Vagator - rats to riches

The next morning we migrated northwards to Vagator, settling in the Ally Pally guesthouse, at which urine for a good stay, barring the faint smell of pee. Vagator is a stalwart of the Goan hippy scene, as reflected in the wrinkly, tattooed faces loitering.

Heavy on the stodge of the German bakery - a peculiarly common phenomenon throughout India - we stopped for some ping pong on the way to the beach, hoping to recreate the thrill of earl's court Ping.

Vagator beach was fairly disappointing, a shapeless mass of grubby sand giving way to the murky ocean. After a while spent sunbathing, playing with our new rubber ring, and being ogled by locals, we returned to town to book our sleeper bus tix for Mumbai. A slightly barmy, cross-eyed and one-toothed man booked us onto his "super deluxe" bus, whilst we stifled our hysterics as he chased dogs from his shop wielding a broken chair above his head. Seems legit.

That evening we ballooned ourselves at the fantastic Greek restaurant "Thalassa" in honour of Tali's greek roots, struggling back to our hotel bearing food triplets.

The next morning, recovering from our food comas, we taxied north to Morjim beach, and to La Plage restaurant - it felt as if we'd taken a wrong turn and arrived in St Tropez, such was the ridiculous degree to which it was not a legit gap year destination. There really is no justification for such behaviour, but at least Issy was able to put her French (employed earlier to the confusion of many Indian waiters) to good use.

Morjim beach was just as awesome -humungous, rock-pooled and near empty (except for the necessary French topless sunbathers). We spent the remains of the afternoon relaxing, most content apart from the occasional haranguing by jack-of-all-trade touts: coconut, bob Marley cd or foot massage, your choice.

In the evening we gravitated once more towards Thalassa for a more subdued dinner, before a Good Night's Sleep.

On our last day in Goa we returned to La Plage, at which an Indian wedding was taking place: P-A-R-T-Y? Cos we got to. Who am I trying to kid - of course we didn't fulfil our dream of being invited to an Indian wedding, but we were there.

At which point do you start worrying about whether your sleeper bus is late/missing? 20 minutes before its meant to arrive, according to Issy. We boarded le bus with the bounciness of a cartload of fat people being dropped onto a trampoline, snapping cards and selfies aplenty. The excitement wore off rapidly after we stopped in a manically depressing "service station", the food at which was so abysmal that one had to pay before it was served - never an encouraging notion.

We settled down for a Quiet Night rolling northwards, before we were rudely awoken by the probing hands of Scarface (the ticket collector with a tendency to stroke legs - there's a joke to be made about saying hello to his "little friend") on the outskirts of Mumbai. Bewildered as the taxi men argued over us, and without a hotel to head to, a brave voice suggested the Taj. And so it was.

With love