Palolem, India

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.

Simon had already succumbed to a virulent bug and opted out of coming to the beach but for the rest of us the day had started well. We had chosen the Turtle Lounge again and enjoyed the wonderful hospitality on offer. But this time we had eaten there too. A Goan fish curry. Lovely and light and zingy. Yum yum. The sun had shone, the surf had pounded, the cocktails had worked their magic, all was swell.

Back at the guesthouse, showered and dressed for dinner, a niggling sensation started to make itself felt, a mild awareness that maybe things were not right down below. By the time we started to saunter down to the sea and its plethora of restaurants the niggling had become more like a washing machine, slowly turning my stomach over.

Feeling pretty out of sorts I suggested the first restaurant we saw and immediately checked out its facilities. By now, the washing machine had switched to spin cycle and I could hardly speak. Wave after wave of nausea crashed upon my heaving shore and the colour started to drain from my face. A bowl of soup lay before me, the blandest thing on the menu, but the mere act of raising the spoon to my mouth set off a raging urge to purge and I ran up the sandy path to the dilapidated loo.

Coman followed but fortunately the moment passed without issue and at his suggestion I made my way back to the guesthouse, clutching my insides tight and hoping that the short journey, which had suddenly turned into an epic trek, would not end in explosive disaster.

Within seconds of making it to the bedroom however, the full horror started to unleash itself. Everything I had ever eaten started to burst forth in any which way it could. A non-stop torrent of projectile, gushing, liquid despair accompanied by mind-blowing, seismic flatulent eruptions almost tore me asunder. A satanic experience worthy of the Exorcist, I became intimately acquainted with the cold, porcelain toilet bowl.

In between each hot, vile excretion, in the lucid moments when the retches, sobs, groans and quite galactic anal explosions momentarily abated, I thanked the heavens for the foresight we had shown in opting for a hotel room rather than a beach hut. This monsoon of misery would have blown the bamboo walls apart and left the whole of Palolem aware of my pitiable and quite revolting state.

After about an hour I crawled into bed, pale, sweaty and spent. A few moments later Coman returned and I could see from his face that I was a picture of quite grotesque suffering. "I've been sick," I managed to whisper. "But I think it's passed."

Oh poor idiotic fool to have uttered those words. It was as if the god of karma, determined to balance the ridiculously good fortune we had enjoyed throughout our odyssey, had heard me and decided that I had not suffered enough. Immediately I was propelled to the bathroom once more, stomach turning somersaults of gymnastic proportions, and so continued the next six hours.

After ten years of being together there was little Coman was yet to know about me, but this was by far my lowest moment. The bathroom door, a slatted affair, provided no protection, no sound barrier to muffle the abject yet spectacular noises issuing forth. Who knew that one person could contain so much liquid or that it could revisit the world with such unstoppable, thunderous force in simultaneous bursts from orifices galore. If Coman was unaware then by the end of a sleepless night for the pair of us there was no doubt; the human body is a miraculous creation and food poisoning is amongst the worst afflictions that can be visited upon it.

The next day, Coman and the girls returned to Agonda, leaving me as a pallid shell, thankfully free of nausea, runs or pain, to sleep and sleep and sleep. Simon too was still confined to his room, a fellow sufferer of the darker side of India.

A tentative evening visit to taste a bit of food proved that recovery was indeed on its way, but it was only a full 36 hours later that some semblance of wellbeing returned and normal service could be resumed. And even then the Indian warning of 'never trust a ****' was at last proved accurate with a little public mishap that's best left unreported...

So on Friday afternoon, with the karmic balance eventually restored, we headed to the beach again to soak up a final day of sun and see some more of the countryside, breathing colour back into my cheeks.

Our final dinner in Goa was a muted affair. With Inger, Bethan and Simon departed, and with my recovery proving a false dawn due to complete loss of appetite and occasional porcelain emergencies, Rikki, Coman and I decided to round off our stay with dinner on the beach.

Finding Fernandes, a highly recommended restaurant, we settled on the sand, a beautiful starry sky above us and the sea breaking before us. I watched, half in envy and half in revulsion as they raved about the food, declaring it the best they'd eaten in Goa. I managed a solitary pancake, struggling to finish a glass of Sprite to wash it down. The evening ended with me assuming repeated positions on the throne and trying to prepare for the madness of Mumbai; the last stop on our grand tour and a return to the lavish privileges of imperial India.