Home

Campaigns

Scribblings

Music

Food

Self-help

Faves

Scotland

Holidays

Mac

Palm PDA

Gallery

Medical

Holidays

Florence, 2012

Leonardo, our info man at Grand Hotel Baglioni. Angela, our guide at Academia. David the republican Florentine, looking S to Rome with a challenge. Softer side of face cf more concentrated. The sculpture trying to emerge from stone - Michelangelo unusually agreed to use stone provided by Cathedral (had been sitting for 50 years, 2 previous artists had begun attempts to use it). Not recognizable as David without head of Goliath - so Michelangelo maybe knew it would never be used on facade as intended, given radical style (lightness, movement). On the other hand, back had to be finished after mounting in Piazza de Signoria.

Gormley etc in Accademia. Bartholini plaster models incl dancing girls (daughters) for Inverary Castle.

Giotto introduced perspective and affectionate gestures between Mary and baby Jesus (1305?). Perfected by Marsacchio? St Anne painting, when M did central section for his master.

Medici had 2 popes, 2 queens. Wealth from banking (but note usury illegal, so more for allowing money to be transferred from 1 city to another, with some risk of exchange fluctuation. Plus interests in wool, silk.

Doryphorus (roman copy, 1 of many...)

Leonardo annunication - gined sketches of angel Gabriel hjand yet Mary's arms asymmetrical, out of proportion so must have been joint effort.

Aperitivo at Negroni, plus Negroni.

Santa Maria Novella - facade by Leon Battista Alberti, classical columns etc but S shaped side elements completely new. 5m hanging crucifix by Giotto. Crucifix by Brunelleschi, unremarkable...

Trinity by Masaccio, pioneering early work (perspective, mathematical proportions). Skeleton under their feet, carries the epigram: "I was once what you are, and what I am you will become".

Pulpit also by Brunelleschi, where first attack on Galileo was launched. Tornabuoni chapel by Ghirlandaio, Strozzi chapel by Filippino Lippi.

San Miniato al Monte - romanesque style ie mediaeval, massive, semicircles, symmetrical cf later Gothic. Armenian soldier, resistant to attempts to kill him, eventually carries his own decapitated head up the hill before dying. 1207 mosaic in the apse, featuring zodia, fatastic creatures. Eagles were symbol of wool merchat guild. Concealed choir in walls.

Italian lakes and Venice, 2007?

Venice from the plane looks half flooded already, terracotta roofs and spires stranded in the water. Pylons mark boat routes between the islands. Piazza San Marco full of people and pigeons, the Basilica splendid and colourful, the vacadeds on the square blackened in places as if mildewed.

Finding the hotel involves searching through alleyways - the Calle die Fabri starts off called something else, does a dog leg round one building, then another, seems to end abruptly then carries on. Glimpses of other busy lanes off to the side make you think you're off track, but in fact they're not any bigger. During the day shops appear as if by magic: one selling brushes, another an opticians, as if perhaps real life does go on here.

Archways, little bridges, flowerboxes (with windmills), "Pace" rainbow flags, huge chimney pots, a few stripy poles for mooring gondolas but mostly bare wooden posts, classic old motorboats with white leather armchairs and wooden decking.

But Alberto the barber (non! no clippers) tells us most workers can't afford a decent flat in Venice, they commute from Mestre on the mainland.  Senegalese hawk Gucci watches, Prada handbags. Carnival masks, murano glass, beamed ceilings visible through windows, rooftop terraces, small osterias down every alley.  7.50 euros for a small beer/wine!

Verona

Our 4 star hotel is a bizarre amalgam of Travel Inn uniformity with a random assortment of classic designer furniture in chrome and leather, then ethnic carpets and prints.  Business people park their BMWs outside, stand chatting in the reception hall dressed in fine suits, cigarettes wafting.  Outside are the Milan to Venice motorway, the airport and a container facility.

All the traffic comes as a shock after Venice, as do the beggars at the traffic lights.  The Arena is quite discreet surprisingly, just 2 rows of arches at the back of the Piazza Bra, half hidden by the park and the posters.  The grand sweep of cafes, buzzing with opera goers is more striking.  Once inside, anticipation mounts with each set of stairs until finally we emerge on to the packed marble steps, cushion in hand.  Eagle eyed ushers squeeze us into an impossible space, form where we can vew the 10 000 odd crowd, the stage at one end and the remaining tall fragment of outer wall at the other.  Bats swoop through the bowl of the arena after dusk.

Pasta is served hard!

The Piazza dell'Erbe is surrounded by beautiful painted buildings on all sides, some frescoed. The Lambretti tower looks down on simple white parasols, a high archway leads past it, at the top of which a whale rib dangles.

Fish tail battlements mark the castles of the Scaglieri family and are seen all round Lake Garda too. An old bridge, only wide enough for pedestrians and cyclists leads over the river to the Roman theatre. A church is built almost on top of it, these fantastic slender pines dot the hill above where an array of serious buildings look down on Verona.

The museum is a lovely collection of little rooms with mosaics including scenes of gladiator combat, and courtyards of Corinthian columns and trees. Great views. Traces remain of old cisterns and channels.

Juliette's house is reached through an arch and courtyard not so much plastered with graffiti as etched, engraved, badged and labelled. The statue is graceful but demeaned by the polished right breast and the queue of men posing for pictures cupping it. Inside the 11th century house is warmly lit and painted, it feels inviting and relaxed. The paintings aren't anything special but the guest book explodes with impromptu declarations of amorous passion.

Limone

From the hotel roof I see the 2000ft limestone crag behind the town, the ferries arriving and leaving, the great blocks sliding into the lake up towards Riva like monstrous Titanics. The green carpeted mountains opposite are crested with green pastures of bare white rock, the thin line of tunnel, village, beach. The dramatic scenery contrasts with the opaque green lake and blue sky, then the olive, lemon and pine trees, the flourishes of oleander. Swifts dance on the water.

We smoulder through the heat of the night in our room, windows flung wide open, an occasional cool breath of wind. I imagined the greenery must be adapted to the endless heat of summer until the storm that came Monday night when we were in Riva for the piano recital. Great blobs of rain, the roads awash, an endless cycle of lightning and thunder, a rising roar of wind and rain.

Church bells, on the half hour, random outbursts. At the top of the cable car from Malcesure? we looked out across alpine meadows to mountains beyond. The grass is rich with wild flowers, the air full of butterflies. We drop steeply down through pine forest.

Arlecchino ("Harlequin") and Olimpia Hotel on corner of bus station at Piazza Le Como.

Simione

Enter over the draw bridge, lunch (seafood risotto) at lovely restaurant on the water at edge of castle wall under vines. Long rows of gelaterias.

Germans everywhere, on the hotel TV, reversing in mountain tunnels, the Italians often assume you are too and speak German. Actually the waiters and bar staff come from Croatia, Romania, Macedonia, Hungary! "The Italians don't like to work too hard" they say, meeting us at the Gatta Boracha ("Drunken cat") wine bar on our last night for mad, busy band night (2 guys from Milan with the bar owner joining in for a few guitar numbers, Italian pop, that dancy Turkish stuff, U2, Bruce Springsteen, Village People). Met Helen from Bolton, in love with Limone and everything Italy, on her fourth visit but being cold-shouldered by her darts playing sailor friend/lover. All after a night of salsa dancing to one of the other electronic organ bands, then jumping about on the waterfront to an excellent Beatles tribute band (with an amusingly poor grasp of English).

India, 2004

Wednesday 7th April - Hotel Star, Delhi

Good KLM flight, sat next to twin nuns, watched Chori Chori [film], set in Shimla, looks great.

Crazy taxi ride to hotel, wrong way up dual carriageway on dirt rough track next to sewage trench, squeezing through impossible gaps. Scraped 1 other car, then held up by 2 Tata jeep drivers getting into a fight!

Great Masala omelette - onion, green chilli, coriander...

Thursday 8th April - Rang Niwas Palace, Udaipur

"Buttered toast" for breakfast, that square delicacy. Breeze through check in at domestic terminal of Indira Gandhi airport. Bizarrely, the waiting room seems full of Westerners, whereas at Amsterdam Schiphol it was full of Indians... A turboprop takes us up into the haze, we bump around a bit above the parched Rajasthani landscape before bouncing on to the runway and into the dry heat.

