So we come to the end of our adventure, safely back in England, just memories to sustain us and about a million photos to sort through.

By 1pm we're back on dry land and Vijay piles us all back into his car to give us a city tour. The streets are easy to whizz along as they have only just been reopened after the marathon, which combined with it being a Sunday, means we can take in all the sights of old Bombay alongside the wonders of modern Mumbai. We start with the likes of the Wellington Golf Course and Royal Horse Racing Enclosure before driving down boulevards past imposing gothic buildings; the university, the high court, the police station, Crawford Market and the mayor's residence.

Oh cruellest of ironies. The breakfast buffet at The Trident is the most sumptuous we've seen. Acres and acres of ludicrously tasty food is laid out for consumption. It may not be served with the grandeur of the Lake Palace setting but it has all the trimmings and more besides. I watch forlornly as Coman, having missed out on dinner, tucks in with gusto. I nibble a slice of dry toast, drink my rehydration salts and swallow antibiotics. Throwing caution to the wind I have a cup of tea, a glass of apple juice and grab a couple of bananas for later. It's rock'n'roll madness, I tell you.

Dr Mahesh Sompura arrives to our room within 30 minutes. He prods, he pokes, he takes my temperature, my blood pressure and my pulse, checks my breathing, my throat and my eyes puts a stethoscope to my heart and lungs, asks all sorts of questions and then, when I detail the food I've managed to eat in the last 24 hours (a pancake, chips and a big plates of cakes and sandwiches - admittedly not my finest hour) he looks horrified and gravely says, "You have to go on a restricted diet immediately. No food."

5.30am and our driver awaits. Coman loads the car while I struggle to leave the bathroom. Bowing to the inevitable I chuck some Immodium down my throat and hope for the best. We drive round to Rikki's guesthouse as she's also travelling back to Mumbai and the three of us pass the journey to the airport making increasingly scatalogical jokes to the bemusement of our driver and guide who studiously ignore us in the front.

It had to happen. Everyone said it would. Three weeks in India and not a hint of an upset tummy? Impossible. And of course, Coman had already had a miserable bout of diarrhoea in Jodphur. But this?! This was something else entirely.

It's a cloudy morning, heavy with heat but thankfully without a breath of wind, as the six of us gather at 6.30am on the beach, gazing at a sea gently rippling before the dawn. Rikki had been woken during the night by streaks of lightning in the sky but the storm sees to have disappeared as we say hello to Mr Max and his boat.

Having mastered the air-conditioning and muzzled the local dogs, we slept like babies, waking to the dawnlight peeking through the curtains. To undo the red wine indulgence of the night before another jog along the seaside was in order.

It was 3am when I awoke, freezing cold and in desperate need of a blanket. We'd thanked God for our air-conditioned room just a few hours before, as the beach huts would have been sweltering with only a stuttering fan to wash the warm, moist air pointlessly round the flimsy walls.

A phone call last night had informed us that due to terrible fog in Delhi (where temperatures had plunged to 12 degrees) our inbound flight to Udaipur, which would pick us up and carry on to Mumbai, would be running late. Thankful not to be faced with a 5.30am start, but a little concerned that we were now facing just a 20 minute transfer window to connect to our flight to Goa, we awoke early anyway with a slight sense of anxiety. Domestic air travel in India is notorious for delays and cancellations so I had the feeling our charmed travel to date was about to fall apart.

The beautiful city of Udaipur, home to half a million people and set 577 metres above sea-level on the shores of Lake Picchola, is presided over by the present Maharana, the 76th in an unbroken line of rulers stretching back 1443 years to AD 566 making the dynasty of the Sun Kings of Mewar the longest running royal family in the world. They call themselves Maharanas as they believe that they are mere earthly representatives of their true king, Shiva.

Kamal brings us up to the gates of the City Palace. We are given thorough security checks and sweep up the huge drive before being met at a lakeside verandah by beautifully dressed women. Hot towels and bindis again. Our bags are invisibly whisked away and we are escorted down to where our boat awaits. Also crossing with us are a young Russian couple; they have a cold arrogance and a taste for money, probably children of some corrupt oligarch. Fortunately wealth can't buy beauty and they're both shockers in the looks department so we ensure they don't invade our photos.

After Coman's uncomfortable night battling the dreaded stomach bugs, we check out and drop our customer service questionnaire into the reception box. Coman, groggy, unhappy and with just a dry piece of toast inside him, has filled them in, letting the hotel know exactly what we thought of the check-in experience. The rep from our travel company is also in the lobby to check all is well and brandishes another questionnaire rating his local office, to send in to his bosses.

