Customer comments
HERE ARE SOME COMMENTS RECEIVED FROM OUR CLIENTS
Tailor made Golden Triangle tour
I will certainly travel with you again and recommend you to others wishing to travel to India. Thank you! Mrs J Nash & family 04.05.07
Highlights of North & South India
Selection of 'highlights' was excellent. We were both very taken with the train rides. The Golden Temple at Amritsar was a particular highlight. Jane Perkins (our guide at Mcleodganj) was our most interesting guide. We only went 'off piste' a few times but phut phut rides were fun and a day trip to Kannyakkumari and the offshore temple and statue unmissable. Brian & Angela Stewart. 24.03.06
South India trip for 4 persons
Having one car throughout with one driver was an excellent idea. The driver 'Siva Kumar' was first class & entered into the spirit of what we were trying to achieve. He helped in every aspect. Mr John Balmforth. 23.03.07
Thank you for your helpfulness from the initial query through to completion of our trip. We has a great time and hopefully sometime will be able to return to India as we both loved it there. Sue & Adam Butler. 05.05.06
Private itinerary to north India.
We had a really great time. Thanks. Mr Evans and family. 25.07.03
Private itinerary
A fabulous holiday! Just a couple of points: We were scheduled to take 5 long train journeys, which we found too much. I think 3 should be the maximum you recommend during a 2 week holiday. It was the wrong time of year to visit Bharatpur. We felt 2 days were wasted as we saw very few birds there. All in all a wonderful time. India is a real experience and the holiday enabled us to see so much more of real life over there than we imagined. Thank you!!! Miss V Healey & Mr P Chambers. 12.04.03
Feel Essential India provided just we asked for - interesting 2 week intro to N India. Splendid mix of history & culture, textiles and other crafts. Thank you. Sue Johnson 26.01.05
Private 'Tiger Reserves' itinerary
We had a really wonderful time. The road travel was poor due mainly to the road conditions. Trip from Bandhavgarh was 1.5 hours longer than suggested. We would not hesitate to use you again. Mrs KE Bullen 22.03.05
Bespoke itinerary
Manoj (our driver for the first week) was one of the most charming young men- please pass on our praise to his bosses. The manager (Ravi) could not have been more helpful. Mr Pullar & Family 20.01.06
It really was the most enjoyable two weeks I have had. I thought it was well organised and we were well looked after. David was the perfect guide/teacher and organiser. Ravi and his team were also very nice and looked after us well. To sum it up I would have no hesitations recommending the holiday and going again myself! Ms J Maclennan 24.02.03
Indian Journeys (email)
Hi Mark,
Just to say thank you to you and your team for organising our holiday to India. We fell in love with the place and both hope to return again in the near future. Hope you have a wonderful time leading your trekking adventure in the Himalayas.
Enjoy
And thanks again
Kind regards
Halina and Jane 10.02.07
Private itinerary (email)
Attn: Mark Butterworth and the Essential India staff in Delhi. I apologize if this is a duplication, but I wanted to write to you finally and thank you for the terrific job you did setting up my trip to India the first two weeks of November. Everything worked perfectly! Each of my "helpers" in India was so nice. I especially appreciated the excellent driving skills of Mr. Anil Kumar who safely whisked me through the crazy traffic without incident. He also helped me when I wanted to take pictures and was patient stopping the car many times so I could photograph so many interesting things. I have some pictures to send Anil and I will be forwarding them to Mr. Ravi Koul in the Delhi office. You did a wonderful job with the itinerary! I was taken to many crafts workshops and got to see firsthand a lot of things being made. I was able to take a lot of photos which I have shown my students in Wisconsin. My students have recently created clay "Maharaja's Elephants" complete with fancy saddle cloths and jewels!At first I was really glad to be back home...but within a couple of days of digesting all the new, I was ready to do it all over again! I loved Rajasthan. If I am able to go again, I think I would concentrate there with a focus on the spectacular textile traditions. At my folk art conference in Chandigargh at the end of my trip several speakers explored craft traditions in Rajasthan and made me excited to see more of that state next time. Thank you again for all your patience and help. I feel blessed to have had such an excellent opportunity. Mark...could you please forward this e-mail to the Delhi office? I don't seem to be able to locate an e-mail address for them. Thank you...Ann Parker 07.01.08
21 days in March 2008 with
Michael and Jennifer Weetch, Elizabeth Clarke, Diana Newlands and Mary Yuille
10th March Relief beyond belief!
After months of anticipation, would we actually make it to India? Would the North Circular be gridlocked? In the severe stormy conditions, would our flight, like many others, be cancelled? Even if it wasn’t, would we be on it? This seemed increasingly unlikely, with Jenny – moments before exuberant with excitement – now giddy and dark green and surrounded by airport medics and buckets. Then, as if by magic, Liz materialised, fresh from her missed Chicago connection. The tide turned. Liz, who would produce pills to cure all ills throughout the holiday, had an immediate tonic effect on her cousin. The foursome, ex-threesome, staggered through the departure gate, thankful in the end for the extra delay in take-off. Relief beyond belief. Beams all round. "We’re going to India!" said Jen, settling back in her window seat. A few hours later : WELCOME TO DELHI.
11th March Joyful reunion
Smooth touchdown. "You think Heathrow is chaotic? You want to try Delhi!" That’s what a London taxi driver had said to me a few days before. In fact things were far less fraught than expected, though we resolutely acted on other universally proffered advice to "go with the flow in India" when baggage staff insisted on removing cases from the carousel the moment they appeared, and stacking them in an inaccessible heap, thereby completely nullifying the advantages of the system. Thomas Cook beckoned. We handed in a few dollars and emerged, feeling rich, with massive wads of rupees, for the most part inconveniently stapled together.
In the arrivals hall, our first encounter with the redoubtable Mr Lal, bearing our names on a placard, (though Liz mysteriously featured as Dorothy Weetch). Cases strapped on the roof of a people carrier. Out into the city, dust and fumes hanging in the early morning air. Hazy heat. (Almost) every sense immediately assaulted, stunned even, by the sights and sounds of Delhi. Impossible really to capture in words those first impressions (or the second, third and fourth, to be frank): the incessant blasting of horns, the weaving traffic, the tuc tucs and rickshaws, the heavily, but apparently cheerfully overloaded buses, the taxis and street vendors, camel carts, pedestrians, cows, dogs, horses, even occasional pigs, people pushing trolleys of fruit, of water, of anything and everything. A maelstrom of activity with minimal evidence of either "rights of way" or "road rage". Whole communities living in ramshackle settlements along the roadside, animals co-existing with their owners in their little patch of space. Tenements seeming to hold each other up – I thought of our buildings surveyor chum! Grand monuments and glimpses of wealth behind high walls, beggars, riotous colour. Not yet the smells, since we were closeted in our air-conditioned vehicle. Rich sensations to come! Now to the Oberoi Maidens Hotel.
Mary, lovely in the doorway! Joyful reunion. Our first experience of the formalities of registration in Indian hotels. (We got very slick at this as time went on!) Michael, Jenny and Liz opted for "a proper breakfast" in the hotel while Diana and Mary sistered off on the metro to the heart of the city and enjoyed platefuls of freshly peeled fruit on seats in a bus shelter before strolling through the crowded clothes market, (source of numerous bargains at the end of the holiday). Back to join the others. Now we were five! The group leader and his wife had opted for some top-up sleep so the sisters sipped lime squash and ginger tea respectively in the garden shade before embarking on a splendid tuc tuc tour with Liz (fare negotiated by Mary) round the main sights of the city. India Gate, the Red Fort, the massive Jama Masjid mosque, "the largest in India, a magnificent example of Mughal architecture, dating from 1650". Soaking up the atmosphere, the heat, the dust and smells, anarchic traffic jams.