A hallway of palms takes you from the cluster of stalls at the junction into the courtyard of the Rang Niwas palace, full of frangipani, yuccas, pines, overlooked by Mughal arched balconies and verandahs complete with swinging benches.

For sunset we don our finest and walk up to the sunset terrace beside Fatehpur Prakash palace. Initially there is just one other table occupied, but shortly there arrives an Ozzie tour group, some hennaed hippy chicks, a bagpipe band and a procession of women and children bearing gifts for the temple. The sun slowly dips behind distant desert mountains, the Lake Palace and our bottles of Kingfisher.

Thali [Gujarati meal of rice, breads, dal and vegetable served in individual tin dishes] on the roof in the evening, looking towards the illuminated palaces, the fruit bats, Saturn and Jupiter.

Good Friday, 9th April - Rang Niwas Palace

Huge long sleep in our enormous wooden beds, with photos and portraits set into the end panels.

Head up the poplar lined drive into the city palace complex again, this time to explore its endless tiny corridors, courtyards and balconies. The older parts are 17th century and there are endless paintings of the Maharajahs battles, hunting and parties. There is fine lattice work, lovely cupolas, tacky coloured glass and mirrors, fruit trees and ponds.

The Crystal Gallery is an orgy of plastic excess, but the ticket includes a Pepsi on a sofa overlooking the Lake Palace.

I take a rickshaw out to the station, past cows, wild boar, monkeys, clapped out Ambassador cars, juice stalls, bhel puri stalls, ice stalls, the jumble of old and new buildings, shops, workshops, crumbling walls daubed with adverts for private English tuition.

Take the last boat ride out round the Lake Palace, past the ghats where boys play cricket, the water hyacinth, to the other island palace, Jagmandir. Stone elephants guard the jetty but up the stairs is a simple open courtyard planted with frangipani, a fountain, a little temple and a lovely terrace looking back towards Udaipur.

We join a small crowd in the dark courtyard of Bagore Ki Haveli (not a real palace, but as good as) to watch and listen as different folk dances are served up. There are twirling, tinselly dresses, skilfully twirled bells, flaming vessels on heads, puppets, then finally a fearsome old woman balancing a tower of vessels on her head taller than herself, then stamping on shards of glass.

Dodge motorbikes, rickshaws and cows in the dark past all the souvenir shops back to the hotel for paneer butter masala (a sweet, red sauce but not too hot) and aloo palak.

Saturday 10th April - Rang Niwas Palace

Take an Ambassador taxi out to Khumbalgarh, about 2 hours. We are soon on country roads, winding through an arid landscape yet farmed in places with wheat and sugar cane, and terraced with dry stone walls as if waiting patiently for the rain. Women work the land in their bright orange and red saris, followed by little dark children, men in simple white turbans plough with bullocks. There are still plenty of old dry stone wells with bullock powered water wheels. The only obvious change to this way of life is the regular water pump, the occasional threshing machine, and very occasional tractor.

Among the sunburnt orange,red and black rocks are mango trees, flame of the forest [Butea monosperma], palms, acacias. Rarely is there a brackish puddle in a dry bed, surrounded by oleander, where women wash clothes, boys and buffalo swim. The hills are sharp edged, dry and prickly.

The Khumbalgarh fortress is a tremendous spectacle of bulbous fortifications, topped by an incongruous yellow and pink fort. The huge walls snake off into the distance for 36 km to completely encircle the hilltop. Within is mostly scrub, the odd temple, some clusters of houses. The fort itself is small and quite bare, just the occasional splash of green paint. But this was the Helm's Deep of Rajasthan [Lord of the Rings reference], where the Maharana would retreat to make a last stand and it was taken only once in 600 years.

In total contrast, the Jain temple at Ranakpur is pristine white, delicate and spiritual, yet also from the 15th century. The forest of pillars is disorientating, creating different views and perspectives with every step. Each column is unique, with elephants, hippos (?), peacocks, flowers, dancing girls, leaf patterns. Overhead , a series of intricate domes, something like a mandala at the centre, god-like figures around the edge. The buddha-like figures have bright staring eyes and a quirky smile.

Superb egg curry for dinner, after banana lassi [yogurt drink] oral rehydration.

Sunday 11th April - Sleeper to Ajmer

Our neighbour Emmanuelle, in a former life a management consultant in Paris, now a Shiatsu therapist in Brittany studying Ayurvedic medicine, recommends a tailor. The brothers Hemant and Bapu are part of a collective (the shop sign simply says "the Collection"), buying material mainly from Rajasthan, producing export quality beaded silk and bags in traditional Rajasthani patchwork. In less than an hour we have 2 suits, a kurta and a bag.

We sit regally on the verandah, flicking through the latest Indian Cosmo, then take a nap. The days seem to be getting hotter.

We go early for the boat, briefly enjoying a seat in the Lake Palace jetty waiting room before jostling for a front row seat. On Jagmandir a smart waiter has mislaid his customers and we happily take his cold coffees, each with a dollop of vanilla ice cream up on to the terrace. As the sun sets, swifts dive for fish on all sides.

We quickly collect our suits, gobble down some dal and mixed veg, then take a rickshaw to the station. A sudden fog descends, and out of the gloom appears a jeep on its side, a rickshaw viciously caved in at the front corner. Rubble is strewn across the road. Luckily there are no accident victims to be seen, although I feel guilty for thinking it.

We had been wondering if the women and kids of rural Rajasthan toiling in the fields or queuing for water did still sing and dance the way they told us at the folk show: of all places, we wheel into the parking lot of the station past a happy group of women singing and drumming.

We find the Ticket Collector on the platform, he scrawls something on our ticket which turns out to be our seat numbers although we only find that out after getting ejected from our first choice of compartment. I love the compactness of it - 4 berths, each with fold open reading light, 2 coathooks, magazine pocket, pillow, sheets and blanket. There is a mirror, 2 cupholders, a blue night light, a 2 speed fan, fold down steps to get up to the upper berths, and wire security loops for luggage. Our management professor companion explains that this is an old medium gauge train so the rocking is more pronounce. Our other companion is snoring in minutes.

Tuesday 13th April - Hotel Madhuban, Jaipur

Fitful sleep, despite the relative comfort. At Ajmer the attendant is fast asleep and staggers to his feet sheepishly to open the doors. The dark streets are very quiet, hardly a soul stirs, but all through the station and all along the roads are bodies, lying as if they had just dropped on the spot, not scrap of cardboard for a pillow. We must have seen a hundred, adults and children.

The White House Hotel is hidden away along a dingy alley, but inside has a charming open courtyard. The room is whitewashed with multicoloured lanterns, neon striplights, a monstrous aircooler which sounds like a tank engine, on top which is the TV. It is crawling with ants and mosquitoes. It's 5 am so we sleep for a few hours.

Kapil, the owners' son, arranges breakfast for us. His forehead is already daubed with yellow and white, he seems a relaxed and earnest young man. On the roof terrace, which looks across rooftops to nearby hills we meet Julia, from London but S African, on a round the world trip but ill and down in the dumps. She stirs her banana and curd around the bowl, we enjoy mango tea and toast. There is no meat, alcohol or eggs in Pushkar but they offer to make "omelette" with dal flour.

We wander into town. The little streets are packed with souvenir and craft shops, but the owners are sleepy in the heat. Women and kids walking by want to shake our hands but some grab more aggressively. With our first glimpse of the lake (where Brahma dropped a flower) we are offered flowers to throw in but Julia has warned us of this trick to extort donations.

We find the red Brahma temple. There are stalls all around selling offerings, flowers, red and yellow powder, bags of white sweets. A young guy shows us where to put our shoes and takes us up the stairs (we tread carefully to avoid the hot stone) and shows us how to give a flower to the vessel in front of the idol, then the rest to the priest. He disinterestedly throws them down on the floor, then gives us some other flowers back. We visit the other idols, then our guide takes us down to the ghats, the steps on the lake shore. Here he hands us a plate with more offerings, including crystal sugar and rice, and sends each of us off to sit with an unlikely looking priest. I'm feeling pretty cynical at this point but repeat the words of the prayer dutifully, and listen to the range of payment options open to me ("500 rupees, 1000, 2000, sterling, dollar, no problem"). He starts to get pushy about the exact amount I will donate to the "government office" (whose signs are all in Hindi) and I insist on putting coins in the donation box on the steps. "But that is only for animals," they say, "and women." Pauline has to drag me away from them, I'm all for squaring up and telling them that they're a bunch of liars and cheats.

