be yet another different experience of India.

The 4-hour journey from Fort Kochi in the company of our driver Joseph has been very different from our journey earlier this week to the waterfalls at Athirappilly which took an age to shake off the sprawling metropolis which is Cochin. This time we are soon into Kerala’s renowned lush countryside, passing mango and pineapple farms in low lying pastures until eventually entering the extensive rubber plantations in the foothills of the Western Ghat mountains.

Contrasts with northern India are at the extreme end of the scale, not just the attractive verdant landscape but also the cleanliness of the towns we pass through. The horrific mounds of discarded plastic are less in evidence, as are streets strewn with litter; any river we cross flows with running water rather than being choked with stinking debris. Education in Kerala is of a high standard and the state enjoys what is easily India’s highest literacy rate at over 96%. One would assume a connection between these facts.

Kerala’s self styled claim to be “God’s own country” – a slogan you will see everywhere – appears to be justified as the scenery approaching Munnar unfolds, palm filled lowlands threading routes between green mountains, rugged peaks thrusting above the tree line, waterfalls cascading dramatically down almost sheer escarpments. It’s beautiful, in a word. As we look out from our balcony across a small tea plantation to the towering peaks and feel the fresh mountain air devoid of even a hint of humidity, we know we are in for a different kind of adventure.

Friday. Our alarms sound at 2:45am; thirty minutes later we’re outside in the cool morning air where Joseph is already waiting, engine ticking over. He takes us to the place where the roads end, the point from where it’s jeeps only and ordinary vehicles can no longer venture. I eagerly grab the front seat to ride shotgun beside the driver, Michaela bundles into the back with an Indian family of four, and we’re off, pitch dark, climbing the dirt track up the mountain.

This morning’s mission is to catch what is reputed to be a very special sunrise, way up above Kolukkumalai, the world’s highest tea plantation. Everything on line warns that the jeep ride is a bumpy one – my God they aren’t kidding. We’ve had some boneshakers in our time but this one wins an award. Do not ever attempt this ride if you have a bad back, a queasy tummy, aching joints, a headache or indeed just about any other ailment: this is a rocking, bouncing, pounding ride over boulders and potholes which tests every part of the body. And it’s an hour up and an hour back. Next morning Michaela even has bruises on her knuckles from holding on tight to metal bars.

At the top, a full 7,000 feet above sea level, we are surprised by the huge number of jeeps which make this trip daily – muscling in to a good photo position is a bit of a rugby scrum, one which the ever determined Michaela beats by perching on a raised tree root with one arm around my shoulders for balance and the other operating the iPhone. Got to admire her tenacity.

But it’s so worth both the traumatic jeep ride and the photography melee: it is, as promised, a very special sunrise. Up here, the clouds and the morning mist are way down below us, the sun’s early rays casting ever changing hues across the vapour, then sending remarkably bold shafts of sunlight across the valleys like ethereal searchlights. No wonder people of ancient times believed such things were visitations by Gods. So spectacular, so unusual.

The boneshaking descent is of course in daylight, so we can now clearly see the astonishing extent of these high level tea plantations – mountainsides covered in the uniquely vivid greenery almost as far as the eye can see. Tea pickers here must spend hours precariously balanced: the steepness of the plantations are as eye catching as the colour. There’s something beautiful about tea plantations, something relaxing, soothing on the senses. Like the drink itself, it could be said.

Later, reunited with Joseph, we travel along the Gap Road, known for its viewpoints across the beautiful scenery, then take a break from the road for Michaela and I to wander freely through part of the Lockhart plantation, through the neat but asymmetrical lines of tea plants, catching glimpses of pickers toiling in the sun or carrying heavy bags of leaves on their heads.

From the fields to the factory, we join about a dozen others on a guided tour of the Lockhart facility, following a route from raw leaf to finished product and ending with the obligatory tasting. It’s fascinating listening to the different techniques used in tea production, the Lockhart host talking us through the health benefits of different tea types, telling us how and what time of day is best to drink, why adding milk is a negative, as well as describing each part of the manufacturing process. And we learn, for the first time in our lives, of the character and benefits of something called “white tea”. We buy some. Of course we do.

The plantation now known as the Lockhart commenced operations here in the mid 19th century, its factory using machinery built in England and shipped to Munnar to facilitate production. Incredibly, some of those self same machines are still in full operational use today, sifting and sorting leaves, turning the fresh leaves into the drink we all know, still fully functional 170 years on. Furnaces for the drying processes are still heated by log burning, unchanged since operations began. 