All together again, the party trekked on metro and foot, and finally tuc tuc, to rendezvous with Liz’s friend, Judith, for some good Indian fare at a restaurant near India Gate. Not the expected buffet, but what could dampen spirits on this first dinner of the holiday? Especially when topped off by a welcome lift from Judith’s driver, back to the metro.
12th March Porters and monkeys and blue-curtained trains
No point in unpacking! 6.30 a.m. start, clutching our breakfast boxes. Luggage back on the roof. Off to New Delhi Station. Mr Lal in rowdy negotiations with red turbanned porters. Referred to locally as "coolies". Cases slung up effortlessly on to their heads and marched to the platform to await the 07.55 train to Sawai Madhopur. A journey of about 5½ hours. Memorable scenes of frantic comings together between boarding and alighting passengers! In our relatively sedate carriage we found coyly curtained alcoves and seats that converted to bunks, people squatting, sitting, many still sleeping. All blue décor! Very quaint and faintly claustrophobic to begin with ( for the first few minutes!) till the hearty breakfast boxes yielded up their curious contents and we were under way and meeting fellow passengers and drinking in the passing scenery with the bottled water. An open-topped safari bus to meet us, school children milling around, a stop off in the local village to stock up on fruit, then the drive to Tiger Den resort on the Ranthambhore Road. Well appointed, charming chalets round an extensive very green lawn flanked by rose gardens. Delightful, tranquil spot. A late lunch awaited our delayed arrival. So many hours of sitting. "Anyone for a good walk?" suggests Mary. Mike and Jenny opted for bed. A walk certainly was intended, but even before the end of the rutted, red-earthed drive, Mary, Liz and I were invited into a passing family car, already well-filled, but "plenty of room for more". Moments after being dropped off, at the fork of the road, we were installed on a camel cart, clearly more used to transporting bricks. Walking might have been faster, but where’s the fun in that! Legions of monkeys, well used to posing for pictures, all along the route. We never reached the "women’s craft shops" we vaguely had in mind, and returned – entirely on foot this time – for a welcome dip in the pool. Claiming to be jet-lagged, Diana smiled for photographs outside the chalet, then withdrew to be horribly ill while the others were downing goat curry and fresh fruit cocktail with other guests in the dining room.
13th March Cricket but no tigers
Four, only, of the party were able to contemplate the early morning departure to Ranthambore National Park for a hoped-for glimpse of the famously elusive tigers. Fortified on coffee and biscuits, they jolted off into the "network of lakes and rivers on terrain that fluctuated between impregnable forest and open bushland." Diana lingered on the porch in blankets and recovery mode after a night best (and soon) forgotten. A few spots of rain – the only rain of the holiday – then out came the sun again and the intrepid hunters returned for breakfast after about four hours. Their reports were less than euphoric, it’s fair to say. A bumpy ride with not many, or indeed any, tigers to be seen. "A kill the day before meant they were keeping out of sight and enjoying a secluded banquet." Diana managed to contain her disappointment at missing "the second largest banyan tree in India". Liz was game for another trip later on, but the others settled for gentle cricket on the lawn and occasional hunks of Toblerone. At 6.30 all five gate-crashed a slide show specially laid on for a 16 strong group of Americans. It was intermittently interrupted by power cuts and accompanied by a very high-pitched commentary from "a renowned Indian wild-life photographer" whose pictures confidently demonstrated the existence of the admittedly rather few tigers in the park. According to our lecturer, ornithologists in the party could look forward to a rare treat: a sighting of "the red wulture!" Supper and early retirement to follow. No traffic noise here. Just some occasional music wafting across from a neighbouring village. Fragrance of jasmine outside the door.
14th March Armchairs on the roof
Someone forgot the early call, so the tiger hunters had to scrabble to catch the truck, unwashed and minimally biscuited. But more animals today and more rewarding scenery, though still no tigers. One tourist on board claimed never to have not seen a tiger in years of safari-ing. Just what the others wanted to hear! Diana completed her quiet convalescence over black tea and toast before joining the returning trippers for breakfast proper around 10 a.m.. The sun really got going now, unlike our family party. The entire middle of the day was gloriously dedicated to doing nothing. More accurately, to sunbathing, dipping in the pool, lolling in hammocks, sipping cool drinks in the shade, sleeping, attempting a few desultory post cards. Wonderful! Diana was clearly not in full possession of her wits as she was under the impression that the outing at 4ish was to the local village shops, whereas a remote leopard sanctuary was in fact the consensus destination. Off they bumped (Diana permitted the front seat!) through a sparse, scrubby landscape, arid from years without proper rain. Switchback meandering tracks where goatherds grazed their flocks. Groups of smiling, beautiful teenage girls. All bangled and necklaced, eager to be friendly and take a good look at our apparently funny faces! At one point, the strangely moving spectacle of a number of old men walking naked through their village, possibly, according to our guide, coming from the temple after offering ardent prayers, possibly as a form of ritual atonement. More rest with crosswords and books and a leisurely hour over drinks on the restaurant verandah. After supper, again punctuated by plunges into darkness as power cut off, armchairs up on the roof, to view Liz’s photographs on her PC. We basked under the stars, the night still warm. It felt like a long way from home, but we thought we could make out "The Plough".
15th March From litter to luxury
Our cases seem to be getting smaller. Much feverish squashing in of items in readiness for 8.30 a.m. departure. Goodbyes to the friendly towel-touting, smart but chatty lads on the staff and hello to an impressive (verging on the noble) people carrier, with ornate wood-carved interior, a sort of private oasis on wheels, which turned up to transport us on our four hour journey to Jaipur. ("Founded in 1727 by the Sawai Jai Singh II, the Maharaja of the Kacchwaha clan of Rajputs" – names to juggle with!) Along the route lots of uniformed schoolchildren packed into tuc tucs for some form of outing. Health and safety has not reached India; the train tracks double as well-used pedestrian routes, families as many as six cram on to one motorbike with not a helmet to be seen, some train passengers stow away on the roof, bus passengers hang out of doors, workers hang off the back of lorries. Meanwhile in London we mourn the loss of our routemasters! No hopping on and off for us! We pass through teeming villages, people getting their morning shave in makeshift booths, others sluicing down under the local pump. Cows ambling amongst the traffic or lying amongst the litter. Women in vividly coloured saris with loads on their heads, while, more often than not, the men and boys congregate on benches in the shade over small glasses of tea and the latest gossip. All agree, it’s "Straight to the hotel, please," and "No dancing this evening, thanks". The Royal Orchid Hotel had a hoarding on the outskirts of town advertising their buffet lunch. This we decide to sample. Restaurant on the first floor. City views and noises and smells, in complete contrast to the chalets we’d left behind. Fascinating plumbing, too, with showers that shot without warning on to the unwary from high above the middle of the bath.