We pack and leave. The family are full of sympathy and concern - they say they would have warned us but that we looked as if we knew what we were doing! Doesn't stop them charging us 2 nights though, when we've only actually been there for 6 hours.

The bus stand in Ajmer has a reassuring familiarity to it, the benches, the booths, the shouts ("JaipurJaipurJaipur..."). Our ticket is computerized though. The journey is only 3 hours but it's a hot 3 hours. The road is a steady stream of roaring buses and trucks. They are constructing a 6 lane highway, a huge operation, saris and pickaxes alongside road building machines.

We phone the hotel from the bus station. While we stand waiting for our lift, a man approaches and in a scene from a spy movie hands me a mobile phone. "It's for you," he says. "Go with this man" the voice says.

Madhuban is a little oasis. The style is palatial, especially our huge room complete with armchairs, desk, sofa, 4 poster. Plus, the walls are spotless, not at all the peeling, patchy affairs you get used to. Outside our room is a charming little terrace with an arched window seat, potted palms, planter chairs, charpoys [day beds], a fountain, pottery on the walls, Arab stars and patterns on the floor. The restaurant is a disappointment though, impersonal, piped music, small portions, brusque service.

Pauline enlists a rickshaw driver, Ram. First stop Hawa Mahal, the Palace of the Winds. The road through the old city is overwhelming humanity - an alive, jostling mass, almost too much to take in. There is the swarming traffic of bicycles, cycle rickshaws, women in long sleeved gloves on mopeds. Then the pedestrians, dodging cows and holes, then the street traders selling curly vegetables, water from wet cloth soaked clay pots topped with mint of lemons, the endless little shrines, straw shacks from which a hand protrudes and pours water (holy?) for people to drink with their hands. Then the orange-pink terrace of shops, pointy slipper shops, tailors, furniture, tea, metal work, bicycles, all uniformly tiny.

At the palace, I can imagine the rows of women huddled at windows, whispering to each other, veils fluttering in the breeze. I love the modernist shapes to be found in the Jantar Mantar observatory, angular lines intersecting perfect marble curves. Lunch is in the murky recesses of the Indian Coffee House, where business people gossip in cracked leather back seats and take mobile phone calls. The dosa and sambar luck curry leaf fut are tasty nonetheless. The coffee is dark and refreshing, but more Nescafe than Beanscene.

Then on to the Amber fort, past camel carts and elephants made up in pink, yellow and white chalk. Pauline is a hit with the Indian tourists here as elsewhere - we meet boys from Lucknow, and a family from Bhutan, some of the sharp featured local women.

Here there are elephant taxis, halls of mirror mosaic, stained glass windows, views down to a garden, a little shabby unfortunately, on a lake. Walls and fortifications snake off in all directions.

We enjoy a good chat over a Pepsi and a "Mountain Dew" with a local, he shows us carpet weaving (families were brought from Persia and Afghanistan by the maharajah whose descendants still live in Amber) and gem cutting/polishing.

Dinner is in a swanky but empty air con tandoori restaurant (Mehfil), veg thali for Rs 200 (!), a rich dark dal, jeera rice, paratha like croissant, tikka paneer. We are offered beer but have to drink it from yellow mugs and hide the bottle under a napkin on the seat.

Thursday 15th April - Samode Bagh

Yet more fabulous places. We write our diaries on a kingsize bed under a patterned canopy the cloth walls are decorated with mughal floral motifs in sand, green, sky blue and pinky orange. There is a lovely rug on the canvas floor, lamps on cast iron or pewter stands, an old fashioned black electric fan. Cloth panels fold down to cover windows and doorways, the rustic whitewashed back room opens into a light and airy bathroom in green marble.

Our porch looks out on to the garden of silvery neem trees with fine white blossom. It is dusty underfoot, but through the archway is the finest garden we have yet seen - long oblong ponds, short hedges, small lawns, flower beds and jasmine bushes, purple borders.

Yesterday we went shopping in Jaipur and fell out with our rickshaw driver so had to avoid him the rest of the day. MI road is the main road outside the old city, busy with traffic, shops, signs. Through a big pink-orange gate is the old city and we walk through the local bazaar in relative shade. We get a puppet, some shoes.

In the evening we enter the fantastic wold of the Raj Mandir cinema. You walk into a juge foyer, Art Deco on LSD, mushrooming pillars, sweeping balcony up to mezzanine bar kiosk, copper spittoons, pastel colours. From the shallow box you look over row upon row to the vast curving screen - but above and at the sides huge marshmallow clouds/wings?)

Masti, the film, stars Vivek Oberoi and Lara Dutta among many others. Despite the Hindi, the story is clear - 3 men longing to reclaim their bachelorhood, to escape from under the thumb of their beautiful, confident and assertive wives. Which leads inevitably to hilarity, blackmail, murder and deceit. Several times over. The shrieks of laughter are like a variety show, unfortunately we can't understand the jokes. From time to time a woman climbs past us to go settle her baby. In the intermission, Pepsi, Cappucino (of a sort), samosa, popcorn. At the end, a charming love song, an unexpected denouement, then a good meal at Natraj. Nest time we;ll have to investigate the expresso bar opposite the cinema.

Friday 16th April - Marudhar Express Jaipur to Agra

Amin is our slightly oily unlicensed taxi driver/gemstone salesman. He claims to have a Swedish wife in Sweden, but he makes for good chat and has a superlative in car sound system. So to a background of techno, Raj Haas ghazals and Seema Misra Rajasthani folk tunes (lovely) we discuss jobs, status, welfare in India. "People live and die for their name," he says. He earns more as a taxi driver but gets more respect for being a salaried salesman. Rich people donate t the temple but he doubts the priests put the money to good use. He agrees that standard of living is improving year on year in India, but points out that prices are going up too. The heat of the days now is draining - the sweating starts at 10 am, the breeze through the car window is like a fan oven, there is a midday glare that robs even the great trucks of the colour. Parched banyan trees are weighed down by their mass of dry roots.

A Mahindra jeep (of which there are loads around Samode and the nearby market town) bumps and grinds through the sewage strewn cobbled village streets, through one gate house, up round a hairpin, then through another gatehouse to arrive at the palace. A grand staircase with red carpet leads up from the first courtyard to another, oppressively uniform in its pink-orange, but the last courtyard is warmly inviting with tables, chairs, plants, vestibules. As we sip our beer we are personally entertained by a puppeteer (folk dancer, a magician who can juggle with his own head, a snake charmer with snake, a horse rider with flaming shoulders who turns somersaults), then elegantly dressed dancing boys.

It is already dark when we explore the inner reaches of the palace, which turns out to be in immaculate condition. The Durbar Hall is kaleidoscopic with colours, patterns and murals. The swimming pool is fittingly elaborate in design with floral tiling and fountains. Dinner is on a lovely terrace below the main body of the palace down an elegantly carved stone staircase with cascading flowers (bougainvillea) and vines. High above, the fortifications are prettily illuminated. Below and out into the darkness the closely nestling hills are no longer visible. A minaret is outlined in fairy lights. Beside us is a tinkling fountain, and a frangipani tree. Sadly, we are turned away from the secluded low table with cushions on its own little screened terrace. The food isn't anything special, a buffet, ten times the price of a Rang Niwas thali, to which all else is now compared. Still, Saturn in Leo and Orion burn gloriously overhead, and the (extortionate) jeep ride back to the tent, roof rolled back, gives a dazzling show.

At breakfast, we still seem to be the only guests. We socialize instead with a succession of gorgeous birds, some stripy squirrels, butterflies and dragonflies (red, orange and purple ones!). I feel a little disappointed by the lack of time and company to enjoy the place.

