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Travel Guides: All Countries / Asia / India
|  | Travel Reviews : India |
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| | | | India's exotic gateway to mountain kingdoms
From the Daily Mail
The mere mention of the name Simla, a town in the foothills of the Himalayas, conjures up cool summers, hazy soirees, bored sahibs and scandal. This is where the Raj decamped to forget the city heat. From Delhi to Calcutta they journeyed with servants, furniture, daughters and dogs.
Simla was where young subalterns flirted with bored wives, and where girls from the shires arrived to find husbands or became misty-eyed over glamorous maharajahs. It was converted into the summer capital in 1863 - a decision taken by the viceroy, Sir John Lawrence - and with that decision came mansions, roads and a railway line.
These days Simla still provides cool in the heat for Indians wishing to escape cities. It's a gateway for backpackers, walkers and trekkers exploring the mountain kingdoms of the Himalayas, and is a stopping-off point for those visiting the Raj hill stations.
For the rest of us, Simla is an alternative impression of India - one just as exotic and enticing as palaces, forts and densely populated cities, but a touch calmer, cooler and almost on top of the world. Visit any time from April to the autumn, when the snow in the foothills has given way to thick carpets of wild flowers.
With all the advantages of modern transport, it can still take up to six hours to travel from Delhi to Simla. In the last century it must have taken more than twice that, but no amount of discomfort would dissuade the Brits from the coolness of Simla. What began as a hill and trading station en route to the North-West Frontier became one of the most sophisticated towns in the British Empire.
When Rudyard Kipling was sent by his newspaper to cover the season there, he wrote that he went to more parties, dances and dinners in a few weeks than he would in a lifetime at home. He was so taken with Simla that he became a regular fixture of the season. He also wrote novels - including Plain Tales From The Hill - and poems about the area.
The Raj built barracks, offices, houses, churches, banks, schools, pavilions, playing fields, clubs, a railway station and a theatre - all without even the slightest gesture to the local culture.
They erected a dour Scottish town, taking all the architectural ugliness of the Victorians and recreating it in one of the most spectacular settings on earth. The Vice-Regal Lodge (now the Indian Institute Of Advanced Studies) is a granite hideousness, yet with breathtaking views on every side. The one saving grace is the Gaiety Theatre, a tiny replica of London's Albert Hall which can accommodate 250 people in a full house.
Destination Guide: India
Butlins on the Ganges
From the Daily Mail
When George Harrison's ashes were scattered on the waters of the Ganges, the event marked a culmination of his 30-year involvement with India and its cultural traditions.
At its height, all four Beatles flew out to Rishikesh, one of the holiest towns on the subcontinent, for a three-month course in transcendental meditation under the guidance of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, diminutive founder of transcendental meditation.
The town is celebrated by pilgrims because it marks the precise point at which the sacred River Ganges bursts out from the foothills to begin its long crawl through the plains of India.
There are hundreds of ashrams - the religious retreats where pilgrims from around the world can stay - teaching yoga, the scriptural Vedic languages and, of course, meditation.
Some have described it as an Indian Lourdes, but Ringo Starr summed it up as 'a bit like Butlins' and, fed up with the vegetarian food, headed home to Britain for a good feed.
In fact, The Beatles, with the exception of Harrison, very soon lost interest in matters spiritual: not least as a result of the Maharishi's apparent interest in the young Mia Farrow, who had travelled to the ashram with the group.
But Rishikesh has thrived. In recent years, there has been no let-up in the growth of Rishikesh as a spiritual hub: the town has become a bustling, hustling Las Vegas for the holy, and an important destination on the itinerary of any tourist visiting northern India.
It has also attracted its fair share of charlatans and con men.
Anyone imagining Rishikesh to be a tranquil and harmonious hideaway is in for a rude shock. It is a typical raucous and untidy Indian town, with dirty, crowded streets crammed with people, beggars, the occasional 'holy' man and little of any architectural merit.
There are plenty of spiritual conmen preying on gullible locals and during the rainy season the town can experience disastrous flooding. In recent years, as the Indian middle classes have multiplied, ugly apartment blocks have sprung up.
Destination Guide: India
In time for royal horse play
From the Daily Mail
Two hours into the first day of my riding safari across Rajasthan and already I was hanging on grimly to the unforgiving Indian cavalry saddle, while my little mare, Sheetal, danced sideways across the parched earth. I was exhausted. So, thankfully, was Sheetal. Her grey coat was almost black with sweat while her red and gold caparisons hung limply.
She seemed as grateful as I was to hide under a tree out of the 40-degree heat, and drooped her head like a donkey. Suddenly, there was a warning shout from our leader and, in my ear, a hideous scream like an opera singer being strangled, and a series of loud crashes.
Sheetal, instantly rejuvenated, hurtled away from the tree, pursued by her stablemates. Over our heads, the flock of peacocks we'd disturbed sailed crossly to perch in another tree, tails floating behind them. It took ages to pull up.
As a horseless horse-lover, I am something of a riding holiday connoisseur. They tend to have several things in common: sensible mounts, glorious scenery and a rough-and-ready approach. This was quite different.
The horses, for one thing, were not the four-legged armchairs guaranteed to heft a weekend rider safely across hill and dale. They were Marwari mares, battle mounts of the maharajas, diminutive firecrackers distinguished by their extravagantly curly ears and love of speed.
The breed was almost extinguished by the British who brought in their own thoroughbreds because, according to our safari leader, Bhanwar Devendra Singh, they were unable to control them. A century later, I am sorry to say, British riding skills have still not caught up completely. Until we had accustomed ourselves to the mares' keenness to gallop off at the slightest provocation, one or other of us would periodically disappear out of sight in a cloud of dust, yelling feebly. This is not a novice's ride.
Destination Guide: India
Animal Mystery Tour
From the Daily Mail
We knew enough about India not to be fazed by the holy cows dawdling along the streets, but a lumbering great elephant was another thing. When such a tank of an animal approaches, you'd expect to feel the earth quake, but I'd sensed only a tinkling of its bells before turning to come nose-to-trunk with my first Indian elephant.
Gazing up at the block of stubborn grey, all prettied up in delicate pastels, I couldn't imagine anyone stopping him from doing - well, anything he liked really.
So when we read recently about how a herd of elephants had barged into a post office in Bombay and munched their way through the mail, we understood why no one had stopped them; they would have simply been ignored. Which is just what our Jumbo did, my existence barely registering in his curly-lashed eyes as he plodded on regardless up Jaipur high street. We were to meet again later.
The good news about a two-week coach tour - The Royal Cities of Rajasthan - is that you see all the great sights of this marvellous region: Jaipur's Palace of the Winds, Udaipur's Lake Palace Hotel, Agra's Taj Mahal and fort, Delhi's amazing Friday mosque. The bad news is you spend an awful lot of time - sometimes six hours in a day - on the coach, and Indian roads are rubbish. Fortunately, while not state-of-the-art, our vehicle was air-conditioned, cold drinks were available and our guide, Dashrath, entertained us with fascinating facts and folklore.
What's great about such group trips is that the single traveller seeking adventure can visit more exotic locations but take advantage of safety in numbers. It's pot luck who you'll be sharing your holiday with - my group included a businessman, a lawyer and their wives, and a mother and daughter - but it's heartwarming how those who meet as strangers are swapping life stories and first aid kits a few hours later.
Destination Guide: India
A spectacular welcome in the hillsides of Fortress India
From the Mail on Sunday
We sprang up on the elephant on the plain below the spiked and angry mountains that encircle the pink city of Jaipur. The wild-eyed, grinning mahout perched before us had little English. But he brandished a hooked metal spike and cackled: 'Elephant accelerator.'
The howdah fortunately had side foot-boards so you could sit comfortably looking outwards. Riding elephants in the game parks of Nepal, seeking the shy myopic rhinoceros, you have to squat cross-legged on top of the howdah to escape being scraped by the upper branches of trees.
But this green plain - bar a few thorn thickets through which we pushed - was easy travelling. We lurched through the broad river. Black goat flocks hesitated, fearful of the monster we sat upon.
Here in Rajasthan the typical scarlet and yellow turbans dotted the landscape. Better still are the state's beautiful saris, more glamorous than most things worn at Royal Ascot and far more beautifully carried by barefoot ladies who move erect with the grace of old-time models. They have the elegant poise which has been lost on the modern, strutting catwalk.
Children emerged from villages to gawp. They followed us cautiously, eyeing the two white creatures being lofted along above. When we turned to wave they shrank back. Camels ploughing the red earth stopped to snort and stare.
One of India's manifold joys is that, away from the terrible clangour and crash of its main roads, you can be instantly whisked back a century. The six-hour drive from New Delhi is a stinker. Trucks lie capsized. The ubiquitous Ambassador cars (like our old Morris Oxfords) are tipped over in droves. 'Three dead,' remarked our driver Veejay laconically. He meant people. Dog corpses run into double figures.
Destination Guide: India
India's villages of the lost
From the Mail on Sunday
The perfect travelling companion is a rare thing. I visited the hill country of Orissa, India, home to 62 primitive tribes, accompanied by a close friend who possesses qualities I feel are crucial to harmonious journeying. An observant sense of humour, broad-ranging curiosity, a highly developed visual sense, fearless enjoyment of food - and patience.
But I felt I had another ideal companion too: the legendary travel writer Norman Lewis, who had been in the area ten years before us, and written the inspiring book A Goddess In The Stones, which was with me every day.
It was not surprising that he was captivated by the tribal heartland of Orissa. Set among the mountains, hills, forests, rivers and valleys in the south west of the state, it is a seemingly timeless area of spectacular natural beauty. Inhabited by racially-varied and culturally fascinating tribes, whose origins far precede most of the rest of India's population, it was unlike any of my previous visits to the sub-continent. This felt like a real adventure; rare to find in modern travel.
One reason the region has remained comparatively unchanged and peaceful is that, as yet, there is no tourist infrastructure. You have to put up with the few simple hotels and long bumpy drives. There are certainly no gastronomic delicacies.
But what you can see and learn in Orissa makes a certain lack of comfort well worth it. A guide is essential. We had the charming Bibhu, who communicated well with the tribals and felt close to them.
Norman Lewis, with such unique perceptions, gave us another valuable guide. I loved the way he described so vividly the oddities, charm and funniness of India. I felt he was someone who relished things I enjoy when I go abroad: the widening of horizons, a sense of discovery, an escape from normal life with its responsibilities, and the chance to meet and talk to people who live in a quite different way.
He notices such subtle details about people that his witty descriptions bring them to life. His ear for dialogue is so acute that I can actually hear the tone of voice and inflections of people whose remarks he is quoting. Landscape, buildings, atmosphere, smells and sounds all spring into reality from the page.
Destination Guide: India
The backwaters of Kerala
From the Mail on Sunday
'Is Paul McCartney famous?' asked Gopal, as he brought us his delicate tomato and onion curry, smooth and creamy with coconut milk and yogurt. It was lunchtime.
