I'm just back from a few days away on Arran, my first visit believe it or not. I can see why they call it Scotland in minature (although with less buckfast) . The only time the sun came out was when we went to get the ferry home - typical! I was very pleased to be reunited with an old friend though; having missed the sailing we were booked on in the big boat, one of those huge efforts with the hinged bow that lifts up to let the cars drive off, we had to wait for the wee boat. I hadn't seen it yet and was slightly nervous, not being the best traveller and knowing that the wee boat only sailed in good weather as it didn't cope with the rough stuff. I can't tell you how pleased I was to find that it was my old friend the MV Saturn. In a minute all my apprehension melted away, I have sailed on her across to Bute many times in all weathers, once when there was an inch of ice on every railing, and had a safe and comfy trip every time. Today was no different. Roddy and I sat up on the deck, looking back across the bay to the hills unclimbed, and longing to be in the shining green water that looks as pure and sharp as crystal.

This is Glen Sannox (which sounds vaguely like a hygiene product for ladies) where I was gorge walking with the kids on Monday. It was baltic.

I'm looking forward to a return trip some day soon, but without the kids and noise, a much more solitary venture. I'm learning that I'm a much quieter person than I thought and although I enjoy company I need time alone, just me and the hound. Time in the hills has given me much to consider this week, the choices I have made, decisions I have taken, for the most part it feels like there was no thought at all, things just happened and left me to deal with the results. My feeling just now is that perhaps I should be holding the wheel a little firmer and drifting less - I need to decide what I want and if I am prepared to do what is needed to get it.

Long Time No See!

Apologies for the long gap, I got so caught up having fun that I forgot to write anything. I made a valiant effort at a diary, but that dropped away too as I fell victim to the amazing hospitality of the people I met.

The hospital lies out in the desert 7 miles from Pushkar. The best way to get around is by scooter, like a moped. Although I say best, it it still fraught with hazards of all sorts. Leaving from the hotel you have to take care not to squash the dogs who've come to give you a good send off, then its on to the main road. As I've already said, there's no such thing as "my side of the road" or lanes or any rules other than blow your horn at everything whether it moves or not. So negotiating the buses, lorries, cows, kids, hens, pigs, handcarts, jeeps, potholes, fakirs and anything else which happens to wander by is pretty tricky. Initially I spent a lot of time stopping and putting my feet down, waiting for a space, but as time went on I got a bit braver and did a good Evil Knievel impersonation. After a short stop near the Brahma Temple to stock up on milk (dude), Parle G biscuits ("India rejoices! Less Taxes = more biscuits!") and fruit, it's out into the desert and on to my favourite part of the day. The drive is heavenly, amazing scenery and a different trip each day. The sense of freedom when you ride out with the warm wind in your face, pat the buffalo wallow and into the mountains is so liberating. Sometimes a camel train will pass by with some very wobbly looking riders, there are always herds of goats to try and squeeze past and any children you pass try to high five you as you go, or clutch your clothes, bag, or anything they can grab, a great game to them and a heartstopper for a learner driver!

The desert women walk for miles along these dirt roads in their bare feet with bundles of sticks on their heads, their brightly coloured saris adapted to make a veil covering their head and face. Others carry huge clay pots full of water back from the village well to their houses in the hills. You get the feeling nothing has changed here for a very long time.

Nearing the hospital there is a beautiful little temple at the roadside. The people in this area are extremely poor, and yet they have saved up little bits of cloth to make an amazing flag outside the whitewashed shrine. I was humbled.

Turning into the grounds of the hospital is always fun as the resident dogs come bounding to greet you. These are dogs that were rescued from the streets and treated for whatever medical problems they had but are unfit to be returned to streetlife. Many have a leg missing, others have had distemper and are neurologically damaged, a few are partially paralysed. Others have landed on their feet, arrived as puppies and just stayed! Ginger is the Boss, a big red dog with some paralysis of his hindlegs. Three Wheeler is a popular three legged collie who's always grinning and love attention. He's the big brother. Chitori is a gorgeous sandy coloured girl who mothers everything, including cats, cows and volunteers.