At Jaipur station we meet a colourful pair of older ladies from Sussex (1 originally from Motherwell)a, and we confess our mutual exhaustion with heat and hassle. I get chatting to Avinash, a young IT student from Agra, just finished his 2nd year exams at the respected (and subsidized) government college in Jaipur. As now so often seems to be the case, his father is a station manager for the railways (a steady middle management job with a 60% pension), 1 brother is a doctor ("MBBS"), 1 sister a chartered accountant ("CA"). But we abandon the ladies in the mad scramble as the train rolls in 50 minutes late (unusual in our experience), all 24-odd blue carriages of it. We then abandon Avinash to baking non AC sleeper class and trek through 9 carriages of chai-wallahs [guys selling tea from urns], roast nut boys, old labourers smoking pungent bidis [roll up cigarettes] by the open doors, families sharing lunch on a newspaper table cloth. Most of the side berths are folded down, even if people are sat chatting on them, legs curled up on the seat. In our AC3 carriage a few people have crawled into the upper berths for a kip. The cool is blissful although the heat still seems to penetrate the purple tinted, condensation misted double glazing. A surreal orange landscape rolls by below a purple sky. Blue curtains and blue trim further contributes to the colour fantasy. The drone of the ceiling fans argues with the growl of the wheels on the track. Someone has hung 2 garlands by the window - jasmine, marigolds, folded glossy leaves.

Agra Cantonment station is lit up with fairy lights. We pass a wedding procession, first a sound system of loudhailers racked up on a colourful barrow, then dancers holding up incandescent triple torches, then the groom in silver, lost in his fantastic technicolor horsedrawn carriate. Afterwards the road is broad and surprisingly quiet right up to our business hotel. Vertical limit is on HBO (with added snow effects from the dodgy antenna) so we get egg curry and channa on room service.

Saturday 17th April - Taj Express Agra to New Delhi

Struggle awake at 0515, our rickshaw is prompt and we arrive at the gates of the Taj Mahal in the grey of predawn. The security guard offers to put my muesli bars in a cloakroom. We walk eagerly through the red sandstone courtyard to reach the final gate, a sort of reverse dome again in red sandstone, inlaid with white marble. And there it is, almost floating it is so light and so delicately balanced. All of us jostle to get our perfect camera shots but it takes another 20 minutes for the first rays to break through the haze over the tops of the trees and brighten the white marble. The fountains and ponds, as so often here, are empty. The gardens too are underwhelming. But the Taj Mahal itself - "the resplendent immortal tear on the cheek of time" - is perfect. It is decorated with calligraphy, floral swirls and polychrome inlaid patterns, yet it sill manages to look somehow pristine in its marble whiteness. The main entrance is an imposing rigid oblong but it flows somehow into the body of the dome. The dome is immense, yet it is not top heavy. The minarets are quite slender, with an improbably lofty open chhatir, or kiosk, on top, from which you can imagine someone shouting their grief to the universe or simply stepping up towards heaven. They are separate from the main mausoleum, but contribute a broad stability that speaks of enduring longevity. You realize all this as you try to squeeze different perspectives into the viewfinder - all are incomplete, all are unbalanced.

We stroll around the great marble terrace, still cool underfoot. The river (what there is of it in this pre-monsoon season) curves past and fades into the haze. Despite the growing crowds, the noise vanishes into the expanse of sky above us. Wandering back through the shaded avenues at the edges of the garden we spot parakeets, then a pair of tiny nervous owls.

Breakfast back at the hotel is welcome, a few hours' nap even more so. Then in scorching midday sun to Agra fort, a grand sight in red sandstone but not actually as formidable as, say, Kumbalgarh. The first palace we enter is quite unique, all red, with much more elaborate carving, especially of the capitals, some rafters are like writhing pythons. Central Asian influence, apparently. The rest is all familiar - a white marble palace looking out on the river, balconies and terraces. The most charming is the octagonal tower where Shah Jahan of Taj Mahal fame finished up and died, imprisoned by his own son. It is in excellent condition, sadly you're not allowed into it, and it looks out longingly towards the Taj Mahal.

Lunch is superb, aircon, smart, thali courtesy of Dasaprakash, and only Rs 100. Excellent aloo palak, finely chopped spinach rather than mush, whole tender dal for seasoning as is traditional; an aubergine and marrow bhaji; sambar/rasam/curd/aplam - and a perfect halwa (carrot?) to finish.

Finally, into old Agra proper, where cycle rickshaws impossibly loaded are leaned on achingly by their riders; bullock carts, horse drawn carts, whole streets so decrepit you imagine they would collapse completely with the first monsoon rain. Out high across the Yamuna river on the narrow congested cast iron bridge. The Itimad ud Daulah ("baby Taj") has similar colouring and inlay work but is tiny and completely covered. Inside the walls, floors and ceilings are also richly painted or coloured. The only connection to the Taj is that it was the first time this Persian style had been used so extensively - and that the grandparents of Mumtaz Mahal for whom the Taj was built after dying in childbirth (her 14th child) are buried there.

As a ploy to avoid having spare time for the rickshaw driver to goad us into filling with shopping, we ask him to take us to the river bank opposite the Taj. Suddenly we are out in the countryside, passing tarpaulin caps, goat pasture, orchards. Along a little track we find a temple distinguished by a cartoonish sculpture of a bespectacled an in a suit, a camel and his boy, and a surprisingly close view across vegetable patches to the Taj. The red mosques on each side are more prominent here, but simply having the time and space to contemplate it is wonderful.

Our rickshaw driver finally throws in the towel back at the hotel. He is supposed to take us to the station to complete his day charge of 200 rupees, but he wipes his brow in resigned fashion and suggests we get another rickshaw. So he loses his tip and another transaction end bitterly.

New Delhi (briefly) - Sunday 18th April ? Swatantra Express New Delhi to Varanasi sleeper

Have a run in with an urchin at the station... He pesters and pesters, then grabs Pauline's hand. I give him a shove, and he goes flying across the platform, a little dramatically I say. He then lies curled up, moaning and greeting, successfully attracting the attention of the masses. When he gets bored of that, he suddenly appears standing next to us, wielding a rock with intent. I try to give him my sternest stare, and eventually he mopes off down the line with some other boys.

The train ride to Delhi is novel, AC chair class which means airplane style reclining seats and steward service ? veg cutlet, crisps, veg pilau.

The fabulously named Nizamuddin station in Delhi is something else, vaguely infernal ? it is dark, about 10 o'clock at night, the platforms are harshly illuminated but not well enough to dispel the night. Off the train, the crowds surge down the platform, up the steps on to the bridge. The porters in their little red jackets and tea towel turbans lead the advance, we swarm around piles of boxes, sacks, stray families from who knows where camped on the platform waiting for who knows what. Outside the gates is a chaotic swarm of people and rickshaws ? within seconds there must be 6 drivers all shouting at us, yet none seem to speak English or understand where we want to go. But off we go any way, in a new looking green and yellow LPG powered number with electronic meter (off), no less. The roads are wide and fast moving, with no discernible landmarks whatsoever, After a couple of quick miles, our driver has to pull over to ask for help. The first man is steaming, slurring his words, but offers to take us onwards in his own rickshaw. Another tries the same trick, but eventually seems to give some half decent instructions and soon we see the signs and the black gate next to the Delhi Heart and Lung institute. But as we approach a man stops us and asks to see our reservation slip. He also appears to be drunk, and starts to tell us how our telephone reservation is worthless but I push past him angrily, without knowing for sure if he is anything to do with the hotel or not, or knowing where I'm going. The Yatri guest house doesn't look up to much at first glance, a dodgy threesome on the porch, a modernist suite of furniture with watercolours (originals?) of flowers ? almost Congo Bungalow style.

In the morning it seems we may have misjudged the hotel. There is a cute courtyard with iron furniture. Tariq, the short green eyed receptionist, rustles up breakfast, sweeps up. The street is very quiet, and an enormous pink Bougainvillea cascades down the front of the hotel smelling sweetly. We both feel a bit queasy for the first time ? railway food? Agra hotel? So our only goal for the day is to taste Delhi's finest coffee. First though, collecting our internet booked tickets ? 1 woman whose job seems to be reading her magazine, assorted ledgers, handwritten forms and tables to crosscheck, cyphers to scribble... The electronic world, Indian style. Navigating the colossal building site that is the Metro project, we are ushered into the Art Deco glory that is the United Coffee House. The crowd is swanky, many are drinking beer despite the early hour, but there is no denying the exceptional service, the neat blue and yellow crockery. The ?Kona? coffee is presented in an ancient retort complete with stand and is a dark, aromatic brew, quite different to anything else. We have to stop ourselves after 3 cups.