We had just boarded a houseboat for a day-and-night journey on the coastal backwaters of Kerala, southern India, and were already sighing with delight at the delicious experience of red spinach and freshly grated coconut.
Gopal was the cook, part of our young crew of three.
Sir Paul had hired the boat only a day or two before, and impressed everyone by the amount of money he had reputedly paid to have the large, arched bamboo canopy totally encrusted with fresh flowers: jasmine, roses, marigolds and tuberoses, for his bride Heather Mills.
None of our crew had heard of Sir Paul before, though they spoke enthusiastically of Michael Jackson.
Many of these old wooden boats, used for transporting rice from the farms and villages around the lakes, lagoons and canals to the towns of Cochin and Allepey, have now been converted into comfortable houseboats for tourists.
We may not have had a flower-bedecked boat, but we had Gopal's exceptional vegetable and fish dishes, freshly cooked with lightning skill in the tiny galley.
We watched little fish being caught over the side minutes before we sat down to eat them.
Then, on old-fashioned basket chairs, feeling like a colonial couple, we ate, looking out at the shimmering sheet-glass water, in which rows of tall, graceful palms on the bank were perfectly reflected.
After eating, we lay against white cushions on deck for our siesta, listening to the distant sounds of life on land.
Elegant fishing boats with huge sails passed by, and little boats, piled with produce or people, holding black umbrellas against the sun.
Destination Guide: India
Tallulah, little star of India
From the Mail on Sunday
There's a certain amount of depression that accompanies parenthood. Amid the joy, you suffer the inevitability of your life changing, despite all your efforts to remain the same.
And as time goes by and you've forgone all-night sessions, lie-ins and even reined in your alcohol consumption, you realise, with a sense of panic, that you've left certain parts of your old self behind.
You start to question whether you'll ever relax on an exotic beach again. Your possibilities for a change of scene seem suddenly to have shrunk to a few weeks a year in Spain, probably with the grandparents in tow.
And then some of your closest unsprogged mates announce that they're off on a two-year jaunt around the world... 'before it's too late,' they add, with a sympathetic look.
It's the last straw. We book three weeks away in Kerala, on the southern tip of India. To hell with it! There are 10 million two-year-olds in India; ours is bound to survive.
But despite our gung-ho attitude, travelling with a semi potty-trained toddler seems to be quite a tall order.
First, there's the packing. I head for Boots, where I buy enough Calpol to 'suspend' the little darling for the entire trip if necessary, a gallon of Haliborange multivitamin liquid, which is the only thing that will hide the taste of crushed-up malaria tablets, and the full periodic table of sun-cream factors.
Emlyn is on the case with food. Despite being nurtured on Indian takeaways while in the womb, Tallulah, our daughter, has not turned out to be a curry fan.
In fact, she's not really a fan of any food and so her father crams 26 cans of baked beans (in his back-pack) to avoid imminent starvation.
There's also the bucket and spade, crayons, the Tweenie doll and enough sweets, mints, chocolate and cereal bars to give Woolworths a run for their money.
Destination Guide: India
Seduced by the luxury of India
From the Daily Mail
For many, travelling in India conjures up images of crippling Delhi-belly, run-down guest houses and risky adventures fit only for the young backpacker or the brave.
As I packed my suitcase full of rehydration sachets and water purification tablets, I prepared myself for a tough and challenging trip. Neglectfully, I hadn't had any of the recommended vaccinations. As friends raised their eyebrows at my disregard for life-threatening diseases, I decided I'd be thankful if I came back alive.
But a few days later, lying under Egyptian cotton sheets in one of the most exquisite and romantic hotel rooms I have ever seen, I watched the dawn illuminate probably the best view from a hotel window in the world.
The pink-tinged Taj Mahal was slowly coming into view. It was a memorable moment created for honeymooners or simply the indulgent. The newly opened Amar Villas in Agra, run by the Oberoi hotel group, has been built within walking distance of the Taj.
It was becoming clear that India holds more luxury, safety and comfort than I could have thought possible. Backpacking is still popular, but experiencing such a vast and varied country in style is also easily obtainable.
The previous night I had arrived in darkness, saving the sight of the Taj to greet me when I woke. The arrival of myself and six travelling companions was almost as spectacular as the dawn. Columns of flames lit the driveway of the hotel as beautifully dressed and smiling staff waited for us at the entrance.
We were greeted with flower garlands, cold wet towels and glasses of juice or champagne after walking through the most stunning array of fountains and mosaics mirroring the intricate style of the Taj blacked out in the distance. Every room, and even many bathrooms, has views directly facing the Taj.
Destination Guide: India
On the road in India
We had decided that our itinerary would include a two-week tour of Rajasthan's fabled temples, forts and palaces, but we could not agree on our mode of transport.
Train travel was looking less and less appealing in a state where Moslem and Hindu influences mix uneasily. (The Foreign Office advises Britons to 'keep a low profile' at the moment.)
Yet the obvious alternative - being ferried from site to site via an air-conditioned coach tour - threatened to stifle both our freedom and our exposure to the vibrant chaos of Indian life. And it would smother our budget.
Arriving in Delhi at 1am, all my girlfriend and I wanted was a taxi to our hotel. Instead, we were treated to the type of experience you might pay money for in an amusement park.
Indian roads are anarchic. Countless huge freight trucks, innumerable potholes, yet no lanes, no indicating and seemingly no speed limits. Only a lunatic would drive here. Hiring a self-drive car was clearly a non-starter.
We were still pondering what to do when we emerged the following afternoon to be told we had a visitor. Outside our hotel was our driver from the previous night.
'You come to tourist office now, sir,' he offered.
Before we knew it, we were once more in the back of his car on our way through Delhi's streets. Twenty minutes later, we'd signed up for a two-week, chauffeur-driven tour of Rajasthan.
Well, it was a hot day, and 25,000 rupees (£400) seemed a reasonable price. We were assured that the driver would take care of his own expenses and would meet our, admittedly straightforward, itinerary.
So why did I have a feeling that there was a catch? Probably because there was. It came in the form of having to combat a constant irritant - our driver.
Destination Guide: India
Meals on wheels
The Al-Fazal restaurant in Peterborough recently delivered an Indian takeaway to hungry passenger Deke Primo as his train passed through the town station.
There was much praise for the inventiveness of passenger and restaurant, but the story came as no surprise to those who have travelled on India's railways. For such ingenuity is the hallmark of the largest rail network (under single management) in the world.
Meals are routinely ordered from stations up the line and delivered to trains as they pull into platforms.
The choice might not match the Al-Fazal's - it's usually just 'veg' or 'non-veg' - but the willingness to please, the sweetness of the accompanying tea and the sheer romance of train travel on the sub-continent put our own strike-ridden network to shame.
I will never forget our 'weekend away breaks' when we were living in Delhi.
At 10 in the evening, our two young children asleep on our shoulders, we would pick our way through the hundreds of sleeping bodies (we hoped they were sleeping) on Old Delhi station and look for the train that would bring us, at dawn, to the foothills of the Himalayas.
Miraculously, our names, ages and sexes would be printed, always correctly, on a typed sheet of paper stuck to the outside of the train. We never did discover why the authorities needed to know our age, but you learned not to question the workings of Indian Railways, which runs 14,000 trains a day, carries 90 million passengers a week, and employs a staggering 1.6 million people.
Instead, we would flick on our carriage's ancient Bakelite switches, make up our beds with the crisp white sheets provided, and nibble on fresh pakoras.
The inventive Deke Primo was forced to order his takeaway because the GNER buffet car had apparently run out of food.
It's an unthinkable scenario in India, where the platforms are overrun with chai-wallahs, pouring tea from their battered aluminium pots, the roasted peanut-wallah and the samosa-wallah, not to mention the sock-wallah and the man walking up and down the carriage aisle carrying a set of bathroom scales, inviting people to weigh themselves for one rupee.
Destination Guide: India
On track across India
For the first-time visitor, India can be a daunting experience. The colourful chaos that's part of its charm can be overwhelming.
The country's vast size causes more dilemmas - where to start, what to see, and how best to travel around to make the most of limited time?
A new luxury train journey which crosses the entire sub-continent, east to west (or vice versa), could be the solution. Combining the creature comforts of a five-star hotel (there's even a spa on board) with visits to a host of top sights across the country, it's the best of all worlds.
The 15-day Viceroy of India journey begins in Mumbai and ends in Calcutta, covering an astonishing 2,300km. From Mumbai the train travels through Jaipur to Bharatpur, Agra, Delhi and Varanasi to Siliguri in the east. It's then on to the Himalayan retreat of Darjeeling by UNESCO-protected steam train, before descending to the plains again for time in Calcutta.
At Mumbai's colonial Victoria Terminus, we're escorted onto the train by liveried staff before we pull away and the sprawling slums soon melt into flat, lush countryside.
We travel north through the night and wake up in Jaipur in Rajasthan. Things are different here. The clothes are more colourful, the men wear bright turbans, there's a reddish tinge to the soil, and hills dot the landscape.
Jaipur is a magical place. Known as The Pink City, it was painted a rose hue to welcome the Prince of Wales in 1876 and has remained a dusty, dusky pink ever since. There are hill-top forts and palaces (we dine in one, the Rambagh Palace, now a luxury hotel), and streets jam-packed with cars, cows and market stalls.
The next day we're in Agra in Uttar Pradesh and gaping in awe at India's most famous icon, the 350-year-old Taj Mahal on the banks of the Yamuna River. The massive red-stone Agra Fort on the other side of the river's another marvel, with wonderful views back over the Taj.
More contrast still awaits in New Delhi's wide, green streets and stately buildings, while the chaos of Old Delhi's labyrinthine lanes have a charm of their own. We tour the maze by rickshaw, mesmerised by the sights and smells at every turn.
But for a real shock to the senses, Varanasi wins hands down. We're there at sunrise to see the crowds come to bathe in the holy River Ganges. It's a bewildering scene of cows, processions and hawkers - a mass of colour and noise that's hard to take in.
Between sightseeing forays, the train acts as a cocoon, a retreat from India's magical mayhem. Time on board is spent relaxing, watching the world go by or listening to talks about India.
It's all very civilised, with a bar carriage for pre-dinner drinks and two sumptuous dining rooms where we feast on three-course meals. The food changes to reflect the speciality of the region we're travelling through, it's delicious - and there's always a continental option for when the curry gets too much.
After eight nights on the train, we swap diesel for steam - and a slower pace. The Darjeeling Himalayan Railway takes around eight hours to climb from Siliguri up 88km to the mountain retreat of Darjeeling.
It's an amazing journey, slowly chugging past villages and tea plantations, through thick forest and up, up and away into the hills. The train stops frequently for water, giving us the chance to explore a little - and children line the track, waving as we pass.
Darjeeling is a world away from what we've seen on the plains. It's where the British came to escape the heat in the summer and there's a chill in the air in September - we even light a fire in our room. The influence of neighbouring Tibet and Nepal is seen everywhere, from the faces of the people to the market stalls.