The staff here are a real fun loving band of brothers. Many are related, all are diligent and hardworking. Nadja is the oldest, he makes chai for the whole team every morning. I am often treated to two cups. The boys have difficulty pronouncing "Heather", and also think it is a mans name. There was a Mughal leader called Haider Ali so it is a bit confusing. As I approached the hospital for the first time there was much giggling amongst them, and elbow jostling to push someone forward as a spokesman. It took a bit of translation and an interpreter, but it turns out I walk like a builder or a boxer. Then they decided I was John Wayne. Eventually over the course of a couple of days they settled on a name for me - Pari. It means angel, which is a step up from John Wayne I guess. "Hey Gabriel! Get off my horse!". Maybe not.

The compound has a liberal spattering of livestock, many of whom are missing bits. It is illegal to kill a cow for any reason, including welfare, so if a cow is hit by a truck as often happens, and it breaks its leg then a cast is attempted, if that fails the leg is amputated. There is around a 50% success rate, and you soon get used to the sight of cows hopping about, grazing. There is also a donkey with no foot and another with one ear. As I say, you get used to it....
The kennel block has 60 units, some have 2 or three dogs if they are pals. There is also an outside yard, some dogs don't do well in kennels and thrive better in the kitchen yard.

Its all a bit overwhelming at first, the noise of 80 dogs all barking together is something you feel as well as hear.

To Pushkar

The train to Ajmer leaves from Delhi every day at 6.10am, it is called the Shitabde Express. Indians are very proud of this train, and not without cause, it pulled away from the station exactly on time, the air conditioning was so good I needed my fleece, and the chairs are reasonable comfy, despite facing backwards (all of them). But the most impressive thing is the catering service. As soon as the train leaves the station the guys bring every passenger a litre of cold water and a paper cup. Then they come round with newspapers. Then it's a tea run – they bring a tray with 2 "tea kits"; a teabag, sugar and dairy creamer (like coffeemate); a couple of biscuits, a couple of sweeties. Then everybody gets a little thermos pot of boiling water. I found it all a bit much, especially as I was woken every 20 mins so somebody could hand me something to eat, drink, read or pour. Then they woke me up to take it back again. I am not at my sparkling best at 6am. After the 3rd tea run I decided to try it out, having carefully watched what everybody else did. Until then I had just stashed the sweeties. As long as you don't think of it as tea you're okay; it's nice enough but it's not exactly Tetley. I had just snuggled down to sleep again when breakfast arrived – a vegetable pakora (I think).

I woke up with my head on the tray in front of me as we pulled out of a station. The newspaper was stuck to my face. I looked at my watch and realised it was 10 mins after I was supposed to get off. Panicked I asked the man behind me where we were, which was stupid as when he told me I was still none the wiser. Fortunately the train was just a little late, and we soon pulled into Ajmer.

Stepping off the train was like being slapped in the face by a hot oven door. After sitting in the fridge like carriage for seven hours it was a shock to step out into the desert heat. I had been warned about Ajmer, there's not too many tourists or white people and the locals will stare. They do. It can be quite disconcerting, it's really odd being in a country where the values and etiquettes are totally different. It is quite valid for somebody to ask you how much you earn, openly stare at you or approach you for money, and if you refuse instead of going away, say "Why?" rather indignantly. I was expecting to be met at the station, so I walked into the lobby where I was immediately bombarded by taxi drivers shouting 100 Rupees! Only 80 Rupees! 50 rupees madam! and jostling for my attention. I was plucked out of the throng by a tourist policeman who plonked me down in his office (please, be comfortable) and helped me get in touch with the hospital. They sent a car from the hotel at Pushkar to pick me up, and I was off to Pushkar.

The road to Pushkar winds its way up and over Snake Mountain, it is known as the snake road due to its terrifying hairpin bends. It's like the Devils Elbow, but 20 times in a row, and instead of crawling around the bend, scooters and buses fly round on the wrong side of the road. It's made harder by the monkeys that sit on the road eating food that people throw out of cars for them. The road signs are painted directly onto the cliff face! And right at the bealach is the home of a family who live under a sheet of corrugated tin. The lady of the house uses the cactus plants to hang out the washing, it makes a beautiful picture, the red and yellow saris on the green cacti at the top of the mountain.