New Delhi station at night is much like Nizamuddin. It's an effort to get ourselves and our packs through the gate against the tide of people coming out. There's hardly a spare square foot on the platform, but we are early and try to make ourselves comfortable. With just 10 mins to go I innocently ask the young guy next to us which train he is getting, and when we tell him we're going to Varanasi he looks confused, points to the train on the other side of the platform which has been stood there for 20 mins already, and we scramble to our feet and run up and down looking for our carriage. Turns out we were sat waiting opposite our carriage for all that time!

Parting words from man at station - ?Don't take food from anyone, be careful, there are many bad people in Varanasi." I feel strangely paranoid about our AC2 tier sleeper. Maybe because all other tourists have dried up perhaps because we're in side berths on the aisle with people brushing past constantly. But we pile our bags up, pull the curtains shut, flick on the berthside lamp, fire up Frank Sinatra on the minidisc player and the fears subside a little.

Varanasi - 18th April, continued...

The night passes swiftly ? familiarity must help. I unwisely pick a fight with a tout in Varanasi from the word go, creating a sense of hostility from the outset. The old city, Godaulia, is a maze of small streets, crumbling buildings, bright signs and banners, alleyways, all bustling with activity. By the time we reach the river we're sweating under the weight of our packs. The steps are pretty quiet, we walk along until we see the hotel then have to climb about 4 flights to reach reception. The courtyard looking directly out on to the Ganges is pleasant with a butterfly filled tree, but the rooms are bare, the mattresses hard and the linen grubby.

Sushil, our enthusiastic official guide, teams us up with a kamikaze rickshaw driver for a whistlestop tour of temples. ?This city has 100 thousand temples, more than enough for a lifetime?. First is the marble relief map of India, the Himalayas hitting the Northern Indian plain like a tidal wave. The the devilish Durga temple, the lion riding warrior goddess, all black and red with scarily intense young men. There's a spot where goats and bullocks are still sacrificed, a rare thing in India. It's great to have Sushil there to protect us. At the monkey god temple there's a wedding going on, a selection of Indian sweets are on sale (the god's favourite), but he looks like a chopped up orange Tweenie. Sushil says you do not need a priest to bless anything (although first rule of Hinduism ? there are no rules). The temple of Rama is like a government building, but the idea that the man Tulsimana who wrote down the usual version lived here is nice, as is having it inscribed all over the walls.

Finally we cruise down the leafy lanes of the Benares Hindu University, the largest in Asia (in area?). The stupa is impressive but the building less so. I like the sellers of flowers (here including lotus and green leaves) more. But we do get to witness an intimate ceremony with families surrounding the shivalingam, draping it with garlands, anointing it with milk, singing and chanting.

Back in town the traffic is mental, lads of bikes, schoolkids, motorbikes. We drive down a tiny alley only to meet a car coming the other way so we end up half in a shop with a wheel in the sewer. Sushil takes us up to the Temple Restaurant with a great balcony view of the bazaar for a Limca lemonade and Coke. Then with the sun down, we join the throng on the main Desaswamedh ghat before being rowed out by a young boy to watch the floodlit ceremonies from the water. The priests look resplendent standing on pedestals in white and orange, a singer is amplified but has to compete with music from a ghat further down, little lamps flicker on the steps down to the waters' edge.

Then we struggle against the delightfully cool wind to the Manikarnika ghat, passing shadowy figures doing their ablutions privately, groups of adolescents perched on breakwaters. 1 fire burns furiously, 2 smoulder behind, a demonic red glare is cast against the desolate buildings behind, silhouettes load wood on to the shore from boats. There is a continuous, urgent peal of bells. Sushil explained that the bell is a way of sending a message out towards the heavens, and also a way of purifying the jumbled noise of our existence.

Monday 19th April - Hotel Alka, Varanasi

The breeze off the Ganges through the courtyard is threatening to blow our diaries away. Across the river is pure blackness ? Sushil says those who live and die on the west bank go to heaven, but those on the east bank go to a kind of limbo. Bad news for property prices, then. During the day there is an expanse of white sand, then distant fields. The tree in the courtyard has a light, broad leaf with tiny green berries ? it's the same bilva that is used as offering to Shiva, and for medicine.

Tuesday 20th April - First class cabin, Shiva Gang Exp, Varanasi to Delhi The night is a hot one. The air cooler, which on closer inspection is just a fan sitting on top of a basin of water, fits badly into the window so we shut the windows against mozzies, and despite the ceiling fan the room swelters. At 5 am we're due to be up to meet Sushil but we're both feeling ropey with Delhi belly. We stagger out to join him, and by the time we reach Dasaswamedh ghat, there's quite a crowd doing their prayers and quite a few tourists photographing them. There are no harsh lights or music now (except down at Rama ghat, where they have played Hare Krishna on loop for god knows how long now), the light is grey, and the breeze out on the water is really quite chilly.

Kids play cricket. Men wash clothes and sheets on ramped up slabs of stone. Old women collect the water in little brass pots. Men hold their noses, bob up then sink down below the surface for a few seconds. A few brave souls swim out among the boats, all of which are rowed thankfully, although some seem overcrowded. Men stand at the water's edge naked but for their loin cloth which they refold in dramatic fashion.

At Manikarnika ghat, there is just one smouldering pile of ash and a newly built pyre but without a body. We go ashore to visit the Nepali temple built in brick and wood with some explicit sexual acrobatics carved into the wood. A really cool sadhu (one who renounces money, food and women) with a friendly smile was sitting in an alcove facing the water ? I had said Namaste on the way up and so on the way down asked for a photo, incensing a boatload of tourists who shout and moan that I'm in the way of their shot. Then we dive into a really squalid bit of the city, all rubbish and fly strewn alleys, cows and dogs, hot woks frying puris. We step gingerly past a squad of armed guards to get a view of the Golden temple (1 tonne of the yellow stuff) facing off Varanasi's main mosque - hence the security cordon. A final plunge through the alleys and we are back at our hotel and we can plunge into bed.

Sarnath

A nap and a banana porridge later and Sushil has an Ambassador ready to take us at snail's pace to Sarnath. Gone are the crowds and noise, the sun is hot now but the peace comes as a relief. The modernish Mulgandha Kuti is a bit disappointing, the stupa is bland and the frescoes a bit faded and stiff. But the monk invites us to light incense and touch our foreheads to the altar, under which relics of the Buddha are kept. Like the Hindu priests he ties a saffron thread round our wrists but there is something very gentle about him I feel more trusting of. Plus you get a bottle of mineral water for your donation.

Next door is a bodhi tree, a descendant of the original, with some crappy painted statues and some more elegant inscriptions of the ?deer Park Sermon?, the Buddha's first pronouncement after achieving enlightenment, in different scripts and languages. The ancient stupas are squat and ugly, the Muslim tower perched on top of one of them doesn't help but does give a good breezy view over the great plain. The museum has some great pieces ? the Ashoka pillar, shiny beige sandstone, immaculate (except for its 32 spoke wheel top). The ancient sitting buddha, also in excellent condition, a lovely little smile on his lips. The huge stone umbrella, maybe 12 foot across. I'm now reading ?the Buddha and the Sahibs?, so I hope to learn more about this period.

The Buddha and the Sahibs (Charles Allen)

An envoy from the empire of Alexander the Great in 303 BCE went to India, reported back on a great city called Palimbothra, ruled by the Emperor Sandrokottos, people of 2 distinct religions. Later Marco Polo described buddhism on Ceylon, and Robert Knox (1680) survived shipwreck and slavery in Ceylon and wrote a best seller about his experiences. Western interest in buddhism was later kindled by wars in Burma. Its philosophical complexities were misinterpreted for centuries as being nihilistic, but as understanding improved, it was championed by people such as Schopenhauer.

Brahmins had protected their place in their religion with sacred texts in a sacred language.