People come to Darjeeling for views of the world's five highest mountain peaks. Frustratingly, mist hangs around like a drawn curtain - until our last day when the clouds miraculously part and we're stunned by a glimpse of the glorious Himalayas, glittering in the early morning sun.
We leave Darjeeling behind to return to the plains and our final destination - Calcutta. The very name conjures up images of destitution and Mother Teresa, but the reality is a different matter altogether.
The cultural capital of India, Calcutta is much grander and cleaner than I'd expected. There are fascinating temples, museums and galleries and the striking Victoria Memorial, one of the finest remnants of the British Raj.
Of course, poverty and over-crowding's still an issue, as it is in most of India. But once again we see another side of this multi-faceted country. In two weeks our Grand Tour has shown us a world of contrast - and kept us in creature comforts along the way.
* Operators featuring packages on board the Viceroy of India include Cox & Kings and Kuoni. For information and to book direct see www.gwtravel.co.uk
* Feeling inspired? Book a holiday
Destination Guide: India
Both sides of the India experience
From the Mail on Sunday
India? 'I love it here... but I hate it here.' In his witty gap-year satire Are You Experienced? William Sutcliffe tells a story of British youths struggling to get to grips with India. His characters - practically unable to breathe without the approval of the Lonely Planet guide ('the book') - are trapped in the ultimate travel writing cliche: the land of contrasts.
'India,' says one of Sutcliffe's characters, Jonah, 'is at the same time the most beautiful and the most horrific country - and Indians are both the warmest and the most brutal people on earth...'
People really do speak like this in India. At breakfast one morning in Agra, I heard an elderly English lady telling her companion: 'Ah, India. I can't wait to get home... but I can't bear to leave.'
'India, you'll either love it or you'll hate it,' people kept telling me before my trip. 'It's not a country - it's an experience.' So as soon as you get off the plane, freshly dosed up with shots of hepatitis and meningitis vaccine and stuffed with anti-malarial tablets the size of horse pills, you just hope you are ready to survive the India 'experience'.
As the British Airways 747 sank towards Delhi, I peered down anxiously for any sign of the sensational experiences I had been assured would be waiting for me.
Delhi airport came as a disappointment. An airport is usually a window to a country's soul, yet this was calm, well-ordered and pretty kempt. It was, however, in the wee small hours, and the city was calm in the way that most places tend to be at about two in the morning.
As I emerged from customs with my bags on a trolley, however, I was still ready to deal with the army of hustlers and scallywags that the guidebooks tell you are always on hand, trying to grab your baggage away. But on this side of Delhi's international terminal, at least, there was only dozing somnolence. It seemed no more Third World than, say, Faro or Torquay.
I was met by a driver and led past fleets of Morris Oxfords - the Ambassador, an ancient Morris Oxford clone, still serves as the standard India taxi. (In another curious throwback, India still has the same round-pin electric sockets that we had 40 years ago.)
Destination Guide: India
Tagging tigers in India
Lions are known as the king of the jungle - but after spending time in India's Kanha Tiger Reserve, I think the tiger can definitely vie for the title. Ponderous, glorious and with a peculiarly canine swagger, it was an an honour to see these jungle giants in all their natural glory.
There are officially 106 tigers in the park, which is situated in the eastern sector of the Satpura Hills of the Central Indian Highlands. While tiger enthusiasts suggest this could be an inflated figure due to poaching, their presence is undeniable.
Not only did we enjoy the excitement of at least five sightings, our guide and manager of the Royal Tiger Resort, Adityaraj Dev, showed us immense tiger 'pug marks' (footprints) along the roads.
There was something truly magical about spotting the cats against the golden, orange trees and leaves. Of course it's easier to spot one - not that I was ever the first - when they leave the shelter of the trees and stalk across the plains.
Even without radio contact, once a tiger is spotted, any number of jeeps suddenly appear as if by magic as excited visitors sweep the landscape with binoculars and guides decide which are the best vantage points.
Aside from using our eyes, Adityaraj Dev, told us to listen to the jungle noises. The cries of the watchful monkeys, the oddly harsh bark of the deer and various bird calls warn that a tiger is on the move.
Everything seems to go quiet then, as man and beast strain to track down the great cat.
The Kanha Tiger Reserve also hosts 'tiger shows' where mahouts (rangers) track the tigers on elephant back. If they find one that looks like it's resting, they send a radio message and visitors get the chance to ride on the elephant and draw extremely close to the tiger. There is something superb in the relationship between the three - and very moving.
In fact, Adityaraj told us that each mahout patrols specific sectors and usually knows where each tiger is situated.
He told of when one of the mahouts found one of 'their ' tigers staggering around in a daze near a poisoned waterhole. This indiscriminate method is one of the easiest for poachers - and one of the most destructive - killing everything that drinks there.
The mahout managed to get the elephant close enough to the tiger to force it to keep walking, and got it to another clean waterhole where it was safe to drink and then collapsed. He said the mahout reported that the tiger eventually got up, and walked off, but stopped just once to look back at him and the elephant.
The pressures are not just from poaching to fulfil a desire for tiger 'parts' in the east, there is a space problem - as each tiger patrols about 40sq km of territory. In a country with 1.8billion people and increasing pressure on land and resources, the natural habitat of all wild animals is increasingly threatened - with catastrophic results.
During our stay, we were lucky enough to enjoy a tiger show, and got within about ten feet of an entirely relaxed tiger, who was enjoying the sunny day in a shaded cave. He was so relaxed that he stretched and rolled onto his back with his paws in the air. You could see why people sometimes get the wrong idea and think these giant cats are as harmless as one's pet at home.
A closer look at the tiger's enormous paws, rippling muscles and gleaming teeth will take that illusion away very quickly.
Of course, the tiger is not the only animal in the Kanha Tiger Reserve.
It shares - sometimes tensely - its vast expanse with leopards, jackals, wild dog, sloth bears and numerous monkeys, deer and strutting peacocks. The chital or spotted deer is most numerous. Kanha is also home to the about 350 Barasingha, a sub-species of Swamp Deer, left in the world.
It's heaven for keen birdwatchers, who will get to spot a variety of rare and beautiful birds, including the Purple Heron, the White-eyed Buzzard and the Jungle Babbler, and is home to 117 different species of butterfly too.
In fact there is so much to see that it is lucky we were staying at the Royal Tiger Resort just outside the Mukki gate of the park and were able to get in two game drives per day.
Each morning, we'd be woken at 5am with a knock on the door of our chalet and start the day with coffee or spicy masala tea.
Then we'd shower, dress and be in the jeep outside the nearby park gates by opening time at 6am. As the sun climbed gradually into the sky, we'd be entering the jungle-lined dirt roads and bouncing along with our eyes peeled. We'd stay out until about 10am when the heat started to make itself felt, break for a packed breakfast, and then head slowly homeward to avoid the midday sun.
A few icy-cold Kingfisher beers, a tasty lunch - and then a siesta or a lie-down to read before heading out again at 4pm until the 6.30pm closing time. It's a pattern that leaves everyone relaxed and stimulated too - as visitors and guides discuss their sightings and experiences.
You get to the Kanha Tiger Reserve (and Royal Tiger Resort) via Nagpur, which is served by direct flights from Mumbai, Delhi and Hyderabad. We'd flown direct from London to Mumbai on Jet Airways, spent a day in pulsating Mumbai at the coolly luxurious Leela Hotel and then flown to Nagpur.
Cue a six-hour - rather hair-raising drive - along a road packed with rumbling lorries, buses, motorcycles and pedestrians. Not to mention the oxen-driven carts and stray animals.
It's worth it. Enjoy a game drive as the sun rises and the birds begin to sing and you'll soon forget your city worries. This superb park, part of which was immortalised in Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book, will definitely let you forget your worries and your strife. Treasure your time in this glorious world of the tiger - and do what you can to see that it survives in an ever-encroaching and hostile environment.
- India specialist Cox & Kings (020 7873 5000; www.coxandkings.co.uk) offers a seven-day/five-night Wildlife Weekend from £1,495 per person, including two night's B&B at Mumbai's Leela Hotel and three nights' full board at the Royal Tiger Reserve. Also included are game drives, transfers and Jet Airways flights (www.jetairways.com; 0800 026 5626) from London Heathrow to Mumbai.
Destination Guide: India
India's green and pleasant land
From the Mail on Sunday
Offshore there was an island inhabited (exclusively!) by huge bats and bigger cobras; crocodiles loitered in coastal swamps and sea eagles cruised the bay. But in a glass pavilion set in lawns, the British were having tea with dainty cakes and nice sandwiches.
It was a special occasion. Some of the visitors had been going to Goa, to the same hotel, in some cases the same room, for 18 years.
'We enjoy this place so much,' said Mrs Diana Good, from Rye in Sussex, who with husband John was making a 13th visit. 'The lovely weather, the food, the Goan people. Each time we leave there are tears all round. They ply us with presents, carved boxes, trinkets, bags of fruit and even a pair of candlesticks. Last year we had to draw the line at a brass oil lamp.'
As for me and my wife Diana, it was our second visit in four months. No rain had been recorded since the previous November when we left and none was confidently expected until May at the earliest. I have never known anywhere in the world with such a fine - and certain - climate. Do not go in June or July though, because it pours.
The Cidade de Goa hotel is set beside an expansive bay, painted every evening by outrageous sunsets. On the skyline, huge ships - bulk ore carriers - sail to and from the port of Vasco da Gama, named after the man who found this coast for the Portuguese.
The long beach is firm enough for the local boys to play exuberantly at cricket and the visitors lounge in the sun, always eased by a touch of sea breeze. It was on this beach, during our first visit, that my wife found Rambo.
He did not look much like his name - a puppy with his eyes just open, deserted by his mother and with three siblings either dead or dying. He lived, a ball of fluff, in a tight cave with the tide just turning at its door.
Diana went down to feed him five times a day, and when it was time to leave we found Vasu, a young Hindu working with the beach boats, who took Rambo home. We went to Vasu's house in a rustic fishing village. Rambo was sitting, bandaged, in with the family. He did not take up much room, which was just as well because there was not much available.
We kept in touch with Vasu (at Christmas he sent us a parcel of nuts) and now, on our return, we were reunited with Rambo and Vasu's family. Our puppy was shy, but growing and healthy. Diana is sending him a flea collar.
Destination Guide: India
Oh, Mr Porter, just what would we do without you?
From the Daily Mail
I could only presume that the cow in front of us in the queue at Delhi train station was after a cattle-class ticket. Then again, with his nose pointed in the direction of the station's answer to McDonald's - an old man in a turban with a heap of samosas in his cycle basket - he might have been in line for breakfast.
'Make sure you take a train journey,' my friend Ravi said emphatically before I left for India. 'It's like nothing you'll have experienced in Britain, even in these troubled train times.' He was right.
Though 20,000 people arrive at Delhi station every weekday, few wear suits or carry briefcases. Most are rural poor who haven't worked for years, in the city for the slender chance of a new life. Overcrowding is such that around the station, vehicles can't set down their charges any closer than a quarter of a mile away.