Our driver dropped us off amongst the bazaars of the old town for an afternoon of shopping and sight-seeing. Bangles, skirts deliberated over and bargained for. A passing festive procession with flags and brass band, many buildings painted with a pink wash ("first used in 1853 in honour of a visit by Prince Albert".) The wonderful pink "Palace of the Winds" (windows!), named for all the little discreet windows through which the women were able to watch festivities below, yet remain unseen. Plenty of camels, cows, horses, dogs. Smells too, especially at the street corners where invariably-occupied twin urinals added their flavour to the scene! A temple with an exuberant music group outside, the women sitting on the floor inside. Brightly coloured powder paint being thrown about in celebration of the Hindu Holi Festival, "when Northern India cuts loose for a day of hijinx and general hilarity". We were given the mark of the tilak on our foreheads, in bright pink, making us feel included and part of the fun. Feet grew hot and tired. Near some performing snake-charmers ( the very lowest of the low dalits / untouchables) we rested on bits of cardboard with friendly local traders and idlers on a convenient flight of steps, watching the world go by, coolies transferring huge sacks of sugar from a warehouse on to a cart, rickshaw drivers plying their trade, the continuous plea of "over-zealous" shop-keepers, "You come into my shop now?" As the time for our pick-up drew near we commandeered a couple of rick shaws (or was it they who commandeered us?) and headed back to the designated city gate where we had been dropped. It was at this point, standing in mid traffic and noise and dirt and colour and smell and general chaos that Jenny produced her memorably ecstatic utterance."OH! India must never change!"
We did change, dressed up a bit, to visit a restaurant recommended by one of Jenny and Michael’s friends, Mark Williams. With the unlikely name of "The Coffee Shop". Part of the Rambagh Palace Hotel, former residence of the Maharaja of Jaipur, as we discovered when the taxi turned into the long drive and drew up under an elaborate portico at the foot of a sweeping staircase. "With luck we may be able to afford a couple of cheese straws each here!" was Michael’s opening shot. Along luxurious corridors past exotic sunken gardens, we emerged on to a terrace overlooking canopied , red linen-covered tables set out under the stars on the lawns of the tastefully floodlit palace, and attended by tall, handsome turbaned waiters. Live musicians offering haunting rather than catchy tunes, discreetly to one side. "We know how to live," remarked Jenny or possibly Liz. At any rate, all decided to relish every moment, and mouthful, of the evening. A splendid outrageous treat. Diana at one point struggled with hopeless fits of giggles when the thought occurred to her that they could well have turned up in a couple of tuc tucs. That, at any rate was what they travelled home in, a salutary experience to bring them back down to earth.
16th March Warriors, elephants and fireworks
An even more civilized start this morning, 9 a.m., so there was time for a hotel breakfast, fresh fruit, eggs, toast and, yes, marmalade. Then off in our rajah-van. (No need to dwell on these things – no-one did! – but it’s worth mentioning that The Royal Orchid Hotel was less fragrant than it might have been, with a mud-streaked window in Mary and Diana’s room, an extremely smelly cloakroom in the reception area, an inability to access hot water without calling an engineer, and bacon tasting very distinctly of fish!)
There were no doubts about the highlight of today : our visit to the Amber Fort, 11km north east of Jaipur. "A magnificent blend of Hindu and Mughal architecture, begun in 1592 under the reign of Raja Man Singh, commander in chief of Emperor Akbar’s army". Our guide was himself in some ways as intriguing as the fort, with his fund of anecdotes about the fort’s history and about modern India. He was – as he repeatedly reminded us – born into the Warrior caste, and no "impure blood" (non-Warrior blood) had been allowed to enter (pollute?) his family through marriage for generations. His arrogance was very unattractive, but he was certainly well informed, with all the details about the Raja’s wives in their separate quarters into which he could secretly look or enter, as the fancy took him. Michael quietly commented that as none of them knew which wife he was with, he was probably jolly glad to slide off for a beer and a game of darts some evenings, letting them all think he was at it with one of the other wives (or hundred or so concubines.) Architecturally, the fort was packed with gorgeous opulent rooms, "featuring the Rajputs’ flamboyant taste for covering walls with green, orange and purple glass, and the vaulted ceilings with thousands of little convex mirrors" such that one candle, when lit, would illuminate the entire room. When questioned, our guide was ready with all sorts of more modern statistics, affirming that 98% of all marriages in India are still arranged. (Another guide later suggested 90% was nearer the mark. But certainly the marriage columns in the newspapers made it clear that the caste system is still deeply entrenched.) We learnt also on this tour of the scandal of the current massive
scale of abortion of female foetuses, largely because of the dowry system that makes the marrying off of daughters so prohibitively expensive for lower caste parents. Some of the loveliest girls we saw out herding goats in the countryside, we learnt, had very little chance of ever marrying. And as for the tender lovers we had seen in the parks in Delhi, they too were almost certain never to be allowed to exchange wedding rings.
Of course, I’ve omitted to mention the thrilling experience of riding up the long ramp to the fortress on the backs of colourfully decorated elephants. Day in, day out, they walk the 11kms from Jaipur up the steep hill road to the base of the ramp. And back in the evening. On my ride up I was also conducting negotiations with a tee shirt trader for two elephant shirts for Matthew. We were glad to learn that their arduous trips up to the fort in the heat of the day, loaded with two tourists apiece, were limited to 5 per elephant.
The tour also took in a brief stop to admire the Jah Mahal, or Water Palace, a strange half-submerged palace in the middle of a lake, built in the 18th century for royal duck-shooting parties. From monuments to a fabric warehouse where Jenny and Mike chose a new bedspread and Mary was offered a job ( when she revealed how quickly she had run up the Punjabi suit she was wearing that day.) Having with difficulty got through to our driver that we would like to eat lunch not in a tourist restaurant but in a café that his family might use, we were soon established in a sort of upmarket pull-in for car-men, packed with locals and full of families. We were made welcome and felt very relaxed. Good simple fare. Ice-cold Kingfishers securely wrapped in newspaper for Mike and Diana. (Did they have no alcohol license? Had one of the lads run to a nearby liquor shop to get them? We kept them discreetly covered.) Dispensing with the driver, we continued with more shopping in the bazaars. Wall-hangings, shoulder bags, then tuc tuc home. Something strikingly noticeable by its absence: a child’s buggy or any kind of push-chair. All babies and small children were carried. "Isn’t this a niche market crying out to be exploited?" I suggest. "Where are the pavements to push them along?" says Mary. "What about the ruts and pot-holes and piles of rubbish and teeming crowds? Prams would be a liability." Q.E.D. It was Jenny’s turn now to cop a spot of DB so rest was indicated. Later on a colossally rowdy party got under way in the garden of an adjacent hotel, with amplified music and general racket. Diana and Mary went to investigate when out looking for a café for a modest supper. "This is a private function, the launch of a new motor bike," we were told. "Possibly so," says Mary, "but it’s not private for us seeing we can’t rest in our hotel room with all this noise going on!" The bouncer changed his tune and directed us very helpfully to the nearby Kandi restaurant, where excellent soup and naughty Indian sweets were available. We were unable to reach Liz via hotel reception (no-one passed on our invitation to join us), but we did all three end the evening out on the fire escape in our pyjamas enjoying the firework display at the end of the bike launch.
17th March Cookies and fruit to welcome us
With a 2 p.m. pick up planned, the party occupied the morning in different ways, Jenny for one, recovering steadily from her bug. Mary and I walked to a local internet café but found it shut. A power cut! Rickshaw then to the Palace of the Winds and some canny transactions by Mary with Thomas Cook on behalf of Michael. (They were trying to use the power cut to give us a lower exchange rate, not bargaining for Mary’s keen eye.) Just time to grab a simple eau de nil Punjabi suit for Mary, a long shirt for Oli and a much bigger carry-on bag for me, before nipping back to the hotel. Again a division of troops for lunch with Jen and Liz opting for the hotel buffet and Mike, Mary and me patronising the little coffee bar next door,(pizza and iced or hot coffee).
