This will be my first significant solo trip for nearly 40 years!

Glorious Shekwati paintings

Wednesday 12 January

Then in the afternoon, Rajesh took me on an unforgettable trip. We took the scenic route, so I could see how the peasants live. I found this fascinating, as Rajesh explained what crops were growing. Basically they grow millet during the summer (the millet fields now are just arid sand), when there is a water supply they grow wheat (tiny, hand harvested fields), mustard (now in bloom with strong yellow colours), chickpeas, and a variety of vegetables (*there were groups of people planting onions - reminded me of our valley in France). Each tiny field was surrounded by irrigation channels, the water coming from small wells. The scenery reminds me very much of Northern Nigeria, in particular Sokoto. It is arid, you can see for miles, and there is a local tree not unlike the baobab. In this season it is pruned rigorously and the dried branches are used either for firewood, or to make hedges round their fields, to stop the animals eating the crops.

The roads were all single track sand, with mud walls on either side. We were driving a jeep, but the other traffic was mainly oxen or camels with carts - and lots of people, patiently plodding between homes and fields.

After Parasampura, we went on to the village of Dunlod. It was getting late, but we just had time to visit the splendid Goenka Haveli, another site that has been rescued.

After this fulfilling afternoon, we returned to the house, where the lone German girl had been joined by some jolly Italians. Like the French couple before, the Italians were having a hard time with their driver, who was trying to dictate the timing and route of their journey. Rajesh read them a lecture: it was their holiday, they had hired him for a specific number of days, and they not he shoauld decide where they went. I was very relieved that I had firmly resisted all the pressure to hire a driver in Delhi, even though I had been unnerved (as were the Italians and French) by all the travel agents' talk of how scary and dangerous the rail system was.

There was a second crisis at this point, as the German girl, who had been clearly traumatised by recent travels suddenly collapsed in tears, unable to handle things any longer. Rajesh was splendid, tried to reassure her that she should stay a few days till she regained her confidence (hinting she would not have to pay), read her palm (of course) and encouraged her to try to contact her boyfriend in Germany, as she was clearly missing him. She was a very young 24 and really should not have been travelling on her own. Things were resolved in the morning when she talked to a close cousing in Goa and arranged to abandon North India and travel with him in the south. Very bsensible.

We walked through the small village of Parasampura (first I was given a cup of cai by someone involved along with Rajesh in protecting the old paintings in the village. There were peacocks on the walls as we walked to the Cenotaph of Rajal Singh (built in 1742). It was magical. I agree it was the best of all the Shekwati buildings I have seen so far. It is completely covered with the most glorious, dynamic paintings. We lay on the straw mats in the middle, gazing up at the cupola above. Cant wait to show you the photos. Rajesh's association has organised for this and the nearby temple to be cleaned of graffiti and shit (villagers found it more convenient than going to the local fields...), have padlocked the gate and installed a caretaker, a nice old man, who presented me with a peacock feather. I hadn't realised that the peacock is the national animal of India (don't quite know how this fits in with the elephant, which I think also has special significance, as does the lotus flower).

Then on to the Gopinath temple, built in the same here, again with a guardian to protect it. This was also glorious, but didn't have quite the same fairy tale character of the cenotaph. There were some splendid pictures of hell, which reminded me very much of what we saw in Tuscany last year.

We stopped off at the house of the temple guardian, where two teenage girls were sitting happily in the courtyard. Rajesh is obviously well-known to them. They too brought us chai, while Rajesh read their palms, promising one a strong loveline (same word used in Hindi) and said the other had a very strong family line. The second and more vivacious girl turned out to be the daughter of the family and when the mother (a nurse) turned up, she proudly showed me the photos of her daughter winning an all-Rajasthan dance competition. At least I think it was dance rather than just a beauty competition, though the emphasis of the photos seemed to be her glorious get-ups.

Stepped in my first cowpat

Thursday 13 January

Still, I enjoyed wandering around (and getting lost in) the bazaar, which is friendly and slightly less hair-raising thean in the big towns. Stepping back to take a photo, I backed into a cowpat. Ah well, had to happen sooner or later. I dread to think what my shoes are like now, they didntlook particularly chic to start with.

On my way back, with the inevitable requests for the way, I talked to two schoolgirls of 18. We exchanged addresses and I promises to try to send their photo (I normally try to avoid this). The girl with the better English (and less shy) comes from Bombay originally, I asked her which town she preferred. Oh, Bombay, she said, there's more going on there. Same story the world over! Later I chatted to some "students of commerce" (I sometimes wonder if this is the only subject studied) at Podar College (everything here is "Podar", as this is the local bigshot family which has funded schools and clinics.

Back at the guesthouse there were two new, extremely unattractive, Dutch backpackers. They were experienced hands at the game of living and travelling cheaply, but lacking in sensitivity; they ignored Rajesh and his family completely - except to ask for second helpings of food. But at least they were company for the desolate, homesick German, Henrika. Rajesh continued to be tolerant of Henrika's endless phone calls and emails as she tried to reorganise her trip.

Meanwhile I sat with Rajesh and his family. I had asked Rajesh to get me some of the sweets I love (I think they are called pehdi). He now presented me with a whole box - as a present. Typical. His wife, Serale, had made the rice pudding for the evening, because she knew I loved it.

The farewell was difficult. I felt like hugging them, they are so nice. In the end I said I would give them a typical Midi farewell, and kissed them each on the cheek three times. I think this went down OK.

Then off to Sitka Junction to catch the overnight train to Bikaner. Once again my Indrail pass caused a little difficulty. Most rail staff seem to have never seen one before. Plus they stare with concentration at the list of reservations, even after I say that I this particular journey is not on their list.

I was shown the waiting room and told to lock the door. It was a bit spooky, furnished with old wooden loungers, probably not painted for 50 years - and the inevitable leaking toilet in the corner (I did not dare investigate, but realise that I have still to see a loo which is not leaking).

I was cold and relieved when the train came in. The train was already full and I didn't get the solicious treatment I got last time, and was firmly pointed to a top bunk. Gulp! I managed it, somehow, but will try to avoid this in future. The trick is you have to step onto the table, enter at the head end, bend up double (the difficult bit for me) in order to swing ones legs in and round the strap suspended from the ceiling.

I had a bad night, as I had forgotten to ask how long the journey was, so I was constantly worrying that we had reached Bikaner (there are never any announcements or signs that I can read). Also the train swung disconcertingly from side to side.