The back doors of our van opened onto a scene of multicoloured life: painted rickshaws and rickety bicycles; children playing tag; and street traders gesticulating as they did business with women in flowing saris. In the middle stood what at first looked like a human statue: a man, more than 6ft tall, in a maroon and green turban, matching sash and sarong. Without a word, he suddenly bent down at the back of our van, and when upright again, he was wearing our M&S suitcases on the top of his turban.
Momentarily, he adjusted them then turned and began the quarter-mile walk to the station. We paid our driver and hurried after him. Our straight-backed porter not only did two strides for our one, he was used to weaving through this huge body of humanity. We lost sight of him and just concentrated intently on the aerial passage of our cases.
Destination Guide: India
Going all the way
My head was pounding with all the rage of a weekend hangover. I was gulping in air like it was going out of fashion and my legs appeared to have gone on strike.
Around me the spiky mountains of the eastern Himalayas soared into the sky. This was a region with serious bragging rights – it boasted four of the world's five highest peaks. Not that I was anywhere near them. My plan was to saunter along the 55km Singalila Ridge snaking between the border of Nepal and India.
The first 48 hours had been a breeze. Faultless scenery, unusually warm, dry weather for April, tolerable ascents, plus a guide to ensure I didn't stray into the path of a tetchy yak. Or off the path altogether. All so gloriously simple. Until now.
I glanced towards the summit of 3,636 metre high Sandakphu, our mountain top destination. It was a mere thimble compared to Everest – visible apparently from the top of the triangular crest - but judging from my condition, it may as well have been. Sweat tickled my brows, my torso was heaving with effort despite my snail-like pace and the 4km climb felt like being stuck on a relentless uphill treadmill.
In contrast, Peter, one of our two Sherpa porters, whistled merrily as he cantered on the trail ahead. The fact he was carrying my 12kg rucksack didn't appear to be slowing him down in the slightest. I gritted my teeth. Battling against the 80F heat, humidity and ever-higher altitude, I trudged slowly up the winding, hairpin bends, trying my best to keep pace with Raja, my guide. He had the patience of a saint and an encouraging smile – both of which I needed in bucket loads.
As we climbed, the mist started to race up Sandakphu's sheer flanks. Silver fir trees bristled by the trail side. In the distance, the rooftop specks of Sikkimese villages glittered in the sun. Tendrils of mist caressed the densely forested hills and peaks, occasionally lifting to reveal the snow-clad summit of 8,596metre high Kanchenjunga, the planet's third highest mountain. There were plenty of reasons to pause - apart from the need to catch my breath.
Finally just after noon, I plodded wearily onto a sloping plateau. A sign read: "Leave nothing but footprints and take nothing but memories." Relief washed over me. We'd made it. We were standing on top of Sandakphu, the pinnacle of our hike. It certainly wasn't the roof of the world, but it was the loftiest spot in the state of West Bengal. Good enough for me.
We were led to a basic but comfortable lodge where our Sherpa hosts delivered a bucket of steaming water to our rooms – our daily bathing ration. After a wash, I headed into a kitchen where rectangular blocks of yellow yak cheese dangled from the wooden ceiling beams in order to be smoked from the nearby wood-fired stove, the only heat source in the entire lodge. Huddling around a wooden table, I eagerly tucked into a bowl of noodle soup and felt my energy levels slowly return.
Revived, I followed Raja and scrambled up a needle-like hill strewn with bright Buddhist prayer flags each bearing in neat, tiny, black script the words Victory to the Jewel of the Lotus. Below us, the mist tumbled and rolled into the valley. It was breath-taking.
Pointing to a cloud-smothered horizon, Raja said: "Everest is shy, which is why we can only see it in the morning."
But at dawn the next day, through bleary eyes, I saw our lodge was wrapped in a thick blanket of fog. So much for our window views. For now, bashful Everest was to remain only a figment in our imaginations.
Faced with a final day's 22km leg, there was little time to lose. We started our knee-jangling descent through thick pine and bamboo forest, home to the Himalayan red panda. Make that the elusive Himalayan red panda.
After three hours, we emerged from the forest onto a mountain slope draped with gardens, plantations and villager's homes. Gurdum – our lunchtime pit-stop. After eating, we sank further into the valley, crossed the Sirikhola river, before climbing into a forested gorge filled with the staccato rat-a-tat of crickets. Frequently, we had to stand to one side of the narrow trail because of passing mules carrying food supplies to the higher villages.
By late afternoon, when my pace had slowed to little more than a weary shuffle, we arrived at Rimbik, a one-street affair. An unfamiliar din reached my ears – the shrieks of children returning home from school. It seemed ages since I'd heard such a racket. In fact, I'd only been out of town four days.
Raja led us into the pretty, manicured gardens of a Swiss-styled lodge where I weakly punched the air in triumph before collapsing into a garden seat.
The next morning, I was touched when our porters presented us with silken scarves or khadas, a Tibetan symbol of good luck, for our return to Darjeeling. Back in the hill station, we spent our final night in the New Elgin Hotel, a 120-year-old former Maharaj's palace that provided a soothing antidote to our Himalayan huts.
Wandering around the city's bustling, sloping streets in slow, stiff agonising steps – my legs were to ache for another two days - one place topped my must-see list. Beside the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute lay the final resting place of Tenzing Norgay who summited Everest more than half a century before.
I smiled and remembered the sign on top of Sandakphu. My conquest wouldn't make it into the history books but I'd certainly taken away a lifetime of memories.
* Prices for an eight day trip to Darjeeling plus the Singalila Ridge trek start from £450pp, including guide, all meals, hotels, porters, park fees, plus airport transfers from Badogra. Flights are excluded. For more info, ring Community Action Treks on 01228 564 488 or see www.catreks.com
* For alternative trekking and climbing tours of the Himalayas, telephone Adventure Mania's Raja Mukherjee on 00 91 33 5535 1916 or see www.adventuremania.com
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Destination Guide: India
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Yet Simla has a charm that far exceeds such manmade edifices. For centuries it has attracted visitors and traders from Tibet, China and Nepal, as well as from other parts of the subcontinent. And any place with such through-traffic takes on a slightly rakish feel.
It's little wonder that there were scandals, including the episode when the Maharajah of Patiala tried to abduct the daughter of the commander-in-chief at the place now known as Scandal Point. In fact, she was a willing partner, but their escape was thwarted, and the prince was banished from Simla. He took his revenge by building a summer home and parallel capital on a ridge above the town at Chail, so he could look down on the British.
Now the streets heave with bookshops, Chinese shoemakers, cashmere sellers and shawl stores alongside grocers, restaurants and offices. All traffic is banned from the top of Simla. Once you have left your car, it is sometimes a near-perpendicular hike to reach the Mall, the shopping artery of the town. More than 7,000ft above the plains, the views are spectacular.
Although the Raj has long dispersed, the town still plays host to retired air marshals, headmasters and civil servants who have built their homes here to escape the heat. Visit one of the public schools, founded along the lines of the British system, and still running that way today - though with Indian additions. For example, most of the names on school boards of past pupils are British before 1947, and are Indian subsequently. Simla is a history of the Raj and its aftermath in microcosm.
All around is the reason for Simla's existence - the Himalayas. They are best viewed from the train that runs from Kalka to Simla along the single-track line, which was built in 1903. As it winds its way along steep gradients, it passes through 18 stations, 869 bridges and 103 tunnels.
Our group, which arrived by car, returned to Kalka by train for a last few hours of mountain gazing; it remains one of the great train journeys of India. When we reached our journey's end, all we wanted to do was stay on the train and go back to Simla.
Strictly vegetarian regime
But Rishikesh remains the gateway for some of the holiest pilgrimages in India, with hundreds of thousands of devotees passing through every few weeks to make treks to the source of the Ganges, plus the shrines of Kedarnath, Yamunotri, Gangotri and Badrinath, which are all further upstream.
Just downstream is Hardwar, the site every 12 years of the Kumbh Mela, the world's largest religious festival, attracting millions.
There are daily buses and express trains from Delhi to Hardwar, plus three flights a week. The ashrams offer a strictly vegetarian regime, primarily for Indian devotees, but foreigners can stay at the more well-established ones, provided they make a suitable donation.
Parmarth Niketan is the largest ashram in Rishikesh, with 1,000 rooms for pilgrims. It has a prime spot on the river, is famous for its yoga teaching and is operated by a trust that has an interesting programme in environmental conservation, tree planting and organic farming.
Two other ashrams that are worth considering are Swami Rama Ashram, which was founded 50 years ago by the Himalayan Hospital Institute Trust, situated further into the foothills, and the Maharishi Swaragashram - the oldest ashram in Rishikesh.
It is located in a high-rise building near Lakshman Jhoola. Its founder, Swami Vishudhanand, was known locally as the 'Kali Kamli Wala', the one with the Black Blanket.
But not everyone travelling to Rishikesh is here for spiritual purposes. Incongruously enough, in the years since The Beatles' stopover, Rishikesh has emerged as the prime site in India for white-water rafting.
The Camp Riverwild on the banks of the Ganges is hidden away further upstream from Rishikesh and is run by a former Indian national rafting champion.
Rather than being confined into a hotel, it consists of a handful of tents spread out along a wide sandy beach.
Just over 20 miles upstream is the first of the two new hotels that have emerged and make staying in the region more of a pleasure than an endurance.
Magical nights in the dusty plains
The countryside was extraordinarily barren: miles of ploughed 'fields' of greyish dust. The farmers who saluted us as we rode past had dressed to defy the landscape, the men gloriously turbaned, the women clad in a riot of gold, scarlet, pink, green and blue, arms heavy with bangles.
The heat was something else. Any metal on the saddle raised a blister on the flesh. It was too hot for riding hats; instead, we had swathed our heads and faces in thin scarves against the dust. Despite such precautions, we had to stop every hour to rest and drink. But the privations of the ride were more than compensated for by the excitement of speeding across India, and the luxury of the organisation.
The safari is run by two Rajput cousins - Durga, a tall, willowy chap with fearsome moustaches and complicated turbans, and Devendra, who was short, muscular and bore a strong resemblance to Kojak. Their idea was to replicate, as far as possible, the sheer luxury their ancestors experienced when travelling.
So on the first day in Jodhpur, our group of six was introduced to the platoon of staff who would look after us - 28 in all. Every day, when we arrived at our appointed lunch spot, all we had to do was dismount (the stiffer among us were lifted down by the grooms). A brightly decorated tent would have been set up, and glasses of nimbu pani - chilled lime juice with sugar - would be waiting, alongside plates of fragrant curry, while Gardu Ram, the barber, stood ready to leap into action should our boots need hauling off.
But it was the evenings that we really looked forward to. Our arrival normally coincided with dusk, and the smell of frying onions from the cook's tent. When we arrived, we would find what resembled a travelling circus: a large outer 'wall' of brightly-coloured canvas that surrounded individual tented bedrooms, each with carpet, camp bed and chair.