Inside the factory

(SIDE NOTE. We have toured tea, coffee and cocoa plantations, vineyards, distilleries and breweries, and every single one has always demonstrated how they do things the “right way”, how their competitors cut corners, how to be discerning when buying, how well they treat workers, how sustainable or organic their methods are. Uncannily, none have ever said that their competitors go for quality while they themselves have opted for a mass production method which produces less quality but greater profit. Funny that, isn’t it. Good job I’m not a sceptic or anything).

Saturday, and the mist for which Munnar is renowned creeps in during the afternoon hours, bringing an obscuring haze to the valleys and something that looks decidedly like rain clouds to the peaks. We wander into and around Munnar town centre, a mountain town steeped in the production of tea and chocolate, a town which in truth is decidedly ordinary – a little scrubby even – but the surrounding scenery is stunningly beautiful and thoroughly relaxing.

This is an unusual town to live in as far as Southern India goes, a town which can exceed 40 degrees yet drop below zero at night, and which sees a degree of winter snowfall each and every year. It is, after all, 5,200 feet above sea level. Now, in early January, the mountain air is fresh, evenings are cool, the day a pleasantly warm 28. But then, from nowhere as that afternoon mist folds in and the clouds gather, a more familiar humidity ramps up and the mountain air falls still. It feels very much like the calm before the storm. But no storm breaks, no rain falls, and the evening air regains its chill immediately after sundown. Turns out it’s the calm before the norm.

Our decision to explore Kerala emanated from seeing on line pictures of rolling green mountains, waterfalls and the glorious green of tea plantations, creating a wonderful melange of beautiful scenery. The area around Munnar has ticked every box of what we wanted to see in this part of the trip. The extra special sunrise was a bonus.

Messing About On The Backwater: 48 Hours On A Houseboat

Shaking off the curse of Montezuma has taken far too long. On our previous visits to India we’ve avoided the worst of the Delhi belly, but not this time. Everywhere we go in the world we always try to eat like the locals, try every local food, do the “authentic” thing, so much so that we felt we’d both got pretty good constitutions and could deal comfortably with the consequences of unusual food. But after a quick to-be-expected bout around Udaipur, things recovered like they normally do, only to then dive backwards with what we think were bad prawns on Christmas Eve. Nearly three weeks later we’re still not firing on all cylinders.

We’re not really feeling like our normal selves just now, every day seems to be a war against symptoms. It’s reached the stage where we’re longing to feel “normal”……when suddenly it occurs to us that two days on a boat in the backwaters with no time commitments and nothing to do but watch the world go by might just be the perfect antidote….

Messing About On The Backwater: 48 Hours On A Houseboat

Rain is falling steadily as we leave Munnar, the very first rain we’ve seen in more than 6 weeks out here, but the vivid greens of the countryside which fill nearly all of the journey to Alapuzzha wouldn’t of course be so beautiful without plentiful rain. God’s own country, indeed.

Alapuzzha, our destination for just a one night stand, is also known as Alleppey, which is annoying – having two names is both confusing and greedy and messes badly with my record keeping. Alappuzha surprises us by being quite so….errr….Indian. We had come to believe, after the westernised resorts of Goa and the cosmopolitan towns of Kerala so far, that the move from traditional to more modern would be a permanent one as we travelled further south to more popular destinations. Wrong. Alappuzha thrusts us straight back into sarees, salwars and dhoti as the clothing of choice and western style dress is all but absent. The town feels more like the earlier part of this trip and less like the north of Kerala.

But we’re in town for less than 24 hours and only as a means to an end: Alleppey/Alappuzha is the place where Kerala backwater houseboat adventures begin, and we are about to embark on 48 hours and 2 nights drifting around the waterways. Our boat, the Mithram, ambles in to dock, and we’re quickly away into our next adventure, likely to be the least active adventure we’ve ever embarked upon.

On board

This is going to be great – we’ve hired a private tour, our own boat with two staff to look after us in every way. Before you think we must have won the lottery to be able to fork out for a private boat, the total cost for two days, two nights, two staff and including all food (six meals), is £283 all-in for two of us. Don’t even think about getting a larger, public tour, not when a private boat is this price.

Because we’re on a smaller boat we soon shake off the larger vessels which aren’t able to access the smaller waterways, and what is to become an absolutely peaceful and serene experience begins. It’s almost magical, drifting past idyllic scenery, giant rice fields and tiny waterside villages at a blissfully relaxing slow pace. Kingfishers, bee eaters, terns, eagles and kites dart around us, flashes of intense colour racing by. Men and women do laundry in the river, children bathe and Mums wash babies in copious amounts of soap suds. All life, human and natural, plays out here in the backwaters.