Jaipur Rail Station was crowded, very hot, very dusty, with people surging towards trains as others tried to get off, some crossing the track as the train came in, in order to clamber aboard from the far side and beat the rush for seats. Our tickets afforded some respite in the "upper class waiting room" though our driver was promptly fined because he didn’t have one. Off we trundled into the gathering gloom on the Jodhpur Varanasi Marudhar Express to Agra, where we arrived ( only we had to double check rather feverishly that we were at the right station,) in darkness. From the hectic scenes on the platform we were transferred smoothly by car into the luxurious oasis of the Trident Hilton, where cookies and oranges in our rooms offered a friendly welcome. Jen and Mike’s room was opposite ours in full waving view, with the garden and swimming pool between. (No regrets at all about being switched from the Taj View Hotel!)
18th March The Taj Mahal
Up at 5 a.m. in order to see the Taj at sunrise! The first logistical hiccup: the guide slept in. But fortunately we still seemed to arrive in good time and hard feelings were soon forgotten as he was a rather jolly companion, well-informed and unpressuring in his remarks. We spent some time just drinking in the view, admiring the symmetry, the inlaid walls, the garden, complete with ox-drawn grass cutter. Inside, the dimly lit tombs of Shahjahan and his adored (favourite) wife, Mumtaz Begam. We particularly enjoyed the commentary supplied with my pack of postcards, incorporating one of the most outrageous Freudian slips of all time: "The beauty and charm of Mumtaz had led to the idea of immoralising the passionate love for his wife by Shahjahan in the form of a marvellous structure. A silky structure still transmit reverberation of 1639. Shajahan remained in constant love with Mumtaz, who died at 38, giving birth to his 14th child. It was an unpredicted shock for Shah Jahan, he was emotionally fractured and sentimentally imbalanced". Even the more restrained Berlitz Guide refers to the legend that his beard turned white overnight! It was rather wonderful to think that we were seeing the Taj much as it looked to the grieving husband about 350 years before. We returned to a luxurious, hearty, late breakfast, the most impressive buffet by far of the holiday, having successfully fended off persistent vendors of bangles, inlaid boxes and miniature chess sets.
Our guide rejoined us mid morning to take us round the great Agra Fort, constructed by the Mughal ruler, Akbar, in the 16th century. The less military elements, the mosque and imperial quarters we learnt were added later by Shah Jahan, and this is where he was imprisoned by his son during his last 7 years, gazing across the river to the Taj, as legend has it, from the beautiful Octagonal Tower. Again, our tour was relaxed, with plenty of time to admire (but regrettably not clearly remember!) all the details of the "Hall of Private Audience with its rich carving and inlaid marble and the gilt-roofed pavilions of the Private Palace" etc. Our guide was a keen photographer and periodically asked for (or just grabbed) our digital cameras to make his own contribution to our gallery of shots.
As a last port of call he strongly recommended calling in to see another less well-known landmark, the tomb of Itimad-ud-Daulah, set in its own more intimate formal gardens. Some guide books refer to it as Baby Taj, but our guide preferred to call it Mother of Taj as it predated the Taj by 15 years and may well have influenced the latter’s design, with its "fragile elegance in white marble, its fine lattice work and its outstanding marble inlay even more abundant than in the Taj, and better preserved." An elderly man squatted in the full sun outside, lacing on us rough linen overshoes to protect the marble flooring and hoping for a few rupees. It was a pleasant, more off-the-beaten-track place, with few visitors apart from the birds and an occasional gardener.
With so lovely a hotel as our base, a return to enjoy some of its luxury facilities seemed highly desirable, sun beds by the pool or in the shade, dips in same, internet service for Liz, sleep or browsing over the newspapers. Each to his own. Later on a stroll along the road to a modern shopping mall, complete with escalators and air-conditioning, where Jenny and Mary tried on various dresses under the expert and appreciative eye of the wallet-wielding Michael. Supper back at the Trident Hilton. Plenty of choice. Peaceful. (Glad not to be in the large party across from us, being loudly lectured by their tour guide about the next day’s plans even as they presumably were trying to relax after completing the itinerary for today.)
19th March Red sandstone…and more red sandstone
There seemed to be some reluctance by our driver to include a visit to Fatehpur Sikri (or perhaps we got it wrong). Anyway, we were set on seeing it before heading off back to Delhi. Unfortunately our guide for this visit was an incomprehensible gabbler so we tramped round in intensifying heat gazing at this extraordinary complex of uniformly red sandstone buildings, hungry in vain to know what it was all about. In fact (three cheers for the Internet) it was the remains of a former capital built by the Mughal Emperor Akbar in the 16th Century. Akbar had many concubines but none produced an heir. The worried Emperor visited a Muslim saint who told him that he would have a son, which indeed he did, as predicted, the following year. Akbar was delighted and decided to build a new capital here. Only the mosque and the palace area remain intact today. In the large courtyard stands the mausoleum of the Muslim saint, Shaikh Salim Chisti. (Tourists were urged to buy and donate coloured scarves or flowers to place on the tomb, the scarves to be given later to local widows. The wicked amongst us wondered what on earth they did with them all, and even dared to suspect that they would be recycled back through the shop! Oh dear!) There is an audience hall where ministers saw the Emperor, seated on a throne placed on top of a pillar. Panch Mahal is a five-storey pavilion without any walls. Composed only with pillars and beams, there are no Islamic arches or domes. The Emperor selected traditional Indian designs instead. This is the palace for the Emperor’s wives. He deliberately sought marriage with brides from different religions to strengthen his empire. Regional governors under his control willingly sent their daughters to the palace. The number of women here was said to be 5,000 at one point. One tale we did catch was that he liked to play a sort of blind man’s buff with his vast harem. Under Akbar’s rule, Islamic and Hindu culture coexisted in harmony. The new prince was a symbol of such Mughal culture. But Emperor Akbar suddenly abandoned the city. The exact reason remains unknown though some believe the water supply was inadequate or even polluted. His beautiful capital lay abandoned only about 15 years after its creation.
We made one stop on the four hour drive back to Delhi, at a wayside country café, the Anand Hotel. Cool cokes and juices sucked through straws round a table in the shade with view of fields. The rush hour was in full swing on the streets of Delhi, endearing chaos. Jen, Mary and I grabbed an opportunity to nip back to Connaught Place where more garments were tracked down and haggled over, including in my case, blouses for Ellie, Heather and me. Satisfied shoppers! The plan was to try The Embassy Restaurant for dinner, between the hotel and the metro station. And after successfully requesting a table out of sight of a flickering TV screen, we wound down over a variety of dishes, before a night’s sleep in our spacious upgraded rooms. (Ours was not to reason why!!)