Francis Buchanan, 1794, doctor from Glasgow but more interested in botany, went to Calcutta to make his fortune. Visited Burma and Nepal, taking detailed notes. Wrote the first account of Buddhism based on actual texts, but from Burmese perspective, which traced origin to Ceylon. But texts named Buddha's origin as India. He then found Bodhgaya in Bihar, although the Burmese knew about it, visited by Burmese King, but he had to explain to the locals its significance. Buchanan found other nearby sites. At the same time stupa in Sarnath had been demolished by local ruler, relics shown to British Resident, same inscriptions.

George Turnour, one of the first Brits to be born on Ceylon, learnt Pali and translated Mahavamsa, the Great Chronicle.

Brian Hodgson (Haileybury, the East India Company College) spent 25 yrs in Nepal. Sent 200+ Sanskrit texts to Asiatic Society (ignored), French (made him Legion d'honneur). Zoologist too.

ALexander Csoma de Koros, Hungarian, looking for origin of his minority people in Zanskar - learnt Tibetan, compiled a grammar and dictionary, lived like a monk. Corresponded with Hodgson, then moved to Calcutta.

William Jones, a prodigy at Harrow, learnt Hebrew, Persian and Arabic, did law, took job in Calcutta. Set up the Asiatic Society, learnt Sanskrit and recognized the common origin of the Indo-European languages. Identified Palimbothra as Patna, and Sandrokottos as Chandragupta, so establishing a time point in the chronology. Died 1794.

Colin Mackenzie, from Lewis, a military surveyor, just missed out on Borobodur on Java (replaced by Stamford Raffles), but dug at Sarnath, and at Amaravati before it was obliterated by locals (near Madras?). His huge collection became the basis for Indian collections of Bodleian and British Museum.

Superb carvings found at Sanchi, frescoes in Ajanta caves. War against Burma in 1824 stimulated public interest in region and religion.

Inscriptions on columns from all over the country, eg Firoz Shah's Lat in Delhi, were found to have the same script, eventually decoded by James Prinsep (from Bristol, science enthusiast working at the Calcutta Mint and in Benares) as early Sanskrit, closer to Pali (language of the earliest buddhist texts, eg Mahavamsa in Ceylon). He identified them as the work of Ashoka, and the same script on coins allowed dating of his reign to around 250 BC. COmmon phrase was "THus spake King Piyadasi", clearly a great emperor - identified as Ashoka by Turnour in Cylon. OTher phrases referred to Ptolemy and other successors of Alexander, dating Ashoka to about 250 BCE and showing EUropean connections.

Burmese envoys found slab at Bodhgaya describing Ashoka's conversion, confirmed by Turnour's work on Mahavamsa. IMportance of Bodhgaya and Sarnath established by Csoma de Koros translations. Alexander Cunningham dug at Sarnath, found more insriptions, shown to Prinsep, recognized as form of Sanskrit.

Accounts written by Chinese pilgrims allowed identification of other buddhist sacred sites, although at that time Buddhism was waning in India, although still flourishing in Afghanistan.

Became clear that Ashoka had started out as a regular murdering and war mongering brute who then discovered Buddhism, changed his ways and set out to spread the word throughout his empire. But all memory of the buddhist empire had then been systematically eradicated by a succession of Hindu and Muslim fundamentalists. Early artefacts survived because the buddha forbade his depiction in art and so were ambiguous.

Csoma de Koros lived as an ascetic but never accepted the Dharma - canonised by Japanese! Hodgson's collaboration with French led to first text on Indian Buddhism by Burnouf, 1844, the first real understanding of its uniqueness. This was Schopenhauer's favourite book.

French published CHinese pilgrims' account of India.Gandhara (AFghanistan) had flourishing BUddhist culture, but not India. CUnningham and Markham Kittoe tried to find towns described and latter found Burgaon but not the significance. CUnningham dug at Sanchi, found relics of many Buddhist saints, incl BUddha's own disciples, identified it as a monastery for Ashoka's son, who took BUddhism to Ceylon.

At Rajgir, Kittoe found Saptaparni Cave/Hall, scene of first BUddhist council. CUnningham realized Buraon was great Balanda monastery, from where BUddhism went to TIbet. Excavated later. Doorway was 12 foot high and 20 foot wide.

At Kasia, near Gorakhpur, ruins found by Buchanan, identified as Kushinagar, later huge reclining Buddha found. McKenzie's AMaravati sculptures found in a warehouse in Madras, now in British Museum - early, so implied presence of Buddha rather than represented.

CUnningham found Pippal cave near Saptaparni Hall. NOw director of Archaeological survey of India. FOund carvings at Bharhut stupa (now where?).

Rhys Davids, magistrate in Ceylon, learnt Pali, suggested early Buddhism corrupted later into Tibeta, etc. Max Muller, Sanskrit scholar in Oxford, suggested Nirvanaa was not annihilation. This more positive approach encouraged interest, mainly helped by Edwin Arnold (Daily Telegraph editor) "Light of Asia" poem in 1879.

Colonel Henry Steel Olcott (US) and Madame Blavatsky (Russian) moved to Ceylon, became BUddhists. SHe claimed to have psychic links to a Tibetan spiritual master. He was attracted to Buddhism through translation of church-Monk debates from Ceylon. He set up schools, youth groups, wrote a catechism, taught Anagarika Dharmapala, the first modern Buddhist saint. Blavatsky was denounced as a fraud. Dharmapala led a combined nationalist and Buddhist revival.

Christian story of Josaphat and Barlaam - prince turned ascetic, found peace via guidance of friend - probably adopted from Buddhism.

After that it's back to the cacophony of Varanasi. Chatting with an Australian over lunch intrigues us so we walk back along the water to the burning ghat, where we are immediately ushered upstairs to one of the windowless balconies, passing some old crones on the steps. ?This is a hospice?, our dodgy new friend tells us, ?these people come here to die.? As we watch he explains how the body is brought here after a ritual bath of milk, water, honey and oil, wrapped in fine cloth over white linen, carried by male relatives on a bamboo stretcher. It is then dipped in the Ganges and laid on the pyre. At this point an arm escaped from under the shroud. Relatives took photographs. A young man then carried hot coals on a sheaf of reeds round the body before the rest of the wood was piled on top, at which point there was already a fair amount of smouldering. Nearby another pyre was fully blazing, the body inside already burned bare. Later, we were told, the embers are doused, any remaining bones scattered here, others taken away to other significant places. The cremation workers charge no fee except for the wood, which is carefully weighed, but they scour the water's edge for jewellery from the ashes.

Some people do not get cremated, he says. Children, because they are innocent, pregnant women, lepers (for fear of infection). These are weighted and sunk mid-river. Those who die by cobra bite cannot be sunk either, for fear of spreading the poison ? they are placed on a raft and sent downriver.

A fitting end to Varanasi. Leaving with our bags we still manage to get lost in the alleys, and by the time our cycle rickshaw has beaten the evening throng we have less than 15 minutes to find our train and our carriage (later the attendant serving ?chai garam?, an impish boy, tells us there are 24 carriages) not to mention water and snacks. But our train is the one in front of us, and our carriage is nearby. The first class cabins are luxurious in beige and burgundy. There is a sink with lid for use as a side table, a wardrobe, toilet vacancy indicators (even specifying the type of toilet!), even a 2 pin socket (110V). Pauline relishes the privacy. Oh, and there's a scenic poster of Tamil Nadu on the wall. Shortly we are offered tomato soup (with croutons), tea and biscuits, mango juice, a choice of chicken supreme or paneer (which sadly turns out to be salty, if substantial, with rice, chapattis, channa, dal, pickle and laddoo). By the time we flick the lights out and crawl into our enormous, near normal bed size bunks, we are already deeply relaxed and looking forward to an excellent sleep.

New Delhi (again) - Friday 23rd April - on the road to Shimla in a Maruti 800

Pauline continues to have severe abdominal cramps, now with some blood so presumably it is a mild dysentery. We moved to the Hotel 55 because it was at the bottom of the road and I'd seen it in passing. It's even more Congo Bungalow than the last place, varnished red brick, white pebbledash walls, blue curtains (but no windows), rattan trim. With central aircon, it's hermeneutic ? we don't notice the smog that descends outside, a fine grit that irritates your eyes and lungs, or the rainstorm the following day.