We ask our crew, Arjun and Jubin, to cook us just small meals – a request which of course falls on deaf ears, these guys have their instructions. They have talent, too; the meals we are served are absolutely delicious, not too spicy, packed with flavour and unusual vegetables (baby water melon sliced like okra, beetroot mixed with coconut, for instance), high quality food from a guy in a cramped galley. We are ever so slightly blown away – and for the first time in what seems ages, we really enjoy a meal, even though Arjun serves us enough food for six.

At the end of day one, we moor alongside the village of Kanjippadam just before sundown, enabling the two of us time to wander through the village and chat with the locals who are curious as to why we are there. It feels so free, just ambling through this unfamiliar territory where Indian music blares from giant speakers at one house, more men do more laundry in the river, a lady cuts fruit from overhanging branches. Two teenage girls giggle as they practice their English, eyes fixed on Michaela’s blonde hair. Calls of wading birds echo across the water in the twilight, the bloom of the water hyacinth loses its vigour as darkness descends.

The setting sun spreads fire across the sky, palm tree silhouettes pinned black to the vivid orange, Indian music drifting on the breeze. Pterodactyls take to the air, gliding above our heads in the increasing gloom. What? Pterodactyls? Well, no – but have you ever seen Indian flying foxes, some of the biggest bats on Earth? These things are gigantic  – they look far too big to be bats until we see one land in a tree and hang upside down. Remarkable creatures. Bats with a five foot wingspan. Honestly, you do a serious double take when you see one of these monsters for the first time.

Back to the Mithram, delectable dinner is served. Arjun and Jubin bed down early while we play a few games of Rummikub. Outside the silence is palpable, music no longer drifting, the village, like the boys, has ended its day. We sleep so soundly, gently bobbing on the ripples of the backwaters. Hydro therapy.

A beautiful sunrise heralds the second day which brings more bliss, more ultimate peace, gliding slowly past changing countryside, sometimes on narrow channels, sometimes wider, occasionally crossing a sizeable lake. Apart from a lunchtime stop for a second wander around a village, this time the church-and-school dominated Champakulam, our boat ambles slowly around the backwaters for eight hours, yet never once does it become tedious. This is an experience so wonderfully therapeutic and peaceful that it is changing our entire mindset and maybe, just maybe, finally banishing Montezuma. The recovery may at last be under way.

Somewhere around 4pm, storm clouds gather and the first spots of rain send our crew scurrying to pull down covers and batten down hatches – they know what’s coming. Soon enough the torrential downpour pockmarks the surface of the water, hammers rhythms on the roof of the boat, lightning flashes across the sky and booming thunder rattles anything which is loose. We love a thunder storm and, incredibly, we didn’t see a single one together last year despite all our travels through hot and volatile climates. First one of 2026 bagged already on January 13th.

Wednesday, breakfast consumed on board, we’re back in the docks at Alleppey (or Alappuzha) just before 9:30 with plenty of time to make our way to our next destination. We bid farewell with a big thank you to Jubin the Skipper and Arjun the chef-and-crew and their employers Blue Lake Mithram – this sojourn into the Kerala backwaters has been everything we had hoped it would be, and so much more.

We seem to have regained our appetite thanks to Arjun’s superb cooking skills. Our fingers are firmly crossed that those troublesome things are behind us. Might even risk a beer tonight.

On Holiday In Varkala

Red dust blows in flurries between the buses which sit with doors wide open waiting for departure time, street dogs using the shade of the big vehicles to sleep out of the glare of the raging sun. It’s H-O-T hot. So intensely hot. There’s probably a few mad dogs out there somewhere in the midday sun; certainly there’s a couple of English(men), humping backpacks across the “bus stand”, kicking up red dust, sweating as they seek out their next temporary home. Our host arrives, shows us around our apartment, and demonstrates how to switch on the washing machine which, much to his horror, sprays water right across the room from the feeder pipe. He mops up. An eager little repair man with a neat little moustache attends promptly.

By the time we’ve unpacked the bags and fetched a few essential supplies from a local shop – including, by the way, Kellogg’s Corn Flakes as we seek something, anything, to avoid another curry for breakfast – it’s time to get out and see what night time in Varkala offers. This is, after all, a seaside town with a reputation for hippy vibes, Ayurveda treatments and yoga classes. Early evening the bars along the North Cliff are a blaze of colourful neon (LED actually, for the technically minded) which could be mistaken for a stretch of Blackpool’s Golden Mile apart from the fact that you can actually hear the sea, and it’s tuk-tuks rather than trams which bring you here.

