Mysore

I went to visit the seat of the Wodeyar maharajas, once one of southern India's most powerful kings. The maharaja obviously didn't want for much and his Palace is suitably grand: marble and granite on a huge scale, intricate wood carvings adorn most rooms, and I counted many silver engraved doors.

I especially liked his receiving room with it's ornate peacock stained glass ceiling and his gilded throne. I could see myself sitting there whilst my vassals bowed down to kiss my toes. And just in case they'd forgotten why they had come to pay tribute, the entrance to the grand hall was flanked by two vicious, snarling tigers carved out of heavy black-green marble.

The city itself is vibrant and colourful. The market is a warren of stalls selling piles of long green beans, stacks of plump crimson tomatoes, and pyramids of small pale lemons. Pungent fumes from the stocks of fresh jasmine hang mist-like around the flower stalls. Wholesalers sit on a bed of petals to the left from where they sold sackfuls of roses, frangipanis and other flora. On the right are an army of cross-legged workers who shape the flowers into chains violet, pink, and white offerings to sell to worshipers.

The pace of life in Mysore is relatively laid back. Cows wander the streets, happily hoovering up banana peels and anything else they discover. The star of the trip was undoubtedly the big black and white cow which had discovered a black Suzuki Swift. She stood there, eying the front bumper, nodding her head up and down, and then moved round the side to nuzzle up to the wing mirror. Maybe she was angry, or else she wanted to mate. Either way the result wasn't going to be pretty so I didn't stick around to find out.