20th March Railway cuisine
No early start today so we took full advantage of the Oberoi Maidens breakfast. The Weetch party needed to exchange some more currency before shopping but the local bank made such bureaucratic heavy weather out of it that Mike left Jen and Liz to go on to the shops while he rejoined his sisters lazing on green and white towels by the pool with newspapers and books. Mr Lal was on pick-up duty at 3.30.p.m. to get us to New Delhi station, As usual there was the trek with luggage through heavy crowds, on this occasion right to the furthest platform, with Lal striding on ahead (unladen) and hunting down the designated carriage booked for us on the 16.30 Golden Temple Express to Amritsar. Cases were installed on the racks, seats located, sweat congealing, we were ready for the off. Moments after Lal – fortuitously for him! – evaporated off the platform, the rumour spread that we were in fact in the wrong carriage. How could this be? And not just us, but everyone. Mr Lal’s forceful leadership qualities would have come in handy at that point. As it was, the entire complement of passengers in the coach muddled and scrabbled their way through to the next one in the face of another equally disgruntled stream in the opposite direction. It wasn’t that easy to "go with the flow!" But spirits revived quickly as waiters brought first bottles of water, then snacks on trays and later a dinner and sweet. Another new experience. The close-on 6 hour journey took us through open country, plenty of brick factories with their characteristic tall chimneys, and the familiar sprawl of shanty settlements on the outskirts of each town. No problems on arrival and we were soon deposited at the somewhat euphemistically named Ritz Hotel in the heart of Amritsar. Some of the party got the impression that the town had "something different about it", but in the morning this impression was attributed to street lamps, and revised in the light of day. Apart from Mary, who had a drink and convivial chat downstairs to the accompaniment of some live music, it was heads down without delay.
21st March Reflected gold
I was a tad sub par in the morning, so sat out in the courtyard while the others downed an early breakfast. The sight of the hotel pool, however, a shade of deep brown, sent me back to our room with windows open wide. Nothing serious though and we had one of the great treats of the holiday awaiting us after a short ride through rather run-down, gray streets, crowded with locals and pilgrims too, coming to visit the "Sikh Mecca", their most holy shrine, the golden temple. Local knowledge and cheeky driving got us neatly round an unhelpful road block so that we could be delivered right at the entrance. Shoes off! (Stowed in a network of cubby holes here, rather than heaped on the floor!) Follow where everyone else is going. The first sight of the temple is quite stunning, seen from steps leading down from an arched gateway. Surrounded by a lake, ornately gilded, with domes and lotus-shaped roof plastered with pure gold leaf. An exotic spectacle, complemented by live music emanating from the temple and filling the huge open area around it. Family parties, promenading round the wide walkways on every side, colour, lots of people dressed up as for a special occasion, others stripping off – very decorously – to dip themselves in the holy waters of the lake. Tangible serenity. A long but unflustered queue across a white marble causeway to gain admission to the "Harmandir" itself, where the Sikh holy book, theGuru Granth Sahib, is enshrined. People sitting there reading the Scriptures or praying, kneeling, sometimes prostrate, great devotion and awe. But huge enjoyment too and a sense of welcome epitomized by the provision of free food for all.
A long drive north west ahead of us then, about 5 hours. Still some evidence of young people, chiefly bikers, in powder-chucking festive, Holi mood. The first half of the route was across largely flat terrain but latterly it was very much uphill. Precipitous even. We observed a rather a curious widespread method of municipal rubbish dumping along the route, piling it up quite neatly to form a roadside verge, presumably to dry out in the sun before being burnt. We made one meal stop, when we were directed into a room apart, cooled by a large fan, a sort of (high caste?) isolation wing, while our driver veered off to another part of the modest little eatery to enjoy his food with the locals.
Mounting excitement, appropriately enough, as we began the zig zag assault course up to Dharamsala, a sort of 2 level township with 1500ft between the two levels. We pressed on to the top, past many long-established military garrisons, and instead of turning right into McLeodganj we drove left and higher still ( a change of hotel ) along the ridge to a sort of outcrop leading nowhere, except to an unexpectedly high class patisserie in a makeshift shack. We found ourselves in the middle of assorted cafés (including the cliff top "Sunset Café") and a selection of hotels, all capitalizing on the breath-taking view over the Kangra Valley and the Dhaula-Dhar mountains, part of the Himalayan range. Spring blossom, snow on the peaks. In terms of resorts, much more Canvey Island than Eastbourne, only without the sea. We were well over 6000ft by now. The Sahima Hotel was recognised (and cheerfully accepted by our flexible fivesome) as a lodging house with a view and nothing else. There were beds, of course, and nylon duvets and rather gruesome threadbare towels and faded "wall to wall carpets". As for the kitchen, best to keep your eyes averted if the door wasn’t closed! The staff, entirely young men, had severe problems boiling eggs, and were clearly unaware of the potential to be exploited in a few mops and buckets of hot suds. But all this came later. Standing on our mountain view balconies up above all the tangle of telegraph wires and kitchen smells, we seemed to be on top of the world.
Nowhere obvious to explore really, except the gorge-side path round to the International Sahaja Public School . " In this atmosphere of peace and purity, an institution for children of SAHAJA YOGI families around the world to provide for the protection of their innocence, for the development of their personality and for their academic advancement in a pure, ethical & spiritual environment". We headed for the cake shop, and sipped tea with hunks of high calorie confections in the encroaching dusk. By common consent, "eating out" was essential! Liz, Mike and Mary researched at least 5 local hotels in search of someone to roast a couple of chickens, plain and unadulterated, for us. The proprietress of the Udechee Hotel, just below ours, seemed to grasp what we wanted (felt in need of!) and four of us (Jenny again subject to a bout of DB) sat down to a pot roast of chicken and vegetables, prepared to order and presented on a large platter which was soon empty (one or two choice jointlets doggy-bagged for Jen).
22nd March Joining the demonstration
A good sleep in the cooler temperatures, but less good for the hors de combat Jenny. In no mood for company, she saw us off from her sickbed next morning, to be taken by our new guide, the charming Agitav, to visit McLeodganj, (or Upper Dharamsala), the location of the Tibetan government in exile. A "hill station", a place where wives and daughters of British officers and government officials would spend hot Indian summers in the old colonial days. A town with a large Tibetan population, swollen with visitors and sympathisers, and large numbers of monks, male and female, housed in local monasteries. "A relief" as Michael put it, "not to be continually urged to buy an inlaid chess set!" Agitav was as moved as the rest of us by the turmoil we happened into, with the Tibetan library and many shops closed following an outbreak of violence in Lhasa four days before when as many as 200 Tibetans had been allegedly tortured and murdered by the Chinese. Grim photographs, smuggled out by mobile phone, had been enlarged and displayed all round the town and we were swept along by the stream of people converging on the main monastery for a mass meeting where the Tibetan Prime Minister was scheduled to speak. We estimated a gathering of at least two thousand, sitting expectantly in the large raised courtyard, open to the brilliant light but shaded by trees and awnings. We felt the poignancy of the occasion and waited quietly with the rest, soaking up the nationalist atmosphere, and the grief of the Tibetans, startlingly expressed by many, including three government ministers, by head shaving, and chanting marches through the narrow streets with Tibetan flags in every hand, or painted on freshly shorn heads. An extraordinary experience for us.