Scratch the surface though and the deep cultural differences between Kerala and any English seaside town soon appear. Licensing laws are strict here and the vast majority, even those restaurants where the presence of tablecloths would suggest a certain ambience, offer only non-alcoholic drinks. Yoga classes and beady necklaces spawn far more billboards than Kingfisher. A couple of outlets have both live music AND alcohol, maybe the licence makes it obligatory to have either both, or neither.

The atmosphere along the narrow cliff walkway is quickly engaging, and we enjoy a couple of those Kingfishers with fellow “travelling retireds” from Yorkshire before accidentally ordering a spicy curry. Honestly, even if you ask for “medium spicy” you will get something pretty damned hot – we like spicy food but, believe us, the people of Kerala eat fire. Raw fire. On steroids. We return to the apartment to find the AC unit has dumped water all over the tiled floor. We mop up, and next morning message the host. An eager little repair man with a neat little moustache attends promptly. His Indian head wobble seems to say, “yep, it’s me again”. 

I’m making the apartment sound problematical – it isn’t, it’s absolutely lovely. It’s brand new, too, and we are, we’re told, only the fifth guests since it opened its doors. I’m sure these are just teething troubles.

It isn’t anything of a surprise that Varkala became a destination for backpackers thirty odd years ago, with its gigantic golden sand beach flanked on one side by red cliffs and on the other by the bluest, warmest sea we’ve encountered in quite some time. The red cliffs, coloured by a mix of laterite, a soil rich in iron oxide, and sandstone, are these days half covered in lush greenery and are crumbling visibly. Buildings of the village, including one large resort hotel, hang precipitously over the edge. One wonders how much longer these structures will survive – and how much of a disaster it might be when the hotel in particular slides down to the beach but, for now, the combination of gold, blue, green and red is a sumptuous one. 

Our next stay from here, the last one of the trip, will be at an Ayurvedic treatment lodge where we intend to sample whatever it is that Ayurveda has to offer, but as Kerala lays claim to the origins of the genre, we set about trying some of its treatments here in Varkala. First a full body Ayurvedic massage (very relaxing, not too deep), then Ayurvedic reflexology (surprisingly good) and finally a pedicure (low key and unspectacular and Michaela’s worst varnish job ever). 

Outside the apartment this morning two mongoose (mongooses? mongeese?) skulk furtively around the bus stand, looking severely disturbed by our presence – until we realise it’s not us that’s spooking them at all, it’s the dozen or so pariah kites swooping low above them, intent on turning scared mongoose into roast dinner. The little critters are outnumbered, under threat and in acute danger: how the hunt panned out, we’ll never know, but we can make a guess. Birds of prey mean business, especially when they hunt in packs like this.

Less under threat is the mustard coloured gecko which lives in our kitchen – she’s quite safe from human predators during our stay as she makes herself useful by consuming most of the intrusive ants which circle the waste bin feeding on scraps. Attagirl, Lizzie. Fill your boots. The over-length centipede which mysteriously appears in the shower is not so lucky – Michaela doesn’t fancy having that thing run over her bare feet so he disappears down the plughole like a child on a flume, blown away by the “bum gun”. We kid ourselves that he probably enjoyed the ride.

Friday night at North Cliff and roughly two thirds of India’s population of 1.5 billion seem to be out on the town tonight: it takes our tuk-tuk driver for ever to get through the traffic, then our walk along the cliff path is more of a shuffle than a stride. We’re in “God’s Own Country Kitchen” (great name), one of the bars with both alcohol and live music, and it’s not long before Friday Night Fever has reached out its tentacles and pulled us in. Michaela is inundated with dance requests which she doesn’t have it in her to refuse, much to the amusement of the beautiful Indian girls who have invited her into their troupe. Great moves, Michaela. I’ve got you on video.

“Good night” says the dancing waiter as we leave, “see you tomorrow”. Know what bud, you probably will.

During our days here we wander a long way in both directions from North Cliff, along the path itself and/or along the sand, the beaches literally do stretch for miles here. The Arabian Sea doesn’t so much kiss the shore as smash it in the face with an iron fist, the angry rollers hurling and crashing in like the Atlantic in one of its aggressive moods. You can wander out to enjoy its warmth, but there are danger points on the way out, with battering waves and a rip current which can take you off at the knees, as Michaela discovers as she does an unintentional somersault and ends up head butting the sea bed. 

