The fame of India’s metalwork had even reached the comparatively obscure country of England in Shakepeare’s day. Once part of the 4,500 year old Harappan civilisation, famous for its bronze work, Kutch was now a strange, flat land of sand desert, salt desert, with thorn scrub “forest”. But still today the handicrafts of metalwork, laquerwork, printing and embroidery are famous.

In the barren Banni Grasslands eagles and buzzards lived off the burrowing “bandicoot rats” that can survive here even in drought.

The few people here were nomadic camel or buffalo herders, living as their ancestors had done for centuries. In the midst of this dry and dusty landscape, the women wore the most brilliant and complex embroidery, gold nose-plates and silver bracelets. They do not like to be photographed so you will have to imagine the sight of a woman, all in bright red and yellow and blue with gold and silver jewellery, appearing out of a cloud of dust with a herd of camels, or buffalo.

The place we stayed, Bhuj House, was a green oasis run by a Parsi family who overfed us with wonderful Parsi and Gujarati food.

Once we had crossed the estuary of interminable, grey salt-flats (surely one of the worst places to live and work) that separate Kutch from the rest of Gujarat, we were in a more prosperous land of fields and factories and, carrying on the metalwork tradition, there were steel and metalworks. Amazingly we were driving on three-lane dual carriageways. And what did we meet on the dual carriageway? A herd of over a hundred sheep and goats, herds of fifty or more cows, a gang of water-buffalo sauntering across the road, and a camel train, each camel loaded with a large upside-down wooden bed, the family goods and a small child perched on top, while the brightly dressed women walked alongside. Oh and an elephant and mahout in the slow lane “going to work”. The taxi-driver scooted in and out of these at terrifyingly high speeds.

What a relief to reach leafy, peaceful Gondal and to spend two nights at the Orchard Palace, just us in an enormous suite of rooms, with the Maharajah’s family in the palace next door. Each night we ate in solitary splendour at the head of a long dining table, served by a gang of waiters, who brought dish, after dish, after dish, and such exotic puddings as apple amber and chocolate mousse.

 

 

 

 

 

And what an eclectic mixture of furnishings and collections the maharajahs had amassed: horse carriages, vintage cars, Dinky toys, novelty teapots, a 1930s library and the scales where the Maharajah was weighed before giving his weight in gold to the people of Gondal.

 

You  can see why the Indian government did away with the princely states, but the people of Gondal still love their maharajah who built their railway line and the smartest of stations.

 

 

 

 

The last 500 Asiatic lions live in Gir National Park. Unlike their stripey cousins in Bhandhavgar, the Gir lions were happy to pose.

Trackers, armed only with sticks, seek out the lions to make it easier for tourists to spot them and then strictly limit the viewing. Two days before we arrived two lions here attacked a tracker, killing him and wounding two others who tried to rescue him. And yet they looked as if butter would not melt in their very large mouths.

In the city of Junagadh we had three nights in a comfortable business hotel, with roof-top swimming pool, spotless rooms, TV and WiFi.

We were in need of some rest and home comforts! There is a constant assault on the senses in the towns – noise, smells, disturbing images and the feel of dust everywhere – so a retreat to a western-style oasis was more than welcome.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Junagadh had a number of remarkable buildings, mosques, palaces and wells, but also large amounts of rubbish everywhere and no maintenance on these crumbling buildings.

 

The people, as always, are friendly and helpful and carry on living their lives in the toughest of conditions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In response to Sheila’s question why there have been no selfies with Jim, he gets the guys asking for selfies and they don’t make such good pictures.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Near to the city is Mount Girnar, rising straight out of the plain and topped with a string of Jain temples. Every day, from 3 am onwards, hundreds of pilgrims climb the 10,000 steps to the summit,  the way dotted with tiny shrines and much-needed drinks stalls.

The elderly or frail were weighed and then carried on a mat and pole slung across four men’s shoulders. They positively trotted the route.

I’m afraid we only managed 1,500 steps, which in 33 degrees heat was enough for us, the antics of the langurs and the wayside shrines keeping us entertained on the way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those of you who know about my cork-fuelled campaign against pigeons nesting under our solar panels at home may be amused at this tale. Staying in a rather seedy hotel in Vadodara that looked out onto a dystopian wasteland, we returned to find the air-con panel on the floor and rat-like scratchings from the unit. Banging on the replaced cover had little effect on the sound of scratching claws. But suddenly we heard that “Coo-coo-coo” that normally has me running for my catapult. We have never been so relieved to hear pigeons!

From Vadodara we visited the mosques and tombs of Champaner, more beautiful buildings, more delicate stone carvings and the antics of wedding photographers with their posing brides and grooms draped across every ancient monument.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This old capital of Gujarat, abandoned in 1537, stands at the door of another holy mountain, Pavagadh, topped by Jain temples and another place of pilgrimage. We took the cable car but the faithful of all ages tripped happily to the top, on a path lined the whole way with trinket stalls. So after all the high culture of Champaner, here are some more popular sights.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And that ended our travels in Gujarat as we headed due south on another long, but comparatively stress-free train journey to Mumbai in the state of Maharashtra.

We are one third of the way through the trip, still standing, and finally heading south down the west coast.