Before leaving we booked a table at a rooftop restaurant in the heart of the town, claiming to be Pierce Brosnan’s favourite eatery in McLeodganj, the McLlos Hotel. Agitav suggested his cousin as our evening driver which suited us very well and kept it in the family! A price was agreed! A time of relaxation, postcards on the balcony, the usual daily sight of donkeys to-ing and fro-ing up the street loaded with locally mined slate, then down again, empty, to collect the next consignment. A walk with Mary in my case along the path to the international school, encountering goats, a few monks, some rhododendron trees. Rhododendron jam and chutney are popular in these parts, but we almost always got the vaguely glutinous "mixed fruit" variety, however many stars the hotels boasted. At the last moment, Michael felt able to leave Jenny at 5.30.p.m. and come across for a tasty Chinese / Indian style meal with – yes – a bottle of wine, Riviera. Very fruity and enjoyable, though Indian wines generally have a discouraging write-up. Our last evening before Mary was to leave us. Before climbing up to the roof for our meal, complete with our blankets and jackets (though it remained quite warm) we had joined in a candlelit march, chanting with the rest. It wasn’t difficult to pick up the repeated motif! Over our dinner table a colourful hanging fabric lamp, which Liz skilfully hitched up a bit, so we could see each other and avoid colliding with it as we leant over our soup. "Cheers!" (remembering to hold eye contact when chinking the glasses!) A thrilling and disturbing day. Early to our rooms after tender enquiries in the sick bay. Jenny had eaten a dry biscuit. Good news indeed! Mary and I read, cosy-like, wrapped in blankets.
23rd March Easter Sunday highs and lows
We had, the day before, stopped briefly to see one of the legacies of the British Raj, the Church of St.John in the Wilderness, nearby, the burial place of former viceroy Lord Elgin. We had spotted a notice about a 10 a.m. service in English. So our plan was to share at least the first half hour of worship there before pressing on with our programme. People of various nationalities were converging down the sloping paths to the church as we arrived, under the shade of the deodar trees, but the building was still locked. An elderly man in a baseball cap was burning rubbish and also cooking some breakfast round at the side. We assumed he might be the caretaker, or, more appropriately on Easter morning, we even "supposed him to be the gardener!" But he turned out to be the vicar and pointed out that the English service had been at 8 a.m. We were some of many who had overlooked an announcement in very small print on the notice board. This was a blow and given the gathering congregation we half expected he would abandon his breakfast and hold another service. We did persuade him to let us into the church, where we sat in the pews feeling decidedly deflated. This wouldn’t do at all! Up steps Mary and tracks down an English Bible. We propose, to everyone’s evident joy, that we take turns and read the entire Easter narrative, which we did against a pleasant background tape of gospel songs the vicar had now thought to provide. After a silence, an American tourist suggested we stand and say the Lord’s Prayer. This we did, spontaneously linking hands all round the church. Much greeting and hugging and smiles and photographs before we dispersed after what one person described as one of her most unusual and moving Easter services yet. One of the day’s highs.
It was good to take Jenny (in the convalescent front seat of the car) back to some of the sights she had missed the day before, the headquarters of the Tibetan government in exile, the nearby monastery taking boys as young as 7, all in their easily recognizable red robes. Then on to the Norbulinka Institute, where we were due to say goodbye later to Mary, as she drove off to Pathankot for her connecting train back to Delhi. (The low moment of the day). Mary admitted she had been less than enthusiastic when reading on her itinerary that she would be spending her last morning at "an institute" but in fact this was a totally delightful place, with gardens and workshops where Tibetan crafts were practised, a dolls’ museum and in the centre the residence of the Dalai Lama. We were free to explore everywhere, even there, and loved the wildly colourful murals and exotic and varied representations of "the Buddha". Our visit was rounded off with a delightful lunch in the shade of the gardens, rather bland pumpkin soup for some of us, muesli with loads of fresh fruit and nuts for me, fortifying pasta for Mary, something plain for Jenny, now back to her usual smiling self. A few tears hovering as Mary hugged goodbye but smiles too for the amazing fortnight shared together.
On the way home we asked about local shopping and stopped off at a rather smelly town built on a steep hill where we bought sweets and macaroons and sponge biscuits, recommended by Agitav. Liz, pro-biotic and energetic as ever, was regretfully outvoted by the others over a plan to explore "an ice waterfall" involving quite a rigorous climb. (Agitav’s offer of escorting her on his motor bike was, after cautious consideration, declined). The balcony at the back of the hotel provided a peaceful suntrap for an hour or so, with books and postcards. More highs yet to come, as we clambered down with our blankets wrapped round us for a pre-dinner hour with drinks and appetizers on the verandah of the Udechee Hotel. Few people about. Our own private spectacular panorama of the mountains as the sun went down and clouds settled on the peaks. With the personal hovering attention of Laurence Olivier (or his twin) thrown in for good measure. Inside then for (Mike and I capitulated!) fried chicken and chips while the others were more adventurous. "Could we have the pudding menu, please?" "No pudding this evening!" Wow! One of the first occasions on the holiday when we weren’t being pressed to spend money! We could have fancied one of their curious coffee trifles like the night before. Back up the slope to our second floor corridor of rooms and the startling news that Jenny was quite happy with the idea of an 8 a.m. departure to Chandigarh the following day. We missed Mary. (I appropriated her pillow.)
24th March Packed programme
Bags strapped on roof. Final sightings of toiling donkeys and the almost empty chest freezer at the hotel entry. Goats going out to graze. No "extras" (or rebates?) at the check out. And we’re off down the hill, down and down back to lower, hotter terrain and the long but rather beautiful country drive to the modern city of Chandigarh, planned by Le Corbusier as the new post-Partition capital of the Punjab. A short tea stop for our driver, at a wayside kiosk with a barber plying his trade nearby. Later a pee stop at an amenable hotel up an alley behind shops. We were nearly blocked in there by some bad parking, but at least it afforded us an opportunity to stock up on oranges. Liz acquired a bagful of gorgeous specimens. As with Liz’s macaroons, the oranges immediately became "group" property (along with Liz’s almonds, Liz’s disinfectant wipes, Liz’s apricots, Liz’s white chocolate balls etc.) The last miles were for no apparent reason taken at a frenzied pace and we were happy to clamber out and into the reception area of the Sunbeam Hotel. A school party having lunch in the coffee bar made for a noisy but jolly atmosphere. As always you felt great respect for the teachers guarding and guiding their happy young herd on what was evidently an educational trip. Several children, when encountered in lifts etc were able to try out their English in the universally taught set-piece of : "Hello. How are you?" "Very well thank you. How are you?" "I’m fine!" The entire population of India, when in conversation with tourists, is "fine".
A quick turn around. Places to go, sights to see, not a lot of time to "do" Chandigarh. To be frank a rather dully geometric design for a city, I thought, with unimaginatively named "sectors", simply numbered 1-47 (no unlucky 13). A grid of admittedly wide boulevards and attractive nicely planted roundabouts and each sector housing a "self-sufficient neighbourhood". It’s known as the City Beautiful, and it was noticeably cleaner than other cities and decked with abundant bougainvilleas along the dual carriageways. But a lot of concrete and I’m not keen on Le Corbusier’s public building architecture. We drove through the university campus and called in at the rose garden. (It somehow felt like a long way to go to smell roses). But the yellow flowering poui and scarlet-bloomed bottlebrush trees were thriving. Of course, it was important to remember that no rain had fallen for months, so someone had a monstrous daily job with the hose. The lake with its swan-shaped paddle boats and the Sector 17 shopping centre got a brief look-in. Down by the water I spotted a large public notice warning those who dropped litter that they would be "challened and taken to court for offending against sanitarial norms". The most engaging attraction was the unique "rock garden" begun on some waste ground in 1965 by a road inspector, Nek Chand. It was originally intended as a small garden but the scheme mushroomed into a giant 25 acre complex full of grottos and flying walkways and waterfalls as a background to thousands of statues made from discarded ceramics, scrap metal and industrial plastic, weird and wonderful, and very hot, so the cool drinks at the end were more like survival rations. (My feelings of déja vu were in due course attributed to the fact that I’d seen a programme about it on the telly at home.) A jovial local eccentric, "friend of the garden creator" presented the lovely Liz with a garland and posed with her and Jenny for a souvenir photograph. He was sure "Nek would appear at any moment and be so glad to see us," but we were footsore and looking forward to rest and drinks before supper, so we headed back in our taxi and put our feet up. I went up to investigate the garden on the roof, dramatically more richly colourful than any of the municipal parks. But "no service up there"; it was distinctly "end of season". By 7 we were lounging in the dimly lit, plushly furnished Ambassador restaurant and cocktail lounge, quiet and peaceful and indulging in another bottle of Riviera wine, well-chilled, before moving to a table and an excellent Indian / Chinese menu to end a busy day. (I must change up some sterling tomorrow. I’m in debt to both Michael and Liz!).