We would struggle out of our steaming jodhpurs while one of the servants heated water for our showers in huge oil drums. Once washed and changed, we would gather round the campfire. Then we would move to a long canopied table, by now piled high with steaming delicacies.
The meal always started with delicious hot soup (the nights could get as cold as the days were hot), and was washed down with icy beer. At around midnight, pleasantly full, mildly tipsy, we would go to sleep, lulled by the cool desert wind and the whoops and howls of the jackals outside.
Invasion of the elephants
On this tour, you stay mostly at smaller, converted royal residences and there tends to be only one place to eat, so singles don't have the traditional discomfort of having to dine alone. You pay a single supplement but always get a double room. And you also get to hog two seats on the coach.
Travelling this way you see so much; indeed, you come across so many animals it's almost an unofficial urban safari. There were monkeys on chains, a ginormous python, and, sadly, dozens of dancing bears. At the other end of the freedom scale, there's the Keoladeo bird sanctuary at Bharatpur.
The rickshaw drivers have a lifetime of knowledge and eyes like eagles'; I produced shouts of delight from mine by spotting a golden oriole, a very lucky omen. There were spooky rats at Deshnok, giant bats and giggling jackals at Bikaner, and frisky apes at Kumbhalgarh, thundering across the roofs so fast we fancied they had a stopwatch and were timing each other.
In Jaipur we couldn't miss the elephant ride to the Amber Fort on dear old Jumbo - at least, it looked liked him. High up on his back we relished an elephant's-eye view of the world and it dawned on us why the gates of many of Rajasthan's old forts are studded with gruesome spikes - to rebuff the enemy's armoured elephants, of course.
What a sight such an army thundering towards your battlements must have been. No wonder the postmen of Bombay let their enormous invaders get on with it.
Mr Oberoi's fort
After two hours' riding on the elephant we reached a typical fortified village: temple, yellow walls, men smoking, cur dogs, a skulk of sheep, a sneering camel and the usual gormless wander of holy cows. Then suddenly we were a hundred India years later again. For here was Mr Oberoi's liveried chauffeur with his spotless, air-conditioned four wheel drive thingummy. We were to climb the mountain track in it to the fort perched like a cluster of eagle heads on the mountain top.
It had originally been a ruin, like most peak-defending fortresses around Jaipur. The fabulous Amber Palace on the Delhi road, mirrored, haremed, windows cut out of stone as delicate as lace, is different and well worth a visit. Mr Oberoi's fort has been converted into a remarkable palais-deluxe. Here we picnicked like a rajah and ranee under a silk canopy, swam in the long blue marble pool, and toured the owner's four different dining rooms in the old fort's corner turrets.
Oberoi junior is the small, cigar-smoking 65-year-old son of the 100-year-old founder of the hotel group. He wished to turn his historic fort into a small luxurious hotel. The Government said no, so Mr O said: 'Well, then we'll build an entirely new hotel like an old palatial fort but on the plain beneath.' And so he did. Thus in a cloud of craftsmen and artisans and tons of marble, Raj-Vilas opened in 1997. You come upon it through a dingy village and it seems like a colossal Hollywood set.
You reach it along the frightening jostle of Jaipur's lorry bypass which is the graveyard, crematorium and emergency accident hospital of hundreds of trucks, cars and buses.
Any first-time visitor to rural India, shaken by the highway's horrors and gloomed by the lorries' graveyard, would think himself a stranger in paradise as he turns, goggling, through Raj-Vilas grand gates. You are greeted B by turrets, minarets, marbled courtyards, formal water fountains, a moat and a man employed full-time to whisk away the pigeons.
Electric buggies move baggage and servants along paved paths. There's a glittering pool beneath a new health spa and an old temple, carefully preserved. And to sleep in: something like a gilded, ice cold, air conditioned tent. It is not yet perfect. Its newness lacks animation. It is still, almost silent. Its cuisine, particularly the European menu for those visitors fearful of robust Rajasthani fare, falls far short of other Oberoi hotels. The dishes arrive tepid.
But, except for rooms, paid in advance in dollars, India is now bargain priced. The silks, cottons, jewels, gold, and carpets of India are against the strong pound - 30 per cent cheaper than on my last visit only 20 months earlier.
Invitation to a wedding
We kept having similar experiences. Arriving at the Jyoti Mahal Hotel in Rayagarha, a small industrial town, we found a wedding in full swing. We were instantly invited to the ceremony in an upstairs room.
Here we squatted among a large crowd while the bride and groom sat opposite each other under an elaborately decorated awning. Their eyes, as is the custom, never met. They had seen each other only once before, in the company of their families.
Amit, the plump groom, sweated profusely in his tight, shiny suit, while his beautiful young bride Jayshree appeared cool and collected as she talked under her breath, eyes down, to an attending sister. There was never a flicker of a smile, or indeed any emotion, from bride or groom.
Following Norman's advice we drove to Bhatpur, a spotless village of the Kondh tribe. Here we found a functioning school; quite unusual as often government-built schools are empty, with neither teachers nor pupils turning up. In this school they seemed eager to learn. We read out Norman's description of the village.
Bibhu translated while teacher and pupils crowded round, astonished that their village should have been written about by what Bibhu described as 'a very famous Englishman'. Only one little boy took no notice; he sat by the stones that represent the village goddess (reputed to cure all their illnesses) playing with four pet rats he had found in the fields.
Home cooking at its best
Gopal's food was home cooking at its best - even if it was on a boat.
On previous Indian journeys by far my best meals have been taken in someone's house.
Hotel and restaurant food can never be quite the same; professional chefs cook for large numbers in hotels, whereas private cooks produce unique family recipes for the few.
Now it's no longer just the Maharajas who open up their palaces. Today families will open a few rooms to guests, making it possible to enjoy the atmosphere and hospitality of a real Indian home - as well as tasting their original dishes.
Two of the private homes we stayed in were on the 'islands' of the backwaters - areas of reclaimed land surrounded by canals.
Mankotta is an atmospheric old farmhouse owned for generations by the Chacko family.
It is a timeless place of absolute peace - perfect if you want a day or two resting, reading or listening to a wonderful fusion of birdsong, and, surprisingly, jazz.
Jai Chacko, a retired naval captain, is a jazz fanatic; you can hear strains of his many recordings when he does yoga before breakfast, and in the evening, sitting out in the tropical night with the tiny twinkling lights of a million fireflies, he can easily be persuaded to pick up his clarinet.
You eat well here too; don't fail to try Layla's excellent dark-red banana jam and feather-light rice pancakes with local honey and yogurt for breakfast.
The Kutty family were waiting for us on the jetty at 'Philipkutty's Farm'. They are one of the area's prominent families.
Philip Kutty was a well-known agriculturist, and since his death young Vinod Kutty has built, painstakingly, three traditional Keralan-style cottages on the family farm, overlooking the water and backed by coconut palms, nutmeg, mango and cocoa bean trees.
Paid to go in style
We set out at 5am. 'This is exciting!' I gush, as our minicab slugs through the rain towards Heathrow. Tallulah responds by vomiting her morning milk and cornflakes down the front of my only travelling clothes.
The flights, despite our fears, are fine. Tallulah has her own seat and everyone around us has headphones on. They've shuffled away, due to my dried-puke odour. I take advantage of the free red wine to take the edge off drawing endless monsters on the travel scribbler.
By the time we've had a stopover in Bahrain, Tallulah is asleep on my lap. I glance over at Emlyn. He's slack-jawed with boredom, staring at the miles-to-go screen.
Then suddenly we're landing in Trivandrum and bam! The scene hits us like a slap around the face. Firstly there are the people - thousands of them hanging over the barriers at arrivals - then there's the wall of heat, the blue sky, the palm trees, the honk of cars, and rickshaws.
We wheel our trolley through the colourful morass, smiling. Tallulah sits unconcerned in the buggy, singing the Scooby-Doo theme on a loop.
We soon realise that the biggest difference between the last time we were both in India as teenagers and now is, of course, money. We've paid to go in style and our driver is waiting in an air-conditioned white Ambassador car which combines the impressive girth of a Rolls-Royce with the power of a milk float.
Despite an abundance of courteous government road signs (Drive Safely All The While, Go Home With A Smile and Rash Causes Crash!), Emlyn and I exchange nervous glances as we are thrown into the insane kamikaze rally known to locals as traffic.
Unfazed, our driver calmly toots his way through swerving motorbikes - each with an entire family on board - lumbering elephants and dozens of rickety bicycles veering along the potholed road.
Tallulah, oblivious to the danger, is more interested in the freedom afforded by the lack of seatbelts. Standing and looking through the back window, she merrily points out a burnt-out bus. Cheerful schoolchildren in immaculate uniforms wave from the side of the road.
Monumental majesty
At 6am, perfectly relaxed and refreshed, we walked along the short route to the beautiful 17th-century monument in an attempt to avoid the huge crowds who visit each day. Costing around £10, we walked through the gates into the grounds leading up to the Taj.
Monkeys prowled along the walls while cows were being used to pull the ancient steel cutters to mow the lawns. Here, magically, time appears to have stood still for the past 450 years.
As I walked through an arch, the sight of the Taj gradually opened up majestically before me. Lime-green parrots flew around in the warm breeze, but there was a still silence amid the breathtaking beauty. Like many who have visited the monumental site, the moment reduced my travelling companions and I to tears.
After two hours walking around and taking the obligatory pictures on the now famous 'Diana Bench', where Princess Di sat poignantly on her own during her visit to the monument, we were picked up on golf buggies by the hotel and given a wonderful buffet breakfast of fruit, scrambled eggs and croissants.
Though it is still best to avoid salads, tap water and ice, hygiene in hotels is improving. Doctors say that most upset stomachs are caused by tourists enjoying too much Indian food as soon as they arrive, and not giving their bodies a chance to adapt to the different diet and climate.
Choosing to travel with a good operator is essential, since it removes the stress generated from travelling in such a poverty-stricken country. It leaves you able to enjoy the fascinating journeys and visits without feeling anxious or worried about the often time-consuming bureaucracy or tipping.
Maharajas and moguls
Zaffir was as friendly a bloke as you could wish to meet. His English was limited, but his manner was affable. For the first day and a half. After that, the five-hour drives became an ordeal.
'Tourist happy, I happy,' was his catchphrase, and he never grew tired of repeating it.
It took us the best part of two weeks to grasp that though in theory we were the boss, in reality we had no say at all in the choice of hotels or restaurants. Zaffir's prime requirement was to secure a free meal or night's accommodation for himself.
In the main, we didn't suffer unduly as a result. We saw all the sights we'd hoped to, under considerably less strain than we'd feared.
We were taken to hotels and restaurants within our budget and never had to puzzle over a map or guess what food we were ordering.
But although our itinerary was identical to our driver's, our agenda wasn't. So if we pointed out a preferred eating option from our guidebook, it had closed down.
