Palolem, India

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.

But now we seemed to have fallen asleep in a fridge. Groping in the dark I reached for the remote control and switched the deep, growling hum of the a/c unit off. Settling back down into momentary silence, it seemed that the night had other ideas. Through the windows, loud and clear, came the sound of a dog barking. It went on and on, joined in its angry song by a cockerel crowing, obviously having set its alarm clock wrong.

Twenty murderous minutes later and I switched the damn air-conditioning back on in the hope that its white noise would drown out the cocky canine cacophony. A blanket found at the back of the wardrobe was hastily thrown on the bed and sleep eventually took hold. Mental note to self for tomorrow: sleeping pills and earplugs.

Despite a restless night we were up soon after dawn having decided that a new regime of exercise and healthy eating was long overdue. Down we went to the beach, finding a sneaky shortcut through some 'coco-huts' that meant we were beside the sea in less than two minutes. This was more like it.

In front of us the vast swathe of beach stretched, remarkably clear and beautiful in the early morning light. Here and there the odd cow shuffled along while dogs lay snuggled in the sand snoring away. Breakfast bars were just putting out their wares as we jogged along the sand from one end of the beach to the other.

The fishing boats that last night had all been pulled up onto the sand were long gone, out to catch the fish of the day to be served for lunch or dinner. As we trudged along we passed occasional revellers from the night before, staggering back to their beds clutching half-finished beers, giggling as they held each other up. In the sea a group of Indian men were having a wash in their underwear.

A few fellow fitness freaks similarly pounded up and down the sand while a sweating couple, more enthusiastic than us, indulged in some al fresco weight-lifting with rocks they had found on the beach. Holistic types, clad in baggy ethnic pants which were flapping in the cool breeze, headed off to early morning yoga centres to salute the sun. One ageing chap in a thong-like outfit even seemed to be winking at the moon as he bent over in a particularly revealing stretch.

After completing a couple of lengths of the beach, we walked back through palm trees to the guesthouse. A woman, feeding pigs as we walked by, smiled shyly and then as we came to the road a man with about hundred dead chickens strapped to his bike narrowly missed us as he tried to overtake a bus. Beside the dusty tarmac other women were unloading huge blocks of ice they placed in plastic buckets to keep fish cool, as they sold them to passers-by, batting the flies away with a palm leaf.

We had breakfast in the garden - fresh fruit and muesli to be healthy and virtuous - then suffered a lukewarm shower as the solar rays had yet to heat the water tank. Goran promised us he'd remember to flick the immersion switch on tomorrow!

A lazy morning followed at the beach, prostrate on a sun-lounger beneath the shade of a parasol, idly reading Dawn French's autobiography, borrowed from the guesthouse library; a similarly loaned sun-hat plonked on my head, making me look like Joan Collins on a really bad day.

Behind us the soft rock balladry of Bryan Adams and Celine Dion strained its way out of Druv's Kitchen, a beachfront restaurant which provided us with cool drinks and shade to escape the afternoon heat. Sadly earplugs weren't provided so we eventually beat a retreat to await the arrival of friends.

First to appear were Rikki and Inger; Rikki fresh from an overnight charter flight from England, and Inger, three days into her five week Indian trek, having already experienced the joys of Mumbai. They were staying at Om Sai, a cute guesthouse of which they spoke highly. Inger however had less charitable words for British Airways.

Whilst she had arrived safely her luggage, it seemed, was still lost in the bowels of Terminal 5. This cock-up had been blamed on the ubiquitous British snow which now seemed to be the catch-all term for failure of any kind. To tide her over she had been given some vouchers to spend on clothes. A new top, some leggings and a selection of underwear later and she was sorted. Apparently Indian knickers come with "quite stern elastic" and resemble "fanny hammocks". Whatever they are.

We took the pair of them down to the beach to have a drink and orientate themselves. A large cow, which had been snoozing in the sun got to its legs unsteadily, made its way over to our table, and standing three feet away from Rikki, unleashed a torrent of steaming urine at her feet. There must have been a couple of gallons at least. Daisy mooched off, evidently very pleased with herself. While Rikki took this introduction to India on board, a young bullock wandered over and ****** on exactly the same spot, gazing with supreme indifference in our direction.

Now seemed like a good time to return to our guesthouse and see if Bethan and Simon had arrived. Old friends of ours, who now live in Vancouver, they'd been in India and Nepal for almost a month already on a belated honeymoon.

Sure enough, they were checked in, a little shaken after a cab ride with Anjo and his dashboard icons to speed, but ready for dinner. We chose the best restaurant on the beach, recommended to us by a friend who knew Palolem well. Dropardi was slap bang in the centre of the bay, a gorgeous spot to spend the evening in, catching up on tales of Himalayan treks, altitude sickness and Keralan houseboats.

We chose our dinner from a huge plate of fish selecting a king fish and coconut fish which, roasted to perfection in a tandoori oven, tasted like seabass and barracuda.

Nearby a quite enormous couple from England sat down, and pulled out two huge family-sized packs of crisps from a bag. As they ordered their meal they power-snacked through them, obviously to fill the five minutes of famine before their starters arrived.

Outside fireworks shimmered at the far end of the beach and then with an almighty great roar one exploded right outside the restaurant, followed by another and then another. Macho idiots with a bag of what sounded like dynamite and a skinful of booze were throwing firecrackers around. It was like we'd just been transported from a beach paradise to a Baghdad cage in an instant. After some consternation, and yelps of surprise from Coman each time a bang reverberated through the restaurant, the waiters forced the pyrotechnic terrorists to move on.

And full of red wine, fish and watermelon martinis, we decided to do the same, With Rikki almost asleep in her food from jetlag we turned in. After all, we had to be in fine form for a marathon sun-bathing session tomorrow.