What I really like about it is that it's in Connaught Place, with its entrance on the colonnade. There's not much elegance left, many of the shops are dingy or shut, many of the corners stink of old piss, but the shade and escape from traffic are most welcome. In our block or nextdoor we have foreign exchange, internet, trendy cafe (sadly not visited by us because of colic), a photo place that transfers JPEGs to CD, a sitar shop, music shops, book stands. All dug up for the metro, sadly, terrible traffic whirling round constantly, and cars parked so tightly that you can't get past.

Himachal Pradesh - Tuesday 27th April - same Maruti, road to Delhi

Sunita took us round in an AC Ambassador, quite the thing, a Hindu temple (yawn), a Sikh temple (you wash your feet, cover your head, there are musicians by the altar, and a sacred bed where the Guru book goes down at night(1), and you get holy water and semolina sweet as you leave), the Presidential palace, India Gate. For lunch we go to her club, Habitat World, a cultural centre with a rooftop pub and superb buffet. Sunita is all gold jewellery, snapping commands, a bit stiff. Context, or uncomfortable with hostess/tour guide role? But she is very generous and insists on paying for everything.

Wasted 4 hours in car because forgot shoes. Our morose, sleeping sickness afflicted driver Laxman refuses to try for Chandigarh and we have to decamp to the YMCA. So treat ourselves to a fine Barista coffee, where we bump into my bold Belgian lady friend Marie-Josephine and some new friends of hers ? 2 wiry and weathered French men, and an Israeli whose serene air is the result of having her rucsac and passport stolen, plus ensuing bureaucratic stramash. So we count our blessings. Some marvellous shopping on Janpath, great Rajasthani cloths and handmade paper products, then a decadent evening at DV8, a posh overlit pub with pitchers of beer, dodgy cocktails and excellent sound system, hijacked by rock classics for all but the last hour.

To Kalka by fast, straight, sunflower field and eucalyptus lined roads, past fly infested dhabas. We go through a ?famous? pickle town, where they sell 42 varieties... From Kalka, 5 and a half hours of terrifying hairpins, precipices and vertiginous views. The hills are so steep the terraces are only 6 feet wide, maybe 50 stacked up, the valley floor thousands of feet below. Shimla is a concrete jungle of improbably perched hotels. I expect the whole lot to slide off the hill at any moment. The lanes and alley on the Ridge are packed with smart school kids and amusingly attired Indians (mad woolly hats and cardigans over salwars).

Past Shimla we continue to wind our way along the mountains side, screeching around the corners, every other bend a close shade with a certain death plunge. In the last dying light of day we reach the Banjara Orchard Retreat in Thanedhar, accessible, as most other dwellings are here, only by a steep path down from the road. Through a gateway of roses and jasmine we enter a little garden sandwiched between the house and the apple trees. We climb the stairs to our corner room, with its all to wall windows, and fabulous view of fading silhouetted hills, hundreds of little lights glowing in the chill twilight, an upturned crescent moon.

Prakash welcomes us with soup and stories, about Mr Stokes the Quaker who introduced sweet apples to India, and how he himself ended up here. Clearly the pace of life is different here. A huge meal is laid out which even we hardly make a dent in. Soon after we snuggle into bed, our 12 hour journey behind us.

In the morning, the blue sky is blinding. We get our first view of the Himalayas, a single snowy peak behind the village. We walk up to Hattu Peak (3400m), an easy track through a forest of colossal pine trees and contorted broad leaved trees spookily draped in moss. We reach the tip slightly breathless from the altitude, and soak up the intense sunshine and marvelous view of the Himalayas, now visible as a long snowy ridge, floating above the horizon.

The balcony at the house is a great spot for a cup of tea and a sunset. Then we join a family from Bombay around a bonfire with Indian whisky and apple wine (a local speciality, along with apple chutney, apple jam, etc). Deepak is a stock trader who loves the city but equally loves to escape to the hills. His kids are sweet but he castigates them for their globalized culture, their ignorance about their own (?they're foreigners!?). Sangeeta is the ever dutiful mother, although with wilder hair and jeans.

The rest of our stay the weather is hazy. We follow the path down the hill for an hour to find the pretty Stokes Church with its lonely old graves, mostly of youngsters with names like Barbara and Susan. The cherries are ripe for picking, the apples still tiny, there are little green peaches and figs too. The air is full of birdsong, the breeze, butterflies of many different colours.

In the afternoon one of the Nepalese boys Dhaniram takes me for a walk through the forest above the house on narrow, grassy tracks littered with huge pine cones, invisible cobwebs strung across the path. There are lots of Nepalese young men here in the hills, whether economic migrants or fleeing the troubles is unclear. They are invariably childlike ? deferential, polite, attentive. Dhaniram speaks little English so he teaches me some Nepali phrases: ?Tafei costou onohontsa? Tikta!? ?Timro nam ki haw??

Many of the women here look almost gypsy like, with pale skin, sharp features, loose pink headscarves. A link perhaps? Have just read that the Roma originated in India...

A final bonfire, the flames coloured blue and green by the paint used on the apple tree branches. The long haul back to Delhi. A mad dash round the evening market and shops, taking no prisoners on the bargaining front, then a final Kingfisher on the leafy little terrace at the Hotel 55 before heading out on the emotional minibus ride that means the end of a journey.

Prague, October 2005

Taxi from the airport 650 crowns. We stayed at the gorgeous Hotel Elite in Ostrovni between the Old and New Towns. Barrel vaulted ceilings downstairs, a cute courtyard, stencilled beams in the bedrooms with huge modern bathroom. Czech women work hard - the bar woman in our hotel was still serving when we went to bed at nearly 2am, and was back in the morning for us getting up at 9am. Bad multicoloured sock and flip-flop combinations seem to be fashionable.

Saturday - Number 22 tram from Narodni up to the castle. Played spot the tram inspector but these guys are really good... Surely they were recruited from the old secret police. Or were the secret police even better? Coffee at the Ebel cafe fantastic. Had a tour of the Jewish quarter. Back in the 18th century Jews had to live in this ghetto, were not allowed to practise trades other than money lending, and had to wear yellow caps - you can see the star of David symbol with a yellow cap in the centre carved on buildings. Rabbi Low of Golem fame lived here. But the Jews stayed wealthy, and actually lent the King money; so he came up with the far more lucrative policy of allowing them to live anywhere but pay extra taxes. Then he confiscated their property after they died.

Concert of Mozart and Vivaldi at the Municipal House - boring name for an Art Nouveau fantasy, although our concert was downstairs in the smaller hall. Drank Sekt in the fabulous American bar, all dazzling glass chandeliers and mirrors. Waiters push the cake trolley majestically round the tables.

Beers (Urquell, 16 crowns or 35p!), cigars and real pretzels at U Vajvodu, a subterranean hall with copper vat tops suspended over the bars.

Sunday - up to the castle. Funny to see a cathedral built in the centre. The kings refused to use the traditional West entrance because it was inconvenient for the palace - so the front of the cathedral is awkwardly stuck in a corner, and a new golden mosaic entrance was built on the south side facing the palace. Traditional Czech proverb - He who walks with his face turned always to heaven will end up with a broken nose on Earth. Inside, reminded of the Defenestrations and the Diet of Worms I learned about at prep school. The nicest cafe looks to be Cafe Kafka right at the back on Golden Lane. The convent was for unmarried nobles' daughters - obviously a burden on everyone - disbanded when the king decided that it wasn't for the public good. Sounds odd coming from a royal. The monks in the city evaded the king by bulk buying books and claiming to be a valuable library, not just a monastery.

Kafka born in Prague, but Jewish and German speaking so hardly a son of the city. "A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us".

Lunch is McDonalds rather than dumplings. Guide book tells us the Foreign Minister's view of Czechoslovakia as a bridge between Western capitalism and communism was that "Cows like to stop on a bridge and shit on it". Pamper session in the afternoon. U Zatisi for dinner - amuse bouche is foie gras for P, a lovely prawn for me. My starter is deep fried goats cheese with girolles and a pomegranate seed salad. We get strawberry "soup" as a petit four. P has beef Wellington, I have monkfish with a tapenade coating and grilled chicory.