A suggested hotel was met with an exaggerated head-shaking as he uttered: 'This place very bad, sir.'
Fortunately, we called a halt to the countless shops we were being exposed to, even though all of them were apparently the most famous cloth/jewellery/handicrafts emporium in the region.
So should we have been the ones putting our foot down?
Or should we have just accepted that this was the price to pay for the comfort of door-to-door service?
In fairness, not only did the genial Zaffir cart us from sight to sight, exposing all the magic of maharajas and moguls that Rajasthan has to offer, he also took us to one or two gems of which we were unaware.
Running 72 hours late
It doesn't seem to matter whether it's the middle of the day or the middle of the night: passing cries of 'chai, chai' (tea) or 'wada, wada, wada' (a deepfried Southern Indian snack) will haunt my dreams for ever.
Sometimes, of course, the vast network breaks down.
I once saw an announcement on Trivandrum station in Kerala, Southern India, that the Guwahati express from Assam in the North-East - a twice-weekly, 2,233-mile service that takes 75 hours - was running 72 hours late.
There are also appalling crashes, made worse by the hundreds of destitute passengers who cling to the roofs and sides of trains to avoid paying a fare.
The train traveller's secret is knowing how this mind-bogglingly large and antiquated system works.
Ironically, the network is a legacy of the British who, in more efficient times, laid down more than 23,000 miles of track, beginning in Bombay in 1853. Some of the bureaucracy hasn't changed much since then.
Booking ahead is, perhaps, the single most important thing to remember. It can be done only in person at a station and involves a lot of queueing (unless you are a woman, in which case you go to the front of the line).
An extreme example is the narrow-gauge 'toy train' to Darjeeling in the Himalayas. There is no point turning up at Jalpaiguri, where it begins, and asking for a first-class ticket.
A living masterpiece
Next morning in New Delhi, my eyes pricked from the atrocious pollution and my nerves grated at the fearsome noise of the auto rickshaws (an auto rickshaw is essentially a moped equipped with a passenger cabin that officially carries three, although I saw them bearing a dozen people plus assorted farm animals).
In New Delhi, however, life seemed no more astonishing than New Barnet. Taking lunch at the handsomely restored Imperial Hotel, for example, was as sumptuous a pleasure as dining at the London Ritz.
It was the journey a day later, following the 30-minute flight from Delhi, that offered a different perspective. The drive from Jaipur airport through the city and its straggling suburbs offered the first startling glimpse of the famous India experience. At the junction of the airport road, the driver gave way to a cart being pulled by a camel. I had no idea that camels were willing to, or even capable of, pulling a cart.
As the car taking me to the hotel slowly cruised along the bumpy road, the scene outside became part fabulous Fellini film, part earthy Breughel painting. Life at the side of the road was a throbbing tangle of activity that was compulsively watchable and intermittently repellent.
There were stalls piled high with oranges, kumquats and bananas; men wielding pieces of metal; long-snouted pigs snuffling amid the discarded food; tables stacked with bunches of brightly coloured exotic flowers; girls in neat school uniform. Cows stood in the middle of roundabouts, cows lurked at the entrance to petrol stations, cows grazed in the strip at the centre of a dual carriageway.
But most of all, what was amazing was the sheer quantity and diversity of people. Everywhere there were people sitting in white plastic patio chairs eating, talking, smoking, laughing, watching.
It felt like being too close to a very large oil painting. I was glimpsing small pieces of life - a sudden sight of an ornate temple, a group of men squatting on the ground listening intently to a man in a chair ('a story teller,' said the driver), a strikingly beautiful girl brushing her hair as she studied herself in the fragment of a mirror.
Everywhere looked like my teenage daughter's bedroom. As if nobody had made a serious attempt at a proper clean-up for so long that a proper clean-up now seemed near impossible. Things were messy in an epic way. Piles of abandoned bricks and mounds of sand sat among discarded plastic bottles and heaps of bits of long-ago expired vehicles.
'You probably notice that things are very tidy,' said my driver. Really? 'Everything was given a face-lift for the visit of President Clinton last year.' I tried to conceive how things might have looked prior to this face-lift but it was impossible to imagine.
A British favourite
Early Portuguese explorers rarely ventured far inland. From Madeira to Macao in China they colonised tight enclaves with the sea-route always available if they had to beat a retreat. Even in Africa, where they later spread across the width of the continent, their original settlements were prudently close to the shore.
Goa was the Indian landfall and it remained a Portuguese possession for 451 years until 1961. Now the only trace is in the family names: da Suza, Pereira, Dominquez and the rest; in the Roman Catholic religion and in a few buildings, churches and forts.There are some songs and dances too but comparatively few Portuguese now visit the territory.
'Eighty per cent of our foreign visitors are British,' Ceri Stone, a Welshman working in Panjim, the dusty little capital, told me. As if to underline the local preference, a huge map of the world decorates the lobby wall in the Cidade de Goa hotel - the one with great splodges of British Empire red spread across it.
Something the Portuguese did leave were enormous and ghostly looking churches. They are looking fragile now, bushes growing from roofs and creepers choking parapets. The huge basilica of Bom (Baby) Jesus seems to tremble under the weight of its packed visitors. It has the silver-framed remains of St Francis Xavier, resting placidly for all to see and to photograph despite being requested specifically not to do so. There is also a warning notice: 'Do not let off firecrackers' - a caution to overexuberant wedding parties.
We took the local ferry across to Divar Island, a lush place surrounded by deep brown inland rivers, and arrived just in time for a near riot, with locals vehemently protesting at the rise in ferry fares from half a rupee to three rupees. There are 70 rupees to a pound. 'It may seem small,' said a man called Willy, who was leading the protest. 'But these people live on 1,000 rupees a month.' That is about £15.
But Goa is a place of attitudes. You may sympathise with the women digging ditches with pickaxes for a pittance while their toddlers play in the rubble, but small change is apparently of no importance to the government-employed toll keepers on the bridge across the River Mandovi.
Instead of one or two rupees change they hand the motorist a couple of boiled sweets. This is by no means the most interesting diversion while driving in Goa. The roads can be occupied by water buffalo or sacred cow, not to mention languid pedestrians and a melee of other vehicles, all of which seem to be driving the wrong way.
Our taxi driver, having given a double honk on his hooter to acknowledge a roadside shrine, shouted that there were many accidents. 'Usually because of overtaking on blind bends!' he bawled as he did just that.
Window on the world
As we already had our tickets and had no wish to refuel at the 'McDonald's' (hugely inadvisable), it was over to the platform. Here, we tipped this beautiful Indian man the going rate of 50 rupees (around 75p) for a walk more accomplished than Linda Evangelista has ever managed for $10,000 on the catwalks of Milan.
We were travelling the 200 miles to Jaipur on the Delhi-Jodhpur Express, one of two 'fast' trains a day. The old train, for the first 20 minutes, travelled alongside a rippling grey river of tarpaulin-topped shacks - home to such a dense concentration of people that it would be impossible to put a figure to it. Children played in the puddles around the train tracks, pigs wallowed in sewers and the ubiquitous cows nosed through rubbish for food.
Next came a landscape of quarries, factories and refineries, then open land, with the occasional tree and bush but seemingly barren. As darkness fell, I opened the window and looked down the track. Ahead, a great red gash swarming with life had opened. We'd reached another station.
The arrival of the train was clearly a major event and the platform was thronged. Gripped by a spirit of adventure, we got off for a look around. After our air-conditioned carriage, the heat was like a dragon breathing in our faces. A dozen or so children followed us a short way along the platform, where traders had set up shop - well, sheets on the ground - and Lama-like old men in white tunics strolled about.
It was such a colourful night scene we'd love to have stayed a while. But the train was leaving, so we climbed back on board to watch a world that seemed not to have changed in centuries.
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| | | | Meditation and yoga
The Glasshouse is located on the Ganges, surrounded by a lychee orchard.
It is the brainchild of the founders of the Neemrana Hotel in Rajasthan, who were the first hoteliers to 'reinvent' crumbling old forts and palaces as attractive places for foreigners to stay.
However the fact that this part of India is no longer the preserve-of guru-struck, backpacking hippies is demonstrated most graphically by the Mandarin Oriental Ananda, which is reached by a zigzag road that takes you hundreds of feet above the fray of Rishikesh.
It is located in the grounds of an old palace, which is still used as the reception area.
True, the newer accommodation is located in fairly nondescript bungalows, but the service, facilities and backdrop of the hills more than compensate for this.
The entire experience of staying here is built around daily courses in meditation and yoga, with time set aside even for cosmic star-gazing at night.
Their resident meditator, Rishi Bharadwaj, comes from a long line of spiritual healers, and he is proud to run the spiritual side of what is called India's first destination spa resort.
But what of the Maharishi's ashram, which triggered off all the international fascination for Indian meditation?
It was abandoned by the Transcendental Meditation movement some time ago and is now a rubbish dump, totally overlooked by the local community.
The Maharishi's Delhi office claimed it was abandoned because the ashram did not strictly conform to Vastu, an Indian version of feng shui. Sadly, the real reason, however, is more mundane - there was a dispute about the rent.
Bruce Palling is the author of India, A Literary Companion.
TRAVEL FACTS:
Travellers to India usually fly into Delhi. Details from Flights4Less, 020 7400 7097. The nearest airport to Rishikesh is the Jolly Grant Airport in Dehradoon, a 45-minute Indian Airlines flight from New Delhi. From there, it's an hour's drive to Rishikesh. Fast trains to Hardwar, followed by a taxi to Rishikesh, are also available from New Delhi.
A princess amongst the camels
Our final destination was the Balotra horse and camel fair, where we stayed for several days. As we progressed along the 140-mile route, the deserted roads started to fill up. Herds of superior-looking camels, their dignity undermined by lolloping offspring, swayed down the dusty roads; suede-grey humped cattle with gorgeously painted horns rattled past in lorries.
But nothing prepared us for the scene that lay ahead, in the wide, dried-up bed of the Luni river. We heard the noise first: extraordinary bubbling groans that sounded like they came from a whole herd of Chewbaccas.
They came from the mouths of some 15,000 camels, patterns scissored into their toffee-coloured fur, that stood grouped around their owners. Besides the camels, there were 40,000 cattle milling around, and some 10,000 horses, gorgeously bedecked, being put through their paces by professional riders who sat well back, legs outstretched like Easy Riders to demonstrate the utter comfort of their mounts.
And thousands and thousands of people, Rajasthanis in ornate, bright turbans, Punjabis in white, almost naked holy men - but hardly any women, and not a single white face apart from ours.
As a result, despite the mounds of saddles, cooking pots, beds, decorated jugs and spices on sale, our small group was the market's most popular attraction. Whenever we clattered in, led by our flag-bearer, traders would actually run for a closer look. If we stopped at a stall, a small crowd would collect, sometimes drawing up chairs to watch us if we paused long enough.