25th March Touch and go
Our tour notes spoke of Kalka as "just north of Chandigarh" and the hotel manager said 45 minutes was plenty for the drive to the "toy train" terminus there. So when our driver turned up at 9 to get us to the 12.10 departure, he readily agreed to come back at 10.30. Mike and I were conducted round the corner by one of the staff to a first floor money changer. In and out in five minutes. We put sterling / dollars on the counter. They put rupees in exchange, complete with a good rate and a calculator to check their calculation. Pas de probleme! Breakfast for many at the roadside in full swing, tea booths or just "squats" doing brisk business before the day got under way, rickshaw drivers sharing a game of cards or still sleeping, tuc tuc taxi ranks at the ready for tourists emerging from their hotels, shoe cleaning, car polishing, much sweeping and wet mopping of pavements. Yes, this is a city striving to live up to its reputation for cleanliness.
Oh dear oh dear. Nerves on the point of being severely strained. The distance to travel to Kalka was in fact about 40km. but the road was mostly narrow and two-way and packed solid with Shimla-bound traffic. Not to mention the flat tyre when scarcely out of Chandigarh. A tyre change while minutes ticked by (as tensely fraught as a Formula One pit stop). Surely the 100 minutes we had allowed would be plenty. Kalka must be just round the next bend. But it wasn’t and even with skilful irregular surging on up the wrong side of the road with us four keeping very quiet and still while the car radio blared, the possibility of missing the train turned to probability. Even when we saw the station, there was a long one-way climb to the top of the teeming high street before turning back down (seemingly lost at one point) to get there. Hurling down of luggage, running like mad along the platform, hunting for our carriage near the front (of course) of the revving train, climbing aboard somehow, Michael last with the wheels already moving. The chauffeur still gesticulating, possibly for a bigger tip, but who knows? This was not a moment for protracted conversation! "This experience gives a whole new meaning to ‘touch and go!’" said Michael. But not then. Later. For the time being he was incapable of speech. ( It later became apparent that he was asking, in Hindi, for the "woucha" Michael was supposed to have given him.)
The "viceroy’s toy train" up to Shimla (completed in 1897 under the instruction of Viceroy Lord Curzon) was not designed for luggage. Presumably servants used to trundle it up by road in the early days. Ours completely blocked one end of the carriage, already cluttered up with everyone else’s. But fortunately there was a second loo (of the crouching variety) at the other end. Anyway, our fellow passengers seemed completely relaxed about the increase in muddle our late arrival caused, and were soon sympathising over the burst tyre and moving out of our seats. What a splendid route lay ahead, 96 kms of steadily, slowly, climbing track over 24 bridges and through 103 tunnels, with fantastic views opening up on alternate sides as we meandered up and through the hills. For approximately five hours. Precipitous terracing of the slopes. Plenty of "des res" and plenty of the other kind too. Regular stops at quaint (pre-Beeching style) stations where it was the custom to get out and stretch legs and partake of tea and filled rolls. Sometimes, meals apparently ordered in advance were handed in through the windows. The station master doing his stuff with green and red flags. On even the smallest of "halts" there were "first class waiting rooms" and often "subordinate waiting rooms" as well. Many train doors were left open so that passengers could sit dangling their legs outside and benefiting from the breeze as the train trundled round the bends. Dense forestry, villages built into the steep slopes, dried up river courses far below, spectacular valleys, soaring ridges with the peaks continually moving beyond our reach, or so it seemed. Michael pointed out a small notice at the end of the carriage:"Report complaints, if any, to the guard or assistant station-master at Solan or Barog. They have complaint books." But we had none. Finally, "Report complaints, if any, to the guard or assistant station-master at Solan or Barog. They have complaint books." But we had none. Finally,
the first sightings of Shimla, the capital of Himachal Pradesh, practically perpendicular in construction, packed with layer upon layer of housing, every room surely a "room with a view!"
The ultimate in bad design for a "station approach" but before long our driver wangled his way out and through the crowded "downtown" area and to our surprise continued just the same sort of upward zig-zagging route to the heights of Shimla and to our appointed home for the next three days, the Woodville Palace. "I don’t mind if I never set foot out of here for three days!" was Michael’s first comment, after lodging the Weetch luggage in "The Princely Room", chatting briefly with a monkey chomping away at the flowering shrub on their balcony, and settling himself into a wicker lounger on the lawn in the late afternoon sunshine. A 7.30 p.m. rendezvous in "The Hollywood Bar" for cocktails. 1930’s style. Portraits of film stars of the era. Shorts and tee shirts shed, more appropriate garments dug out of cases. (I had even unpacked properly for the first, and last, time on the holiday, in my enormous ground floor quarters. I’d been readily switched from a windowless room adjacent to the others on the 3rd floor. I’d assured them a view was more important than togetherness on this occasion!) Shimla was built "back in the early years of the 19th century when the British settlers were desperately looking for a refuge from the heat of the plains". We were now at 7000ft and we’d found it! In every bedroom, a neat plaque on the mantelpiece over an open hearth read: "For Fire Wood and Coal Please Contact Reception". The à la carte dining room was decidedly chilly but there were plenty of hot dishes to choose from. I had something called chicken sizzlers, with soup to start with. I slept for 7 hours with my coat on and under a heavy duvet. Jenny and Mike were somewhat disturbed by monkeys leaping around over their roof and Jenny, looking for some sympathy during a bout of night-time coughing, found that Mike was beyond reach, even at full arm stretch, in their colossal bed.
26th March The place to be
Fried eggs, cooked on both sides. Mountains of toast. Guide book research had indicated that the place to be was The Mall. You walked along it till it intersected with The Ridge at Scandal Point, so nick-named by Kipling. Clearly Shimla had been the scene of many "high jinks" in its days as a popular hill station during the days of the Raj. Senior officers reportedly "poodle-faking" with other men’s wives. Whatever its history, its present was undeniably very attractive, with glorious blue skies, hot sunshine and a light breeze. But where was the Mall? Would we need a taxi when all would prefer a walk? The hotel brochure said it was very near but we seemed to have climbed so far out of the busiest part of town. Our driver of the night before hurried out and set us off in the right direction.
