Palolem, India

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.

A final breakfast in Rajasthan was taken overlooking the lake where we watched a hot air balloon serenely float low over the water as the sun rose and the dawn sky lit up. Bidding goodbye to the Lake Palace and settling the bill with a loud gulp and a prayer to American Express, we made our last crossing and found Kamal waiting for us at the other side.

A short time later we took our leave of the gentle giant. Handshakes, hugs and an envelope full of rupees to say thank you sweetened our farewells, and we were sad to see him go. But a swift check-in later and we were straight on the plane and into the air. So far, so good.

We landed at Mumbai and were immediately met by ground staff on the tarmac. Ushered on to a waiting bus with a number of other Goa-bound travellers we were driven 400 yards to a shiny plane, fully loaded with its passengers and within ten minutes were in the air again. The quickest transfer in history. Our luck had held.

An early lunch was served on the hour-long flight; lukewarm curry, cardboard chappati and strange after dinner mints that tasted like bath salts and looked like bird seed. The TV's above our heads played an MTV-style countdown of the most 'stylish' women in the world. Madonna, Paris Hilton, Sarah Jessica Parker and, er, Cher featured prominently while Beyonce was piped through the speakers.

The group of excited young Mumbai males we were surrounded by lapped it up, looking like they were heading down to Goa for a stag weekend. They sat quietly disappointed when, as we started our descent, the parade of Single Ladies was abruptly halted, the screens disappeared and the welcoming committee of Kenny G started parping his ghastly saxophone over the in-flight system.

We gathered our belongings and left the plane. The wall of hot, sticky, humid air that greeted us was intense, so different to the dry heat of the north. Cursing the fact we had put on jeans and jackets in Udaipur to lessen the weight of our baggage, the ground staff looked at us like we were prize eejits, sweating and breathless in the tropical air.

Any notion that Goa is a total paradise was dispelled the minute we entered baggage reclaim. Bedlam reigned with thousands of people fighting for their luggage on the carousels. It seemed that three planes had all just landed and it was a complete free-for-all.

Hippies in tie-dye prints and braided hair, dreadlocked backpackers and middle-aged couples from Germany, England, Scandinavia and more, groups of earnest women with yoga mats, young lads on package holidays and Indian families all jostled for space. We rescued our bags, thankful they had made the same transfer as us, and stepped outside the terminal. In front of us, amongst the throngs of taxi-drivers waving names in the air, was a small man with a piece of photocopied paper headlined the Village Guesthouse with my name underneath.

Named Anjo, he led us to the car park and told us to wait. In front of us was sheer chaos. Hundreds of vehicles all picking up tourists, blocking the way and parping their horns. Eventually Anjo re-appeared. No air-conditioned SUV with all mod-cons this time. A battered old car, with windows wound down and no seat belts in the back was presented to us with a proud grin.

Stuffing our big bags into the tiny boot and squeezing the remaining luggage around Coman on the backseat we set off on our ninety-minute drive south to Palolem. As soon as we left the airport environs Goa's beauty started to unfold.

Coconut trees, paddy fields, sugar cane and lush tropical forests lay before us with distant mountains and waterfalls on the horizon. Goa's differences to northern India lay all about us. A former Portugese colony and the only Christian state in India, the decaying European architecture and profusion of churches meant we could have been in Cuba or South America. Even the taxi driver had a crucifix dangling from the mirror and laminated images of Christ stuck around his speedometer.

As we passed yet another church dedicated to Our Lady of the Rosary I noticed the warm air blowing through the car had sent Coman to sleep. I said a couple of Hail Mary's to protect us from Anjo's prediliction for speed and obvious disregard for the Highway code and praised the Lord when at 3pm we arrived at the Village Guesthouse.

Set in Palolem village and a short walk to the beach it was a massive change from the Lake Palace. A rustic two storey building off a dirt track with dogs playing outside and fields in front of it, this according to trusty Trip Advisor is the finest accommodation in Palolem.