Their scrutiny was never rude, but silent and fascinated. It was all too easy to believe that I was, in fact, the daughter of a royal house. Returning home was even more depressing than usual. Not only did I have to give up Sheetal and re-acclimatise to the miserable British weather, worse still I had to run my own bath and take my own shoes off.
In the pink
Jaipur, India's first grid-planned city, was pinkly laid out by that great warrior Maharajah Jai Singh II in 1727. His descendant (not precisely by blood, because several maharajahs of Jaipur have been adopted) is the popular 'Bubbles' to his friends. He commanded a brigade in the last war against Pakistan and is just back from being Indian ambassador to Brunei. His father, Jai, was a wonderful polo player who opened up 'Snobs Hockey' in England to the social climbers of the Fifties. In those days the princely Indians were still enormously rich.
The Maharajah still lives in part of his City Palace. The rest is open to the public, from the rosy Palace of the Winds to the Observatory designed two centuries ago and a museum of marvels: tapestries, textiles, armour and lovely gardens.
The famous Rambagh Palace, grandest of the old hotels, is still owned by the Maharajah. It is surrounded by enormous English style lawns and immense flower borders. There's often quite good grub in the huge dining room where Indian musicians squat and pluck. The Rambagh's fading grandeur is now defiled by the scruffiness of most of its modern guests: Germans shoving and shouting, Americans honking and waddling around in smelly jeans, or crude shorts above hideous legs and grimy trainers.
Do not contemplate dining in the once vaunted rooftop restaurant in another hotel in Jaipur, the grim Mansingh. Instead, drive out to one of the old family forts now being converted into 'historic country house hotels'. There is the lakeside Ramgarh Lodge, the Samode Palace (scene of the Far Pavilions film), Mandawa Fort and Dundlod, owned by a splendid sporting Rajput family of horsemen.
'The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate,' remains the rule in India. Estates are still ordered in the form of castes. But a host of things bright and beautiful glow in the Indian sun.
Following the Norman trail
In the country markets you can see tribal people who live high in the hills where no road or visitors reach. Once a week they come down to sell their produce and buy cheap jewellery and cloth. You see people whose features you would never expect to find in India; some with the characteristics of Australian aborigines, others high cheekboned and definitely Asiatic.
Norman's words came alive when he talked about the intriguing Bonda people, who live in a dramatic, mountainous terrain and seem more primitive than other tribes. Miniature in stature, they are the only Orissan tribe to show fierce aggression, killing not only animals but humans with their bows and arrows.
Perhaps misleadingly, the Bonda girls have a sweet expression, so neat and pretty with their neck rings and shaven heads covered with a cap of beads which hangs down in front of their naked breasts. Their market was the most colourful of all but Bibhu kept a close guard on us. 'I know these people,' he said. 'They can be as ferocious as a tiger.'
By the end of our trip I felt Norman was a friend. Occasionally we met people who remembered him. At a dilapidated hotel in a small town where Norman also stayed, an ancient waiter became very excited when he saw the book jacket photograph. 'Yes, I know him, he was my friend, he was my friend,' he repeated. We stayed in the same room as Norman, looking out over a small garden festooned with multi-coloured lights which jerked erratically on and off all night.
At the end of our seven-day journey we drove to the lovely Oberoi Palm Beach Hotel at Gopalpur-on-sea for two days' rest. As we lay on the verandah looking out at the shimmering Bay of Bengal and discussing our trip, I wished that Norman could have been with us. When I returned to England I could not resist writing to tell him he was still remembered in Orissa, and how much I had enjoyed his book as we retraced his steps in such a fascinating and unspoilt place.
He wrote back promptly and recommended I visit, by missionary plane, an even more remote tribal destination in Indonesia where until 20 years ago you risked being 'gobbled up'. He is now looking for another 'such lovely place' to visit. Even in his 90's Norman's sense of curiosity and adventure must still be strong.
An interest in life and people, and enjoyment of new experiences, appears to be the key to an alert old age. No wonder Norman is planning his next journey. I hope at 90 I shall be in some distant place full of light and life and colour, with a Norman Lewis book at my side.
Curry was unforgettable
Here we stayed in spotless comfort. Vinod's mother and pretty wife, Anu, cooked us excellent meals, and demonstrated some favourite dishes. Their succulent duck curry was unforgettable.
Sebastian, the handsome driver of a white Ambassador car, looked like a young Omar Sharif.
With him we set off to experience quite another aspect of Kerala - the hill country.
We stayed the first night at the Palai rubber estate. The house is pure Thirties, down to the last piece of teak furniture.
Here we found yet another wonderful cook, Regi George; his offerings, including white mango and fresh coconut chutney, pickled vegetables and a meltingly soft aromatic pumpkin dish, were all mouthwatering.
Once more we found ourselves in the steps of Sir Paul, who had stopped for lunch a few days before.
Regi had no idea who the star was, but remembered that he had praised his pumpkin dish.
I told Regi that he could now tell people he had cooked for a world famous man, but he just smiled, slightly puzzled.
The Cardamom Hills are even more romantic than their name implies. As you climb higher the landscape becomes a kind of Shangri La - and just as surreal.
All in one scene you can see dramatic hills and waterfalls (identical to parts of Scotland), exotic jigsaw patterns of brilliant green tea plantations and jungly forests in the shade of which pepper and cardamom are grown.
The ultra-clear light adds to the unreality; the air is pure and refreshing.
Laden up with tat
Finally, we turn off, following the signs for Varkala, and Emlyn relaxes. 'Isn't this exciting?' he says and Tallulah nods in seeming agreement before delivering another generous helping of tummy porridge on Emlyn's one smart 'hotel check-in' shirt.
Kerala is often referred to as 'God's own country' in all the tourist bumph - and we can see why. As we are assisted (stinking) out of the car on to The Taj Garden Retreat's red carpet, butterflies dance around us and flowering creepers cover the building. Beyond, through the tasteful reception area, we can see the sea twinkling through a forest of coconut trees.
We piggy-back Tallulah across to the pool bar and order beers.
We feast on vegetable pakoras and Tallulah wolfs down fresh orange juice and a plate of fish fingers. As the first day ends in an impressive display of kathakali dancing on the manicured lawns, we already feel as if we've been away for a month.
Next morning we venture out, following the pathway down through a dry paddy field, past an amorous bull and on to the beach. There are a few beggars, but mainly hawkers block our path, trying to sell drums, painted leaf cards, embroidered wall hangings, hats and jingling elephant decorations.
When they realise we haven't yet got the knack of saying 'no', we're instantly laden up with tat.
We eventually escape, lie out on the hot sand and run squealing into the crystal-clear blue sea. When we come out, an old woman hacks up a fresh pineapple with a machete for us and we eat it messily, sweet juice running down our chins, as Tallulah sets about burying her new trinkets.
A few days later and we're back on the road up into the backwaters (all 75 miles of them!) and on to Coconut Lagoon in Lake Vembanad. The scenery gets so overgrown-lush and green that Tallulah asks with innocent confusion: 'Mummy, are we in The Jungle Book?'
We arrive by boat on the private island and are presented with flower garlands. As we step into our mansion, we continue to sigh with delight.
Through a thick teak door at the back, there's an outdoor bathroom. Tallulah places her potty in pride of place under the giant leaf of a palm tree and declares that she's 'very, very happy'.
So she should be! It's taken us 30-odd years to achieve this level of luxury.
Luxury retreat at the Raj
From Agra, we travelled by air-conditioned coach - a journey which can also be done by train - to the fascinating and colourful city of Jaipur, about five hours' drive away. The long journey was anything but dull as cows stopped the traffic and keen but humorous vendors sold us beaded necklaces and colourful bindis whenever we stopped for a break.
The sights of squalor can be shocking. But just visiting India, which has a population of a billion, helps tourism - one of its fastest-growing industries.
Our accommodation could not have been in greater contrast - the exclusive Raj Villas, recently voted by a glossy magazine as the best hotel in the world. Each guest or couple has their own villa set in landscaped gardens. All rooms have four-poster beds, DVD players and bathrooms with a double marble bath looking out on their own, private garden.
This is romance and luxury at its best, and after the stimulating but tiring journey it is the perfect place to recharge. You can sit under pretty gazebos by the swimming pool, enjoy an open-air whirlpool bath under the stars, and have a head massage in the immaculate health spa.
At night, as dancers perform on the outdoor restaurant stage, you can choose from a delicious menu of a mix of Indian and European food, from curries to pan-fried seared Bekti fish with prosciutto and thyme-scented jus. On returning to my room, I discovered that flower petals had been scattered across the bed, and every night a different small present was left for me on the bedside table.
I would have liked to have spent a few days simply relaxing at Raj Villas, but it is a good base to explore the spectacular lake palaces, bazaars and temples of Rajasthan. A short drive away, I took an elephant ride up to Amber Fort, which rises steeply on a hillside.
The shopping there is excellent, especially if you are looking for white cotton tie-back curtains, pashminas and mirrored bedspreads. So, did I succumb to any terrible diseases? None. Except perhaps an addiction to India. I can't wait to go back.
Travel facts: Western & Oriental Travel offers packages to India including return Virgin Atlantic flights, airconditioned transport, internal flights, first-class train travel, provision of guides and accommodation at various luxury hotels, including the Raj Villas, on a bed-and-breakfast basis. Tel: 020 7313 6611 or e-mail info@westernoriental.com.
Disappointed by his tip
Ranakpur, which we had no plans to see, was a case in point. We marvelled at the bewilderingly ornate Chaumukha Temple and the beautiful drive from there to Udaipur.
We also met two other couples, on almost identical trips, who were staying at the same tranquil lodge.
The first had paid three times what we had at an independent agent in Delhi's notorious tourist quarter - Connaught Place.
The second couple were travelling on an accommodation budget considerably greater than ours, which, like us, they had confided to their driver early on. Like our driver, he had stuck to it throughout when finding hotels. That night they were paying three times our room rate. Their room was identical to ours.
This is a people for whom commission is a way of life. When we came to the end of our trip, our friend was disappointed by his tip.
Anything up to 100 rupees a day is considered the norm. We gave him a paltry 300 rupees.
But when he had the audacity to complain, I knew we'd made the right decision. Given the amount of free meals and board, plus commission he must have made over the two weeks, I felt it was generous.
Next time we'll make sure that we're in the driving seat.
Populated by Chief Ministers
The regular service - the second highest and the slowest train journey in the world, with more than 50 miles of switchbacks in seven hours - offers only 'chair cars', the lowest of five classes.
If you insist on travelling first class, you must book well in advance to allow the stationmaster time to hook up a special carriage for you.
Neither service is going to break the bank: chair car seats cost 22 rupees (30p), first-class 210 rupees (£3).
The different classes are often a cause of confusion for Western travellers. We used to spoil ourselves occasionally and travel in '1st A.C. sleeper', the most exclusive category. With its beautiful wooden panels and private compartments, it was a different world, populated by Chief Ministers rather than chai-wallahs.
Only some routes provide this service, however. Most trains offer '2nd A.C. sleeper', which is comfortable and recommended for long journeys. Indian trains might be slower than ours, and possibly even more crowded, but give me the Frontier Mail or the Raj Doot any day.
