We're in Ooty, or to give it it's proper name, Udhagamandalam (although, not surprisingly, no-one calls it that despite the authorities trying to change it!). This is the 2240m-high hill station established by the British in the early 18th century to get away from the stifling summer heat of Madras. Along with neighbouring Coonoor, Ooty is a poplar destination for travellers and the cooler temperatures and clearer air here are a welcome change from down on the plains, even in winter.

There's nothing planned for the tour group today so we opt for some light sightseeing and shopping for gifts to take back home. One of the first things we notice is that Ooty has its own babbling brook.

A word of explanation is probably required here. All Indian towns have one or more waterways running through them. Irrespective of the relative cleanliness of the town, the waterway is inevitably the dumping ground for all kinds of rubbish and doubles as an open sewer. During the monsoon tnere's plenty of water to flush everything away but at this time of year it's hardly flowing or completely stagnant, and the smell can be overpowering. We have dubbed these waterways "Babbling Brooks" because, of course, they are anything but that.

Ooty, however, is generally a clean and pleasant town. There is a ban on plastic packaging throughout the Nilgiri region, which includes Coonoor, and it's the plastic which is causing the major problem throughout India because it doesn't degrade.

Our sightseeing and retail desires satisfied for the time being, we look for somewhere to have a light lunch. We go into a restaurant and are presented with the full menu, from which we choose two cold coffees and a cheese pakora. "Want beer Sir?" Clive is asked. On this occasion we don't want beer, or a full meal, which the staff are clearly unhappy about because suddenly cold coffee, cheese pakora or indeed any other light meal is "unavailable", despite the restaurant being devoid of any other diners. We try the place opposite and get two mushroom puffs, a vegetable puff (these are flaky pastry filled savouries - delicious) and drinks for Rs49 which is just what we wanted.

In the afternoon we visit the very pleasant and well maintained
botanical gardens. The visit is slightly marred by the presence of groups of noisy and high-spirited Indian male youths, and we get the usual requests for photographs.

The Savoy has an interesting policy on music in the restaurant and bar, if in fact a policy is what it is. In the bar they've some rather pleasant traditional Indian music being played over the speaker system. In the main restaurant, an elderly man in a cloth cap is playing the slightly out of tune piano. He has an excellent range of tunes from the likes of Roll Out the Barrel through to some well known classical pieces, and plays continuously for nearly two hours. In the servery they've lost the plot completely, and on a ghetto-blaster on a shelf we have Deep Purple's Greatest Hits. Nothing wrong with Deep Purple of course (Clive has many teenage memories of parties when theirs was the main music) but slightly incongruous in the context of an old hill station hotel.

We retire to bed with Clive humming the tune to "Smoke on the water". Sarah's earplugs are firmly in place.