Pause a moment while we discuss communism. All the way through India we’ve been struck by the huge number of hammer-and-sickle banners and flags draped everywhere from street lights to private gardens. Just as I was wondering about this, I spot on the shelves in this apartment, a book entitled “Walking With The Comrades” by one Arundhati Roy, and my curiosity is more than satisfied. I learn that the communist movement has for decades provided the one single outlet for the lower castes to be heard, provided teachings around equality, the power of collective bargaining and, possibly biggest of all, support for women in a historically male dominated society. Lower castes which since ever have had no voice to be listened to, found in the Maoist ethic something which presented at last an opportunity to be treated with some respect. It’s a fascinating read, one which I devour within 24 hours.

We do indeed return to God’s Own Country Kitchen (great name) and are immediately greeted like old friends by the energetic, fun loving, dancing staff. This is unique in our India experiences….a local bar where we become known and welcomed. I mean, it’s happened in lots of other countries, but not here, this is a first. 

Varkala is done. One last call at God’s Own Country Kitchen (great name) where the farewell hugs are huge and the insistence that we return someday are loud. We’ve enjoyed it here, yet we’ve had no excursions out of town and barely any exploration of Varkala itself. It’s a holiday town and, like the very many Indians enjoying their time here, we’ve been on holiday too.

One more stop to come on this Indian adventure….

Poovar & The  Ayurveda Hospital 

At last, right in the final knockings of this 8-week Indian odyssey, the stars finally align sufficiently for us to make a journey by train. It’s fifty odd minutes late pulling into Varkala, then trundles its way slowly through tropical scenery and past the bustling city with the commendably long name of Thiruvananthapuram, until we reach our stop at Neyyattinkara. It’s not just the place names which are longer than in England either: the train has many, many more coaches than you will ever see back home, consequently the station platforms are much longer – and so are the journeys. This train, number 16526, began its journey in Bangalore (Bengaluru) at 20:57 yesterday evening, and is scheduled to reach its final destination at 14:59 today, a total journey length of 18 hours.

We’re only on board for around 90 minutes of that time, moving on to a tuk-tuk to take us from Neyyattinkara to the coastal town of Poovar, our final destination. Still in the state of Kerala, we are now just 42 miles from India’s southern tip, around 500 miles north of the equator, and in a very unusual natural setting.

An elongated spit of sand forms a long narrow protective barrier, holding the rough Arabian Sea on one side and preserving attractive backwaters and lagoons on the other. Banks of the backwaters are tropically lush with coconut palms, bamboos, deciduous trees and even mangroves creating a collage of every imaginable shade of green. From our base at the Ayurvedic retreat, the view across the lagoon to the strip of sand is idyllic, the strip itself calling out to be strolled upon. 

We take a boat across, but it’s a disappointing place, a little corner of brash commercialism in a beautiful natural setting. Surrounded by stunning beauty, this tiny strip has been hijacked by hawkers and sellers and people offering the shortest camel and horse rides on Earth. Fortunately we’ve told our boat man that we only need thirty minutes. We don’t last anywhere near that long and instead return quickly to the more extensive natural beauty which mankind hasn’t yet compromised.

Land side of the sandy barrier, the scenery is absolutely sumptuous, those numerous shades of green fringing the slow waters, trees leaning across narrower waterways to form nature’s guards of honour. It looks wonderful from afar, just as beautiful from within.

One of the absolute joys of the latter part of this trip has been the evening temperature, that soothing and lovely balmy warmth which is so perfect that it doesn’t even enter the conversation. Know what we mean? Now we’re here, in this Ayurvedic retreat where there is no alcohol, no bars, just a peaceful karma which relaxes the mind and revitalises the soul, it feels even more perfect, if that’s remotely possible.

A succession of retreats like ours line the leafy shores of the lagoon, all looking like cool, inviting places to stay. This part of coastal Kerala really is beautiful. Our retreat is a collection of individual wooden chalets set in extremely attractive gardens with pool, reception area, restaurant and the treatment “house” itself, actually termed an Ayurvedic Hospital. At any time of day, those in the midst of treatment wander around the gardens in their prescriptive green gowns and white hairnets, smelling of essential oils and no doubt feeling serene. We can’t help chuckling: the people make the place look like an asylum or a sanatorium.

