We have to report that with the benefit of a heater and an extra mattress, a much better sleep was had by all. Today is basically a hanging around day. We have to check out by 9.30am, but our bus isn't due to pick us up until 4pm.

Kodai is an attractive hill station similar to Darjeeling and Shimla, although much smaller and less touristy. The hillsides are terraced, with a variety of crops grown - although not tea, surprisingly. There are many eucalyptus trees which were planted when the settlers came to the area. However they're causing ecological problems because the native trees are better able to regulate the waterflows and so there's more soil erosion. There are quite a few small shops selling the normal range of pashminas, brass and wooden trinkets and more surprisingly, home made chocolates. The large charity shop has a wide range of hand embroidered items, batik cloth and other hand-made clothing and leather bags. The shopkeepers are noticeably less pushy than other areas we've visited and seem quite happy to let us browse without interruption.

One of the things that spoils Kodai as a tranquil, restful, peaceful resort, is the way Indian drivers use their horn to excess. There's a ban on plastic here, which is excellent, and there should really be a similar ban on using the horn. Signs saying NO HORNING such as we have seen elsewhere in India would be appropriate.

At 4pm we're waiting outside the hotel for the bus, but it makes a number of stops to pick up passengers so we don't actually leave Kodai until 4.45pm. This makes us nervous because our train for Chennai is due to depart at 8.45 and the journey up took 4 hours. The journey down the windy hill is fairly steady, but that doesn't prevent the passenger directly in front of us from vomiting out of the window. At the bottom of the hill proper we stop for refreshments. By now it's 6.15 and just about getting dark. We approach the driver and tell him we've a train to catch. A discussion with his off-sider follows, and the general consensus is that he can get us to Madurai at about 8.30 "...if he drives really fast." Having said that, everyone continues to stand around drinking a second cup of tea. Knowing Indian driving as we do, we're concerned at being the cause of the driver driving "really fast" at night, but we would really like to catch our train.

As soon as we set off again it's like the driver has become the devil himself. He's grown horns and a tail and we can see his eyes glowing red in the reflection of the windscreen. His offsider is a gnarled troll, standing in the door stairwell with the door open, snarling and gesturing at other road users to pull in as we pass them. And pass them we do; on the straight, on curves, and on blind corners. We pass cars, trucks, other buses, sometimes long queues of them. Some of them are going quite fast too, but we're going faster, and we don't care who's in the way. The horn is sounding continuously, and all we can see ahead are the headlights of oncoming vehicles, all on full beam as is usual in India. There are auto rickshaws, cyclists, motorcyclists, and pedestrians all using the road. We force them off the road as we barrel through. How we don't crush them all we simply don't know. How we don't run head-on into oncoming vehicles defies the laws of physics.

The devil cackles and spins the steering wheel left and right. The bus lurches from side-to-side, cutting in on vehicles just passed, then pulling out again into the face of oncoming traffic. We're flying along, the hot air rushing through the open door, the engine screaming, the black night punctuated by headlights coming towards us. We see the faces of other road users as they scatter, their alarmed expressions glimpsed for the merest moment in time but frozen in our minds for ever. The troll puts on a tape with a primeval drum beat and eerie Indian strings, which he plays at full volume to goad the devil to drive faster. The pace doesn't slow when we pass through towns. We bounce over bumps and crash through pot-holes, horn blaring and headlights glaring. The radiator grill looks like sharpened teeth, and the front of the bus resembles a grinning death head skull, with shining eyes..........

OK, maybe we have gone overboard on the description a bit, but d'you get the picture? It was bloody scary! We get to Madurai railway station at 8.10pm, with heaps of time to spare. As the driver's off-sider helps get the bags out of the boot, he says "You give good tip for driver". It's not a question, it's a statement. We pay up.