We had decided that we were going to do the independent traveller bit in Goa and instead of spending a fortune at the huge Intercontinental luxury complex a few miles down the road suggested by Trailfinders, had booked the Village Guesthouse after a thorough search of the net. Our friends Bethan and Simon on our recommendation had also booked here and other friends, Rikki and Inger, had opted to stay in the other little guest house in the village. All were due to arrive tomorrow.

Standing on the porch was Nasima, one of the staff. She showed us to our room and told us Janet, the owner would be back later. The room was basic but pleasant enough, and blessed with air-conditioning, one of the main reasons for choosing it. That, and the large bathroom which is a rarity amongst the other accommodation on offer, almost all of which is of the beach hut variety. This is to be our home for the next seven days.

We unpacked completely, the first time in almost two weeks we've been somewhere long enough to warrant it, and a couple of beers later decided to wander to the beach and walk along the shoreline, taking it all in. This didn't feel like India at all; it was Ibiza in all but name. Beach bars, sunbathers and clubbers chilling out to trancey sounds as the sun set over a gently crashing sea, framed against a tropical backdrop.

We settled in a random bar twenty feet from the sea called Hare Krishna Hare Rama in some kind of nod to a pseudo-spiritual aesthetic, and ordered drinks. A large gin and tonic for a quid and a beer for 50p. Considering we were paying almost £15 at the Lake Palace for the same, we let out a long sigh of satisfaction, stretched out and let the cares of the world slip from our shoulders.

As dusk fell and the dreaded mosquitos started to appear we returned up the main village street to the Guesthouse, passing shops selling everything a tourist could want plus a whole bunch of stuff designed to part casual holidaymakers from their cash in order to convince themselves they were seeing the 'real' India. It was like the English Riviera, but instead of sticks of rock and buckets and spades there were ethnic throws and mass-manufactured Hindu gods to adorn any student's halls of residence.

Sitting on the guesthouse verandah were Goran and Janet, the couple from England who ran the place. A drink, a chat and brief introductions to some fellow guests followed. Reg and Barbara, in their fifties and from Kent, were just arrived from Gatwick having had major delays due to the snow. Their son had recently returned from backpacking around the world and they were considering doing the same. Perhaps this was their first step towards donning a rucksack and heading off into the sunset.

Sally and Sue also appeared. Sally was a super-fun, super-size guest who popped a few antihistamines before ordering a capriñiha cocktail from Yogi, the barman. She'd had one two days ago and her lips had swelled up, but had enjoyed it so much she wanted to give it another try. The drink, not the trout-pout.

Sue was quieter, a PA in a hedge fund who had recently been made redundant. This was her last hurrah before a return to England's cold, unforgiving shores.

After a little small-talk about where was good to eat, the pros and cons of hiring scooters and which local beaches were worth visiting, Coman and I made our excuses and went in search of food. A short stroll from the guesthouse we found Casa Fiesta, which promised mojitos for a pound and pizzas for not much more. We settled ourselves down in the garden setting, marvelling at the lamps hanging from the trees made out of straw hats.

Our mojitos were lovely and we were ready for a great pizza, something simple and not too heavy would be ideal. Unfortunately Casa Fiesta had misnamed itself; Casa Quesa would have been far more appropriate. The large discs of dough in front of us seemed to be lacking even a hint of tomato but were swimming in about six inches of cheese. We ate what we could before the molten, cheddary queasiness took hold.

A walk was required to prevent a cardiac arrest occurring right there and then. Along the beach the restaurants were coming to the end of service and in one a cow was making itself at home having sauntered inside in search of food. No-one batted an eyelid. A few bars were pumping out tunes, but this was not the unbridled hedonism to be found on Goa's northern beaches.

We'd heard tell of a Silent Disco at the far end of the beach, where ravers would be dancing til 4 in the morning, headphones clamped tightly to their skulls, lost in their own private dancefloor, but that have to wait for another night. Our bed was calling.