Immediately I got into the hotel I was mobbed by elaborately dressed young women who were exceptionally friendly, and desperate to hold my hands. A couple of minutes later and I felt something damp on my palm – the henna had come out and I was becoming a painted lady. I was quite pleased, I've long envied the beautiful pictures of Indian womens hands on their wedding day, and had been looking forward to maybe coming across something like this. By this time both hands were covered, and they were away to start on my arms when I diplomatically extricated myself. It all started to go pear-shaped when it was time to wash it off. I was cornered in the hotel kitchen whilst my hands were washed for me and negotiations were opened for payment (a bit of a surprise, paying for something you didn't ask for) and of course they were "very money poor" and would give me "good price, my sister" and I was getting very uncomfy. Most of you will know me pretty we and understand that I don't like having my hands stroked by other women, and when they've got me up against the wall and are demanding money, it gets a little hairy. I basically paid them to go away, then found out I'd been totally fleeced and that the women were gypsies. I felt like a total idiot.

So freshly decorated I headed off to see the sacred lake I have heard so much about. Sunset over Pushkar is one of those things everyone should see once. It's not just a visual thing, there are tabla drummers on the lakeside playing the day out. People sometimes dance, others pray, some practice juggling. I sat on the steps and watched the sun go down behind the Savriti temple which sits on a hilltop overlooking the town. Many of the local townspeople have an evening wash and blessing in the sacred water whilst bats the size of crows fly over the lake. It is magical.

Agra

I wasn't really fussed about seeing the Taj Mahal. In the past I have built myself up before seeing famous things, imagining great beauty or power, something really awe inspiring only to be let down. The Taj Mahal was just a big white marble building famous for a dead princess having sat in front of it.

I was wrong

It was worth sitting on a bus for 6 hrs for. I have never been so captivated by a building, it is incredible. Sometimes no matter how many pictures you see of a thing you can't grasp the proportions and beauty until you are there, seeing it for real. This is one of those.
It is not a lump of solid white marble, it is inlaid with with Lotus flowers in coral stone, (Hindu symbolism), green leaves of malachite, beautiful patterns in bright greens and blues, amethyst, jade and opal, and columns of Muslim scripture in black onyx. The tomb chamber itself has filigree sheets each carved out of a single marble block, like Chinese ivory carving but 5 feet tall. The building took 20,000 men 22 years to build. It is flawless, a true wonder of the world. Shah Jehan had it built to house his wife's body, he planned to build a matching building in black marble on the opposite side of the Yumuna river (Jumna), he had got as far as laying the foundations. But his younger son Araungzeb imprisoned him in his own fort during a war with the heir and favourite, Dara, over the inheritance of power. Araungzeb won and Shah Jehan lived out his days in the Agra Fort, his project abandoned..

The most amazing thing is that this masterpiece was build in the 17th Century - no machines, everything was done by hand. We went to a marble factory to see how it is done, the direct descendants of the men who built the Taj are still doing the same work, but for table tops. Their work is amazingly beautiful - if I were a squillionaire I would have one for my dining table. Until then I'll just have to dream. By the way, they are guaranteed to be the direct descendants by the caste system. Trades are passed from father to son, you can't just pick a job and do it; here roles are very clearly defined.

The hawkers in Agra are very aggressive salesmen, you can't shake them off and they won't take no for an answer. In the space of 20 yards a wooden backgammon set (which was lovely) started at Rs800 ($20) and by the time I was climbing on the bus having been bodyguarded by the guys from the bus who tried to rescue me it was Rs 120. I think I should have bought it actually, it was really nice. Instead I bought a jointed wooden cobra (but of course!) which is a very brotherish present.

Along the road to Delhi it is obvious where all the buses have to stop for road taxes etc; the road is lined with beggars, snake charmers, men with monkeys that get thrown at the bus and cling to the window, then sit on top of a stick held by the man. Then he yanks at the rope round its neck and it does a backflip. A miserable thing to see.

The Agra Fort is an imposing red sandstone building. If you must be held in a prison, this is a pretty good one to pick! The bedchambers are marble inlaid with flowers like the Taj Mahal, which is visible through the arched windows. There's also a large courtyard with flower garden surrounded by bedrooms where the hareem lived. Nuff said!

Delhi!

The start of a new adventure - I am in Delhi for a few days before going down to Pushkar to the vet hospital. The flight over was very quiet so I managed to get a row of 4 seats and bunk down properly thank goodness, and arrived bright and early at Indira Gadhi airport New Delhi (looks a bit like a big shed built on a minefield.) Two drivers had been sent by accident, so they had a squabble about who should take me! Eventually it was all straightened out and it was off to the town. The driver seemed to know a short cut - down the wrong side of the road into the oncoming traffic. I don't know why they paint lanes on the road here, correct road positioning is "where my car fits". We were overtaken on the inside by a family of 5 on a wee moped.