Passengers can engage with the passing landscape in a way that is incomprehensible in Britain: you know it's morning when you are woken by the sound of children at play running alongside the moving train, or by the sight of squatting figures in misty fields.
The journey, you see, is as much a part of the experience as getting there. Mr Primo knew that; the rest of us should follow.
TRAVEL FACTS:
Cox & Kings (tel: 020 7873 5000) arranges trips on India's famous colonial-style Palace On Wheels. SDEL (http://www.indiarail.co.uk or tel: 020 8903 3411) makes free seat reservations and sells Indrail passes. Cable Travel (tel: 01766 512244) arranges annual 'Steam and Tea' tours of narrow gauge railways in India.
Royal treatment at the Rajvilas
I stayed at the Rajvilas, part of the Oberoi group, which is about as palatial as a hotel can get. Clinton was said to be very impressed. So were the two Americans in front of me at the reception desk. 'Wow,' said the man. 'You can say that again,' said his wife.
The recipient of this year's Tatler Hotel of the Year award, the main building of the Rajvilas is a faux Rajasthani fort - around it are clustered luxury villas, some of them set up as lavishly appointed tents (Clinton had one of these). A few hundred yards away in another world people are hacking a living from selling old bricks and welding bits of old scooter together. In here you live like a film star in rooms with sunken marble baths. Wow!
I would have been happy to linger indefinitely in the Rajvilas but a car was waiting next morning to go to the Amber Fort, which stands at the top of a hill and is reached by an elephant ride.
'Hold on to the seat tightly,' said my guide before I climbed on. This was superfluous advice. Sitting on an elephant is like being carried on the top of a Transit van with a flat tyre. It tottered up the hill often straying alarmingly close to a perilous drop at the edge of the path.
Even more worrying, half way up the hill the elephant driver took his eye off the road and turned round. He began trying to sell me the metal spike which he used to poke his elephant. I told him that while it was a perfectly nice spike, it was of no practical use to me. He took this information with obvious disappointment.
My guide was waiting in the palace at the top to help me off the elephant. 'Much work was done here for the visit of President Clinton and Chelsea,' he informed me. 'They built six helipads.' The fort itself is a delight. The highlight is the Sheesh Mahal, the regal bedroom with a ceiling studded with mirrors - illuminated by a single candle, it bursts into a million points of light.
The car tour ended in Jaipur at the inevitable crafts workshop. Here a toothless old man was busy knotting a carpet; the next minute the same toothless codger was burning another carpet with a gas blowtorch to show its hard-wearing properties - he immediately brushed off the burnt bits to reveal no obvious lasting damage. The next minute he was demonstrating how they block-printed fabrics. Then he was upstairs handing round cups of tea while a salesman encouraged me to buy a yak wool carpet.
'Feel,' he instructed. It felt like yak wool. 'Seven hundred English pounds - delivered straight to your door.' It was a jolly good carpet, I said, but not for me. 'OK, you say how much - how much? You say good price.' From Jaipur Carpets to Allied Carpets, why is it always sale time in the carpet business?
Biswas on a Friday morning
If the lawns that verge the beach at Cidade de Goa give a velvet touch to the coast, then it is only necessary to travel 10 miles to see the state at its most vibrant.
The market at Mapuca on a Friday is a bowl filled with every kind of colour and life. Mountains of scrubbed vegetables fill the alleys. There are tangy spices and cheap trinkets, baubled and bangled nomadic tribeswomen, beautiful gipsy children, umbrellas to shade the sun and, inverted, to carry consignments of rat poison.
There are men with nasty looking implements who offer to clean your ears, a Dr Biswas offers cures for 'secret' diseases, and an old woman claims she can get you a new wife. Amid all the noise and activity stood one medium-sized elephant swinging his trunk as though conducting some private music.
Every night the moon came out like a silver toenail, the mornings were beautiful, only a little less so than the evenings. In our two visits we saw no flies or mosquitoes or other buzzy things, certainly not on the coast. Another bonus is that you can get a decent dinner for under £3.
The Malabar Coast stretches south from Goa past the textile city of Calicut to Cochin in Kerala. I like to think of it as the Calico Coast because it was from here that the pale cloth first came in the 17th-century, and the sea and the shore, even now, have a gauze look.
This is the most prosperous part of India and it looks it. There is a clean, gentle lushness about the countryside, people live in tidy houses on the banks of the warm, green water, and fish and travel in boats called Hail Mary, Immaculate and, somewhat puzzlingly, Infant Mary.
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| | | | You are in Heaven
At one point on the road we found a rusted old sign which read: 'You are in Heaven'. We believed it.
The guesthouse of the Windemere Estate at high Munnar was our home here; comfortable beds, good cooking and a garden massed with 'English' flowers.
From these high, lush hills (mountains, really) we drove steeply down to the dry plains of Tamil Nadu state, where perhaps the most enjoyable surprise of the trip greeted us at The Bangala, in the centre of the remote Chettinad region.
Chettinad is famed for its food, its temples and for the incredible marble and teak mansions built by the trading and banking Chettiar families when they made their fortunes in the late 19th Century.
Mrs Meyyapan is from one of these families and has restored a guesthouse to its Art Deco glory - Indian style.
The Bangala, or bungalow, is beautifully conceived to the last period detail. There are special features too: we slept in a four-poster bed inlaid with seductively reclining beauties and roofed all over with a mirror.
But the best treat of all was Mrs Meyyapan's food - cooked by two private family chefs.
Their creations were the crowning glory of what had unexpectedly turned out to be a truly gastronomic tour of home cooking in India.
TRAVEL DETAILS
A similar tour, and bookings at the above mentioned private homes, can be arranged through Equinox Travel, (mentioning the special tour arranged for Josceline Dimbleby) or through Pettitts Travel - http://www.pettitts.co.uk/india.html tel: 01892 515966.
Splendid colonial hotel
Coconut Lagoon is famed for its Ayurvedic centre, where we take it in turns to have alarmingly rigorous body massages and facials. I do a yoga practice overlooking the lake at sunset. Emlyn hires a boat to go water-skiing.
The resort is full of lovely people, not least the other two-year-olds, Rhia from London and Margo from San Francisco, who immediately form a gang with Tallulah. Together, they teach the patient, if not slightly bemused staff to hitch up their saris and join in the hokey cokey.
We have to wrench ourselves away to travel to Cochin, the ancient port up the coast, where we're booked into Brunton Boatyard, a splendid colonial hotel.
The second we arrive Tallulah is whisked into the air by Vilas, the manager, who describes himself as the Pied Piper of Cochin. He and Tallulah chase each other around the Victorian snooker table, beneath the old punka fans, while we clink glasses of gin fizz together.
For the first time, we do the tourist bit and take a boat into the old city, where we get mobbed by gangs of Indian tourists, swarming around like paparazzi to take pictures of Tallulah. She doesn't bat an eyelid.
Again, we don't want to leave but it's time to wend our way inland to the Cardamom Hills, heading up the hairpin road past rubber plantations and pineapple groves until, further up, we pass women picking tea on the slopes.
The wildlife is incredible but Tallulah only has eyes for the grumpy elephant on the side of the road and eventually we relent and pay for a ride. Emlyn is first up the ladder and lifts up Tallulah. I'm on next but I've no head for heights and there's nothing to hang on to as we set off with a lurch.
A little hand rests consolingly on me. 'Don't panic, Mummy, it's going to be all right.' 'OK,' I squeak, our roles truly reversed, but Tallulah is whooping with delight as the elephant is doing a giant you-know-what. It's the highlight of her trip.
Lastly, we head south to Kovalum to hook up with our mates doing the round-the-world trip. We have booked the charming Kundukulam villa, a self-catering apartment set in a coconut grove.
The owner, Varghese, welcomes us as if we're long-lost relatives. 'Come in, come in,' he urges - only to be instantly sabotaged as the nightly power-cut kicks in.
The truth about the Taj Mahal
The drive from Jaipur to Agra was a white-knuckle ride as cars overtook lorries and lorries over-took lorries and lorries overtook camel carts with a breath-taking disregard for safety. 'We believe if it is your fate to die then it is your fate,' said my driver. Is that in the Indian highway code, I wondered.
Agra like Jaipur, was the usual chaotic mix of discarded bricks, football stadium crowds blocking the backstreets and roads jammed with auto rickshaws and decrepit buses. The roadsides were compulsive viewing, with shops advertising 'Tasty-Tasty Biscuits' and 'Coaching? Join our Mastermind Classes' and 'Welcome to our Literature Club'.
A Vespa scooter pulled up next to us carrying a husband, his wife on the back riding side-saddle and assorted children and babes in arms. Behind the scooter was an auto rickshaw crammed with schoolgirls frantically revising for some test.
'The Taj Mahal,' said the driver. Indeed, just a couple of hundred yards away, above the tops of some scrubby trees poked the top of the famous dome. In your imagination the Taj Mahal exists in some ethereal world, entirely separate from reality. But here it was, a stone's throw from complete and utter urban chaos.
Oberoi's Amarvilas hotel has been built a few minutes walk from the Taj Mahal. Every room in the hotel has a view of the temple of love built by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan as a memorial to his favourite wife. Completed in 1653, the Taj took 20,000 workers 22 years to build (we think we have problems with Wembley Stadium).
It's so exquisite, so perfect, that even as you look at the Taj Mahal you can hardly believe it's real. An afternoon spent strolling around its gardens is an unforgettable experience.
Gliding through the gardens
The new city of Cochin is full of dusty industry; massive tankers and rust-red ore carriers nudge each other at the docks, but alongside them the inhabitants earn their living by fishing with an extraordinary Heath Robinson design of net that was first brought there by the Mongols in the days of Genghis Khan.
These contraptions sit astride the grass banks of the lagoon, each the size of a two-storey house, the nets stretched over a pyramid frame of poles. A cantilever operation, seemingly complex but sweetly simple in operation, lowers the triangular frame into the water. The fish, which apparently never learn, swim into its clutches and the fishing crew reverse the weights and tackle to bring them to the bank, and swiftly to Cochin market.
Morning was cool, clean and clear. We set off in two tourist boats from below the frown of a huge ore carrier. Our boat was for English speaking people, the other occupied mainly by German tourists whose guide had the advantage of a megaphone. We lost them in the curling waterways, although we could still hear their guide over the trees. Ours, as though to compound the situation, spoke to us in whispers.
But you hardly needed a commentary.
Kerala is the greenest, gentlest state of India. There is little of the raw toughness of the North-East. Paddy fields stretch out like tablecloths from the waterbanks. All the way there are neat villages, often with a church, a temple or a market, and small white houses, their feet in the water.
Women in vivid saris waved shyly to us as they washed clothes in the lagoon and children jumped about and pointed at us. There were well-tended boats (even an ambulance boat blazoned with red crosses) and well-tended gardens. The land went green and untrammelled to join wit |
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