A new day, a new city and a new outfit for Kamal who this morning is dressed in a bright white chauffeur's uniform. Stood with him is our guide for today. Pradeep introduces himself and tells us his name is Sanskrit for 'light'. Unfortunately he talks at the speed of it with a very strong accent so we only make out half of what he says. But within the few minutes it takes to get to our first sightseeing port we learn;

We leave Jaipur in blazing sunshine only to drive into a dense wall of fog sitting just outside the town. Fortunately ahead of us lies a three-lane motorway that's long, straight and just about the most modern road we've seen since we arrived. No swerving animals, dodging oncoming lorries or bouncing over potholes. Sadly though this high-tech new road with its flyovers and crash barriers means we lose a lot of the colourful chaos that makes driving in India such fun.

Morning comes and with it another new guide. Devendra is originally from Shimla, a British colonial town in the foothills of the Himalayas and is erudite, urbane and charming. In a dapper suit and designer sunglasses he's a knowledgeable and enjoyable companion for the day.

The 'pink city' of Jaipur, capital of Rajasthan, was given its colourful moniker by a 19th century British governor whose colour palatte was somewhat limited. Dusty terracotta would have been more appropriate, but the snappier Pink has stuck. A (relatively) prosperous city of four million people it's the fastest growing city in India and a world-leader in gems, textiles, printing and foreign currency exchanges.

We departed the delights of Khem Villas over an hour late, still elated by our tiger sighting. One poor chap we spoke to yesterday had been there an entire week and not seen one, while the family who had bored us all on the first night had expressly told us at dinner yesterday not to inform them if we had a tiger sighting this morning as they had already given up. I passed the mother as she was checking out and gave her a beatific smile. Her look in response could have curdled milk.

Another night of vivid dreams and the malaria tablets can't yet be blamed. We're only due to start taking them today in preparation for Goa in a week's time. Instead the news that we learn later, of a tiger spotted outside our tents during the night, makes sense and explains the disturbed night's sleep. So, having woken early we are already up and about at 6am when a knock on the flap heralds tea and biscuits.

We bade farewell to Kamal and had our bags whisked away by beautifully dressed porters. Hot towels were presented to cleanse tired hands and faces before a traditional bindi was marked on our foreheads and a cool glass of lime water quenched our thirst.

We are woken early by chanting which penetrates through to the fifth floor. Sadly, upon peering through the curtains not only do we fail to see our morning devotees but also the Taj Mahal, despite the much vaunted 'Superior Taj View' we were promised when we paid for the upgrade. It's there, just hidden by the familiar fog.

A well-needed sleep followed by a visit to the gym to work off lunch (exacerbated by the fact that these damn photos are adding 20 pounds) meant that we were prepared for the next adventure, saying goodbye to 2009 in suitably glamorous style.

At the Gateway Hotel we were introduced to Rais, our guide for the next two days. A considered and rather slow-moving individual who obviously had the exact spiel worked out for each visit, and did not like to be deviated from it, he suggested we head straight for the Taj Mahal, to avoid the coachloads of tourists who would be arriving around noon.

Bleary-eyed and cursing, the phone rang. Our 4.30am wake-up call disturbed some very strange dreams, inspired no doubt by yesterday's sensory overload and the after-effects of our highly-spiced dinner. For the second morning we seemed to hear distant drums beating out a rhythmic tattoo that was hard to pinpoint.

So, after the rigours of dedicated tourism and with itching photo fingers to soothe, we decided to take advantage of the 5-star facilities of the Taj Mahal hotel. A quick visit to the gym to establish whether we, in our food-deprived state, could face doing any exercise swiftly turned to the negative when we noticed that next to the gym was a luxurious spa. An instant decision saw us jump straight into the candlelit jacuzzi, work up a sweat in the sauna, steam it all out in the hammam and then freeze in an ice-cold rain shower.

Our first Indian breakfast provided one or two new delicacies but mindful of a long day ahead, and with loo-paper carefully packed into the backpack, we erred on the side of caution and skipped the scariest-looking morsels.

God bless America! Any country that sells over the counter sleeping pills like Unisom should be applauded. So a nine hour flight became approximately two as I zonked my way across the sky – thanking the Lord for red wine, cocktails and pills. Unfortunately Coman was less susceptible to the narcoleptic bliss of alcohol and tranquilizers and ended up watching films, despite sporting the oh-so-fashionable Virgin Atlantic pyjamas and clamping an eyemask to his face. The glamour!