Honking the horn serves as a measure of courtesy (you toot to let people in), to let people know you are there, and for 100 other mystifying reasons. Indicators don't work or arent used, you just stick your arm out the window. This is also used to protect you from other vehicles. I have no idea how they manage not to kill anybody, but it seems to work , in an odd way, no wing mirrors to confuse things and give way to cows. There was even a cow walking down the motorway on the wrong side.

As soon as we set foot in the hotel I was whisked away to the tourism office where I had to sign lots of official looking books, have my passport inspected and detail my plans. It was easier getting through customs! Then the guy told me I was doing it all wrong and drew up an itinerary of his own, which was nearly the same but entailed me paying him a vast sum and sitting in a car lots (which makes me very travel sick). I had to sit and listen to his schpeil for ages before he paused for breath and looked at me expectantly. I then pointed out I was doing everything on his listr but in a way that fitted in with my schedule, didn't make me sick, made maximum use of my time, was much cheaper and was already fully booked and payed for. He got very huffy, sat picking his fingers and said "I'm only doing my duty"!

The hotel is bright and clean, the air con works and there's a fan and a good shower. So a quick shower, clean clothes and it was off to Old Delhi!I got as far as the lobby and the monsoon burst. So it was lunch in the hotel instead, Lamb biryani. Mutton actually, and it was wonderful. I also asked for a lemon soda, which turned out to be a mistake as it was a bottle of soda and a lemon squeezed into a glass, no sugar, just a heartburn carry out. By the time I'd eaten and paid the extortionate 1.50 (!) it was drying up, so again I set off for Old Delhi.

Old Delhi is the best argument for colonialism I've ever seen! People literally live on the pavement - they set up a little kitchen in an alleyway or in the gutter, they sleep on their pedal rickshaw, the pavement or bedframes over which have been woven old rope to make a sort of sling hammock effort. Many of these people have no shoes, some no legs. Cows and dogs curl up to sleep wherever they can be it the middle of the road, the central reservation or the rubbish dump. The cows wander freely and graze off the peelings from fruit vendors stalls. Most seem healthy but thin.We took a rickshaw up through the second hand market to Chandni Chowk. I was really looking forward to seeing this historic street which was designed by the favourite daughter of the great 17th century emperor Shah Jehan with a canal running up the middle of the broad tree lined avenue approaching the Red Fort. The street is named after the moonlight it reflected......

Not any more. Old Delhi is falling down and nobody is doing anything about it. Every now and then there is scaffolding of tied together sticks propping up the front, but many buildings are partly collapsed, whilst throught the holes in the brickwork you can see families living in what's left standing (for now)

It is difficult to explain what it is like to be here for the first time. The smell changes every few feet; popcorn, incense, sweat, spices, faeces, chicken tikka, the myriad sweets frying at the roadside. The colour is brown over all punctuated with splashed of lurid colour from a womans sari, piles of green fruits and red apples on handcarts and the green and yellow auto-rickshaws. Chandni Chowk is a bustling bazaar, difficult to negotiate. It is crammed with stalls selling bright shirts, saris and lengths of cloth. Each of the side streets is a specialised market - spices, the gold and silver market, the elecrical market, textiles, wedding clothes. And at the head of it all the Red Fort, stronghold of Shah Jehan after he moved the court from Agra to Delhi when his wife died (and he built her tomb -the Taj Mahal). I wouldn't like to try and storm the walls, it's pretty impressive. There is a 10m deep moat which was filled by the river but is now a shallow swamp fed by the monsoon rains. As with all old building the nooks and crannies have been filled by birds nesting, but here it's not just pigeons- luiminous green parakeets run up the red sandtone walls, squawking to each other.

I fell prey to a real charmer at the gate, just past the man selling fake beards. He had great plans for me - take me here, take me there, see this, very good very good. All on his "Indian helicopter" a muddy rickshaw. I talked him down into taking me back to the hotel. He certainly had the patter well rehearsed and was proud of Old Delhi - "very cheap good quality" as opposed to New Delhi - "Cost much not good". After drop off and complaints about the price paid "Oh Madam - this is very less!" it was back to the hotel restaurant for a fabulous dinner of various potato combinations. Then a quick wander before bed down the thin streets lit by neon hotel signs with names like "Yes Please Hotel". Didn't do much sleeping, still awake at 4.30 am and waiting to go for the bus to Agra. This could be interesting........