Is there a church in Prague that doesn't have a concert on tonight? How many violinists can there be in this city? Heels and cobbles fiasco in the evening. Drop in on a Czech Music club on Malestranska Namesti, dead smoky, a shabby chandelier overhead, old hippies on stage rocking away to Dylan and Czech rap. Then a jazz club (no band unfortunately) at the end of Charles Bridge,drinking Sex on the Beach.

Our last morning we have breakfast at Bohemia Bagel, allowing us a last trip across the Vltava river. Our taxi driver back to the airport is a stereotypical Eastern European gangster, with his sharp suit, shaved head, mean look and driving like the army are in hot pursuit.

Spain

Ronda

Fabulous town in the hills of Andalusia, dramatic gorge through the middle of it. Hotel San Gabriel camino marques de mactezuma 19, tel 952 190 392, is the place to stay, a 17th century house in the old town, gorgeous and cheap. Casa Santa Pola on Camino Santo Domingo clings to the side of the gorge and has fantastic food.

Barcelona

Hotel Australia, Ronda Universitat 11, tel 93 317 4177 doesn't win any style points but is well located and reasonable, which makes it pretty exceptional for Barcelona.

France

Went to Lille, Reims, Dijon. Lille great for culture, beer, moules (mussels), World War I sites nearby. Reims has a great Cathedral, Joan of Arc connections, more war sites and champagne. Stayed at the Chateau Etoges, lovely location, lovely grounds and rooms, fabulous food (120Euro for room, dinner from 30E). In Reims, posh hotels are the Assiette Champenoise, and Boyer les Crayeres. But for us, the Hotel Crystal was central, cheap and charming (67E).

In Reims (pronounced Rance), Palais du Tau next to the cathedral built in 1210, refurbishcd in gothic style end of 15th century. Accommodated the king at coronation, incl feast after. 5m 6 tonne sculptures from facade of cathedral.

Magma is the events magazine for Dijon.

Near Dijon, don't miss the village of Beaune (easy train ride). The Hospices de Beaune Hotel-Dieu was built in 1443, after privations of Hundred Years War. Income from vineyards & saltworks. Style (polychrome roof tiles) from Central Europe, but now considered typical of Burgundy. stopped being a hospital in 1971! "Seulle" inscribed beside interwoven initials of Nicolas & wife Guigone - means "my only"!

Vimy Ridge - lovely spot on hill, memorial, museum, preserved tunnels and craters. Site of first combined effort of Canadian divisions, 10600 casualties total. 67000 canadians died in WW1, names of 11000 whose bodies were not found inscribed on monument.

New York, June 2006

Direct flight with Continental, fantastic.Ê Nearly in trouble for carrying eyelash tongs, but what they seemed really paranoid were tweezersÊ - are you carrying any? Are you sure?

Approaching New York all we could was dense forest with the occasional large house.Ê Suddenly we were landing - Manhattan looked like a concrete and steel forest set in a swamp.Ê Newark airport was a ghost town at 9.30 am [didn't know that Basil Spence designed Glasgow airport!] Loved our first big yellow taxi ride, complete with immigrant driver on his mobile phone drinking his coffee-to-go - didn't expect the baby blue leather interior!

Regency Inn Suites had a great location just along from Macy's and the Empire state, promising lobby with nice art but a surly Noo Yawker receptionist. The room was cramped and dark, the bathroom even more cramped, huge TV, reasonable furniture but manky carpet. Straight out to find coffee, Starbucks is next door as well as opposite, in fact on just about every block - like rats, you're never more than 6 foot away from one in New York. Soon discover that you have to ask for an espresso doppio than add some hot water yourself, otherwise it's weak.

Walked up Broadway feeling a little intimidated by the crowds, the shouting (mostly just overexpressive Americans chatting), the people talking and gesticulating wildly to themselves (on mobile phone earpieces), the people talking and gesticulating wildly to themselves (crazy but less well dressed). Times Square a fantastic sight, reminds me mostly of Vanilla Sky, with a naked cowgirl (usually a naked cowboy, neither actually naked but near enough). Central Park turns out to be much busier and much wilder than I imagined - as in dense trees, winding paths rather than formal landscaping and open lawns.

Wandered around the Meat Packing District, designer shops and gay bars amidst warehouses - a bit like Sheffield really... Enjoy a Sam Adams beer at the Gaslight pub on a comfy sofa trying to spot Sex & the City types. Dinner (the first of two) at the Blue Ginger on 8th Avenue, a huge plate of maki. Then to Spanish Harlem, to Clemente's (2nd Av between 105 & 106th sts), a bit run down like a Working Men's Club but tremendous band and enthusiastic compere, telling us along the way about how salsa was born in this neighbourhood (www.zonelbarrio.com).Ê There we met Burt and Audrey - he's 47, from Puerto Rico, salesman for contact lenses, 3 children (teenagers).Ê She's 24, from Haiti, about to move into sales for a printing company.Ê They told us about a more upmarket salsa event at Tavern on the Green on Monday night - turned out to be in Central park, under trees hung with japanese lanterns, very Midsummer night's dream.

Love all the art deco flourishes around the city.Ê The Empire State has some great flourishes in the lobby, all very masculine and chrome, but at higher levels it gets a bit crummy; the Chrysler is more organic, pink and feminine.Ê The Rockefeller center apparently has some great art but the actual building isn't so special.Ê Nice view of Central park and the Empire state, mind you, and the evening we were there, the wind was just a breath and the light fantastic. Ê

Mamma Mia on Broadway - we get asked for ID when we order drinks, hooray!Ê Pretzel/hotdog/kebab/peanut stands, another immigrant industry.Ê Going uptown/downtown on the subway, network is a bit fiddly, what's the difference between the numbered lines and the lettered?Ê Temple of Dedur at the Metropolitan cute, slightly random photography collection (Weston pepper and nudes, Robert Capa's Falling soldier) but good quotes from Susan Sontag, roof cafe complete with crocodiles (pierced with items confiscated at airport security, how ironic). Ê

Juan Valdez cafes represent the Colombian coffee growers association and the coffee is very good.Ê

How much fizzy liquid can these people drink!?Ê

Staten island ferry was good for views of Manhattan, quick and easy, but it was still worth queuing for Liberty island and Ellis Island.Ê Liberty was a gift from the French for the centennial of American Independence (the date is inscribed on the plaque under her arm) - but the Americans had to fund raise for the plinth, championed by Pulitzer who was editor of the New York Times.Ê The plinth is ugly.Ê Eiffel did her internal structure.Ê Her crown is supposed to represent the seven continents.Ê At the time she was built, she was the tallest structure in New York!Ê And of course she was bronze for the first 30 years.Ê But where was the championing of liberty?Ê JS Mill never got a look in.

Ellis Island was where 12 million immigrants were processed during the peak of immigration at the turn of the century.Ê 100m Americans can trace an ancestor to this place.Ê Most were from Europe at that time, although a lot of Chinese came too.Ê Only 2% were turned back (several thousand died in the hospital).Ê In 1917 laws were passed to restrict immigration including a literacy test (which basically excluded the Chinese).Ê Africans were never a big proportion - in fact only 6% of slaves from Africa went to the US, the vast majority went to the British/French Caribbean and to Brazil.Ê Nowadays, most immigration is from Asia and from the Americas.

Filenes for cheap designer clothes.Ê At MOMA loved the Pollock, Bridget Reilly, Van Gogh's Starry Night, Andrew Wyeth's Christina's world.Ê The Rothkos were underwhelming. The photography and design sections were pretty disappointing, even with the iPod and G4 LCD iMac.Ê

Ground Zero is a building site - you have to stare into the expanse of sky to feel the loss.Ê Some panels describe the day in detail; only a brief mention of the 2 pools that will fill the twin towers' footprints.Ê The globe that used to sit in the plaza is now in Battery park by the ferry terminal, complete with dents and holes.Ê Deflated, really.

Holidays I would like to have!

Scuba and safari in Malawi - Club Makokola offers day tours, snorkelling and diving at Cape Maclear.

Porini safari in Kenya, also Il N'gwegi lodge (details at Responsible tourism).