Anjuna market, Goa

Hot, hassley, and once you've seen a few stalls (of the thousands there) you've seen them all. I bought a serene Buddha head, a dress, a bead bracelet - and lots of lemon sodas.

Beach Hawker

The Barber of Baga

Purple Valley

Retreat is a suitable word: you barely need to step inside the gate and trip down the path into the landscaped garden, and you leave India way, way behind. Purple Valley Yoga is quite the most sublime place I've ever had the pleasure of staying in - and after nearly two months of intense India, very welcome. I didn't set foot outside the gate again for five days and when I did, the noise, the dust, the colour jangled my nerves and saturated my senses all over again. And that was just sleepy Goa. I'd been de-India'd in a jiffy.

Our days went like this: Ashtanga yoga from 7am til 8.30am, which left my hamstrings screaming, sweat dripping off parts of body I didn't even know produced sweat, and my body wiped out, at least for a few days. Our teachers were Jeff and Harmony Lichty, a gorgeous, inspiring Canadian couple with eye-poppingly bendy bodies and a deep knowledge of yoga in its widest sense: as a way of life with many other branches aside from the postures, or asanas, you do on your mat. So as well as getting my stiff body moving again, the classes provided spiritual lessons on how to live a better life. Jeff, a former paramedic, is a natural comedian and if ever he sensed anyone was taking the yoga too seriously, he would throw out a silly joke and make us all giggle.

They studied in Mysore under Mr Ashtanga himself, Sri K Pattabhi Jois. Now in his mid nineties, Pattabhi Jois (aka, Guruji) turned millenia-old asanas into a flowing system of moves - the Ashtanga yoga of today. He has taught hundreds of people like Jeff and Harmony, who can call themselves certified teachers, and seems an inspiring man - quite the looker in his day.

Back to the daily schedule. Yoga was followed by a breakfast of fresh porridge, pineapple, papaya and watermelon. There followed intense periods of chat, sunbathing, swimming in the pool and biding time until the gong went for lunch. And what lunch! Saori, the resident Japanese chef - five foot tall and cute as a button - produced meal after meal of sumptuous vegan food. A team of Indians made scrumptious dinner. Every day we vowed to eat less, and every day we were beaten.

We often had classes at 4:30, but these were Q&A sessions, gentle stretches and, more often than not, silliness. When we did start to venture out into the real world, it involved taxi trips to markets and the odd restaurant, or a wander to the cafe down the road run by a German lady who was already baking her Christmas Stollen.

But really, what made Purple Valley even more special were the people there with me: interesting, independent, well-travelled and utterly fabulous. Barely an hour would go by before we were hysterical and wiping tears from our cheeks about something. The only downside was my photography went from attempts at artistry to cheesy, self-taken holiday snaps (see above). But I'm not complaining.

Pleasure seekers

The four hour train ride from Ratnagiri (see below) to Goa was fun for two reasons: fresh, piping hot samosas, the likes of which I've never eaten, bought to your seat from the adjacent Pantry Car (I've been to enough parties with canapes to know to loiter near the kitchens), costing 12 rupees each. And second, because of Vikram.

He is a navy officer, currently based in Goa, 27, twinkly eyes, a gorgeous smile and - something I hadn't realised I'd been missing here in India - a cracking sense of humour.

He was very curious about us. He asked: 'What is the purpose of your visit to India?' And Angela, who I was still travelling with, muttered something about wanting to see more of the country, learn about its people. He smiled beautifully, and looked utterly dissatisfied with the answer. 'But what is the specific purpose of your visit?' It was then I realised that visiting a country just because you want to is an alien concept to Indian people. Vikram said we were very lucky, being able to leave our jobs/take time out of our jobs for reasons of pleasure. 'Indian people cannot do that,' he said. 'We have too much responsibility.' To their jobs, to their family, where a child, often a son, will be the bread winner for the entire lot.

It reminded me of a news story I'd read in the Times of India the day before. There is currently a bill lodged in Parliament here on whether or not to legalise homosexuality. An outspoken opponent of this, an MP, put his case forward: as well as saying how immoral it was, he said it was another threat to Indian culture from Western society, 'which is just about fun and pleasure'.

Ratnagiri

"Your Highness," says Mr Cox, an English policemen accompanying the Burmese royal family to India where they are living in exile - in Amitav Ghosh's novel, The Glass Palace. "I am glad to be able to inform you that the matter of a permanent residence for you and your family has finally been resolved."

"Oh," said the King. "And where is it to be?"

"A place by the name of Ratnagiri."

"What?" The King stared at him, nonplussed. "Where is this place?"

"Some 120 miles south of Bombay. An excellent place, with fine views of the sea."

The Glass Palace is why I headed up the coast, to a place where no tourists venture. In the novel, King Thebaw, forced to leave Burma for India, lives out his days in Ratnagiri (the accent is on the 'na'). He spends his days gazing out to sea, watching for boats bringing supplies of his beloved pork. Above is his view. There isn't much to see or do in Ratnagiri, but if you want to be the only white person in town - and try to deciper menus written only in Hindi - it's the place to come.

Hampi ghats

Hampi is an extraordinary landscape: piles of enormous boulders for hundreds of miles around, many teetering so precariously it seems like the slightest wind would dislodge them. It was formed by volcanos caused by shifting plates. It feels unlike anywhere else in India, and almost prehistoric. A sleepy river winds through the town. These are the ghats (steps leading down to the river): people bathe in it, sit by it, wash clothes in it and ferry people across it.