The Mall was right on our doorstep, a long undulating promenade , often tree-shaded, with striking views of the town below, and hundreds of small shops as well as banks and restaurants and all the municipal offices. A place that invited leisurely ambling (with an appropriate stop for coffee and snacks along the way.) A jolly encounter with a Dutch couple, travelling enthusiasts, eager to chat. Crowds of happy strollers, locals and visitors alike. "A good liming spot", as Liz remarked. No hope of resisting the goods on offer. Shimla shawls and scarves and tops etc. I bought fabric and was guided to a nearby tailor to be measured up for my Punjabi suit. It would be ready by 6p.m. the following day. Pony rides for children. The initially elusive post-office. The Gaiety Theatre. Statues of Gandhi and Indira Gandhi. The yellow-washed summery-looking Christchurch beside the State Library. Ghurkas, imposing turbans, men gossiping, women relaxing over their knitting, brilliant coloured saris. The day slipped away and we were still strolling, but at last the temperature cooled and overcast skies sent us home to meet up in The Princely Room over tea and chat and telly and crosswords and PC. Time to appreciate the evocative old photographs lining every wall in every room and corridor of the hotel. In the know now, we sported several layers of clothing and chose the "plebs’ dining room" for dinner, as being warmer, even though we stuck to the à la carte!
27th March Scottish Baronial
By common consent it was back for further exploration along the Mall, with its apparently inexhaustible attractions. First stop, after considerable shop-window-gazing, was the State Bank where Liz and Jenny wanted to change some more currency. In complete contrast to Mike and Diana’s experience in Chandigarh, the process proved laborious, with form-filling and passport photocopying. But in due course they rejoined us, lounging in the shade, and the walk continued with the Viceregal Lodge as our planned destination. Viceregal lodgers (the Queen and others) were certainly able to keep well clear of the hoi-polloi! It was quite a distance from and above any other residence. But what an impressive sight on our way there when we looked down on a demonstration – as we quickly learnt - by thousands of part-time female workers, snaking along in their brilliant colours, a three or four deep file about a mile long, demanding wage parity with full-time workers. Great organisation by their union, clearly. I hope they succeed. Beginning to be hot and footsore we walked into the landmark Oberoi Cecil Hotel (you see it for miles from the toy train) and subsided into luxuriously upholstered leather armchairs in an atmosphere of extremely expensive luxury. (Michael reported on "a lifetime first": An elegant mat was provided in the Gents to stand on while urinating! Gosh!) A lavish arrangement of yellow gladioli in the middle of the soaring atrium. All very comfortable and refreshing, but without the idiosyncracies and quaint old-fashionedness of the Woodville. The last climb to the Lodge was now accomplished and, having come this far, we booked in for the tour, just about to start. So we can now say we have stood in the room where Partition was decided upon, by Mountbatten, Nehru, Gandhi and Jinnah, we’ve touched the table where the signing took place, seen the ballroom, the library, the galleries and general grandeur in which it all happened. It’s good that the Scottish baronial edifice has ceased to be a ministerial palace and been turned into a centre for advanced studies.
Some photographs with an Indian couple while awaiting a taxi. People seemed to think we were "something out of the ordinary" wherever we went. Is that how monkeys at the zoo feel? Fare agreed, 150/-. Having grown up with "old money" I was constantly amused by the adoption of the shilling sign for the rupee. Our driver dropped us at the bottom of the town’s lift-tower. Important to have at least one ride in this vital installation, connecting lower and upper Shimla. Liz had identified The Bandstand as the place to take a late lunch, and delightful it turned out to be, a circular restaurant looking down on the passing scene at The Ridge. Inexpensive too. (Definitely no little mats in the toilet!) Lots more strolling to come and more shopping, even down in the "lower level emporia" while calling in for my suit. ("No supermarkets in Shimla", Michael observed.) Fruit, nuts, dates in readiness for tomorrow’s long day of travel. Mike and I formed an advance party to the chosen dinner venue, a hotel within easy walking distance of ours. We sipped "mocktails" while waiting the arrival of Jen and Liz. A really warm welcome and the best table, under an awning in a convenient corner where we could dump all our parcels and carrier bags. Mike had a decidedly non Indian "chicken in a basket". Tons to talk about and reminisce over. Before our final walk back, accompanied by a friendly dog.
28th March Downhill to Delhi. (But temperature definitely up again!)
This was a travelling day on the grand scale! Shimla to Kalka, then the transfer to the Delhi Express for our last return to the capital city and our last (third) overnight stop at the Oberoi Maidens. From 7000ft down to the "scorching plains". Our hotel car awaited us at 9.15.a.m. and zig-zagged back down into the already hectically busy train station area, where we were able to load up promptly – and with decidedly more dignity and calm – on to the toy train for the spectacular reverse journey in glorious blue sky weather. Time to spot new things, like a large hoarding on one station reading: "Tolerance of other faiths imparts a true understanding of ourselves". Not the sort of thing you’d see at Euston! But not at all surprising in this proudly multi cultural, multi-faith society. . At one station we managed to secure hot (sweet!) tea, just by waving at the tea kiosk. (Access to the carriage door was well nigh impossible!) The tea man hopped out and passed it through the window. Price about 4p. Plenty of time at Kalka but no sign of anyone in the "Information Office" where I had hoped to find a booklet about the toy trains (with Keith in mind). But our train to Delhi was already in the station and there were our names (and sexes and ages) on the printed list at the door of our carriage. As soon as we boarded, buffet staff offered us complimentary cups of tea, and we sank back into our plushy seats, four in a row, for the last long lap of the journey. Free drinks and food arrived at intervals on small airline style plastic trays. Health and safety may not have reached India but advertising speak certainly has: there was room on the tiny salt and pepper sachets for some classic blurb, "Redefining the Art of Hospitality". A small but unimportant hiccup on arrival in the late evening: our driver missed us on the platform and it took some time and a mobile call by Diana to make contact and get ourselves back to the hotel. A familiar sight by now!
29th March Packing in as much as possible
It was Michael who had produced, on the first day of the holiday, a colossal quantity of small packets of peanuts, "in case he couldn’t stomach any of the food on offer!" In fact, he was robustly fit and seemingly immune to DB the whole time, not a meal missed! But he did admit to feeling "slightly sub par" on this last day. Either that or he had to find a good reason for staying quietly-like at the hotel with the newspapers while the girls made a final foray into town. All three rooms were to be kept available till our respective departures at 8.30 p.m.(Liz) and 10.30 p.m. (Jenny, Mike and me). So the challenge of packing could be spread over the day. We three emerged from the Oberoi to find our familiar tuc tuc man from Day One hovering, as if in readiness for us, outside. It would have seemed churlish (and less fun) to insist on keeping to our metro plan, so in we got. Like several other tuc tuc drivers that day, he seemed to think he knew better than we did where we wanted to go, so there was a degree of frustration and time wasting but final gifts were secured in the Connaught Place area, more bangles, cushion covers for Jenny’s new sofa, Punjabi suit for Simon etc. Coffee in a first floor bar with crowds of mostly young locals. Back to Michael via metro! I washed the extended morning off in the hotel pool and enjoyed one of the best showers of the holiday in the poolside locker room before joining the others for tea on the garden terrace. We decided to have a final supper together outside as well, before Liz’s pick-up car arrived. Leaving our warm travel clothes ready to be thrown on at the last minute, we sat savouring a variety of Oberoi dishes and celebrating the good spirit of the holiday. (Not one cross word throughout.) Another goodbye as Liz beamed off with Mr Lal to the airport. Our turn later. Why dwell on the queues and queues and queues and muddle and delays? Mr.Lal’s outrageous gall and airport know-how helped us bypass some of it. Even at the last minute before boarding, at close on 4 a.m. my carry-on bag was deemed to have no "security stamp" though it had been scanned and opened up earlier. "Don’t worry, we won’t go without you", says the BA hostess. Not long afterwards, we landed at Heathrow.