Amusement aside, it’s a lovely place – not at all bad as hospitals go, you could say. It is, as we said earlier, calm, serene and full of good karma. A feeling of soulful peace is descending upon us before we even start our treatments. Of course, we dive in to the world of Ayurveda with open and inquisitive minds, but more of that in a moment.

Breaking away from the retreat for a couple of hours we take an excellent boat trip through the lagoons and backwaters, hoping for some decent birdspotting and pairing up with a boatman who purely by coincidence shares that very interest. Between the three of us we spot many (photo evidence speaks volumes) and the two hours pass all too quickly.

And so to the ancient world of Ayurveda, its story dating back more than 5,000 years and with its roots indigenous to the Indian sub-continent. Mention of the use of herbal remedies in the treatment of ailments is found in some of the World’s oldest written documents. The modern name is thought to come from the root words “ayu” meaning “life”, and “ved” meaning “knowledge”, or “science”. Literally, the science of life.

First, let me remind you that Michaela and I (especially me) are two of the least spiritual people you will ever meet. However, couple that with the fact that I carry an intense mistrust of modern medicine and don’t even like taking pills of any kind – all of which makes a combination which means we’re more than willing to believe in the power of ancient, and natural, remedies, much more than a pill which the “system” tells you to take. We are interested to the point of excitement to try these things which we’ve never experienced before. Here’s how it went…

Abhyangam, the full body Ayurvedic massage, is first up, in separate rooms providing female masseuse for Michaela and male for me. The first mental hurdle is accepting that I’m going to be stark naked in a front of another (clothed) man for 90 minutes, but once over that the relaxation quickly takes over. Definitely not deep tissue, Abhyangam features a combination of rhythmic circular moves and long sweeping strokes which become more and more soothing as the process unfolds. Afterwards the skin feels silky and soothed, the muscles glowing and calm. It’s an extremely pleasant set of sensations and we both enjoy considerable feelgood as we wander back to our chalet in our green gowns and white hairnets.

Sirodhara. Central to the whole concept of Ayurvedic treatment, Sirodhara is one of the more unusual applications. Warm oil is poured slowly on to the forehead for up to 45 minutes, the masseur gently rocking the pot from side to side so that the stream of oil moves back and forth, falling on to the head just above the eyebrow line. It’s a truly remarkable sensation. Michaela drifts off to sleep at least twice, I have no idea where my mind goes, sort of drifting in a semi-conscious no-man’s-land between asleep and awake, feeling a calmness of soul pass through the entire body. Awake yet not really aware, detached yet not quite asleep. Hypnotic? Yes. Transcendental? Quite possibly. We may not be spiritual but wow Sirodhara definitely takes your mind somewhere it’s never been before. It feels wonderful, frankly. 

Kizhi. Not as soothing as the others but an interesting treatment nonetheless, in which a herb-filled compress pack is repeatedly dipped in warm oil and then “stamped” multiple times on the body from shoulder to ankle. This is repeated over and over, meaning that your body has been struck, or stamped, probably several hundred times before the treatment is complete. The immediate reaction is that you feel a little battered, but after a while the muscles once again begin to glow.

Aromatherapy massage, which Michaela enjoys while I opt for back, neck and shoulders only, again leaves her feeling serenely chilled and relaxed, body reinvigorated and mind soothed.

CONCLUSION. When we look back on our travels, we want to be able to say we did many different things, both inside and outside of comfort zones. We’ve partaken in Ramadan, gone down mines and climbed mountains, done a bobsleigh run, zip lined down a volcano, and seen many of the world’s greatest features, both manmade and natural – to name just a few. This week joins that list. The Ayurveda retreat has been a beautiful, peaceful place to stay in absolutely lovely surroundings, both within the retreat and outside in the whole surrounding area. The treatments have been a revelation, taking us through new mental and physical experiences and relieving the pain of arthritis as effectively as acupuncture does back home. Our five days at Isola di Cocco Ayurveda Hospital definitely joins that special list.

A rather special way to bring this Indian odyssey to a close, in fact.

AND LASTLY, A LITTLE TALE. At one point the peace and tranquility of Planet Ayurveda Hospital is shattered by the arrival of a family with a serious contender for World’s Most Obnoxious Kid. The brat emits an absolutely non-stop barrage of whingeing, whining, grizzling, tantrums, howling and fake tears; the only time it’s not doing all this and stamping its obnoxious foot is when it’s asleep. I sigh at one point, unable to take the onslaught of brat sound bites a moment longer. I turn to Michaela.

“Jesus”, I say, “what a brat! What sort of adult do kids like that grow up to be?”

“Donald Trump”, she says, without a hint of irony.