We went to Agra to be overwhelmed by the Taj Mahal, and we were not disappointed. It's a magnificent and beautiful monument, even though it's heavily policed and over-priced. And of course heaving with tourists. But of course we were happy to join them, and marvel at this monument to love and grief.

In the late afternoon we decided to splash out on a last night splurge, so we headed out to the 5 star Oberoi Hotel and their rooftop bar to try and catch a posh sunset over the Taj. We foolishly believed our tuktuk driver when he claimed to know exactly where we were going. Do we never learn?

We soon realised that he had not a clue where the hotel was and was mostly relying on the kindness of strangers to direct him, causing us a fair amount of panic as darkness started to beckon. Finally, (with a little pffft of relief from Brian) we abandoned our plans for a night of luxury, sky high prices and exorbitant taxes and directed him to a backpacker hovel that we had researched earlier. After climbing fifteen flights of dimly lit and slightly sticky stairs we emerged onto a rooftop furnished with some formica tables and plastic chairs. But with the most amazing view of the Taj Mahal. As dusk fell we ordered up a couple of bottles of Kingfisher and watched bats swooping overhead in the deepening gloom as the fairy lights from the nearby hotels started to twinkle in the night sky. Monkeys clambered over the nearby roofs and we settled back to watch darkness fall on one of the seven wonders of the world. A little bit of magic, and all for the price of a beer.

The next day was to be our last in India and we set off from Agra to Delhi with a mixture of sadness and thankfulness that we have survived over 2000 kilometres of Indian roads. Death is only ever a moment away here, and frequently has been most days. Huge overladen lorries with bald tyres, compete with home-made cut and shut tractor car hybrids, packed tuktuks, rusty motorbikes and brave but foolhardy cyclists compete for road space, even when there is only the tiniest sliver of potholed road. Sometimes our little bus aims for the slightest of gaps in the traffic, usually between a couple of juggernauts listing dangerously to one side and by dint of luck, skill, speed and heavy horn use, we seem to get through to the other side. Frequently something or other will be bearing down on us from the opposite direction and on completely the wrong side of the road, but hey, this is India, another deft swerve, narrowly missing an old gent on his rickety old sit up and beg, a quick double back into the hard shoulder so as to avoid a couple of cows lying in the middle of the road chewing on a plastic bag full of mouldering vegetables and we're home and dry.

Phew. Sometimes it's best just not to look.

So, its the last day and the thorny question of 'what will we tip Naresh?' arises. Our notes from the tour company suggest 1500 rupees per person, about £20. Given that our satisfaction levels are running at about 5% at the moment he's looking at making about £1 from each of us. Not quite enough to start up his own tourism agency hectoring innocent holiday makers, free daily scowls in abundance. Petulance optional.

And so at a mid-morning tea stop en route, Naresh springs us with the 'fact' that we should be tipping the driver and his mate about 150 rupees a day each, even though it's hard to work out what the 'mate' does. Other than sit up front looking a bit gormless, his main duty seems to be leaping out of his seat whenever we stop and opening the door, something we have been managing for ourselves for quite a few years now without too much trouble. By Naresh's reckoning we would be tipping the driver more than Naresh, so he's obviously hoping to drive up his own tip by default. He's suggesting not so much a tip as the down payment on a small apartment in Delhi and throwing in a holiday in the Maldives.

Brian and the girls start making feverish notes in the back of the van to determine a fair and reasonable gratuity, we want to be fair but also make our point, it may only be a few quid but out here it's a Maharaja's ransom. For sure and begorrah.

At this rate we'll have no money left over for fripperies and treasures.

But before we have to deal with all that baksheesh nonsense we still have the joys of one last touristy trip, to some old guy's tomb in Delhi. For this Naresh has hired the services of perhaps our most eccentric encounter to date. Ali is 5 foot and a quarter, has luxuriantly quiffed bouffant hair, tight white jeans and a jacket that sparkles with the lurex from a dozen thwarted disco dreams.

The tour starts with us trailing around after him as he prances around taking a succession of photos of himself on his camera phone, as if he is a teenage girl updating her facebook site. Or maybe he's just plain vain.

He starts well, giving us the usual guff about the building, the history, blah, blah. He then deviates into a peculiarly sexist rant about not allowing women too much freedom as that only leads to corruption. As he harps on about not letting women out of their metaphorical cage, Catherine gets the wrong end of the stick and assumes he is advocating freedom for all and starts agreeing with him vigorously until she catches my eye and realises that something is wrong. We all stand there horrified as he continues in this theme, and then start edging away in case we become contaminated by him and his weird eighteenth century views. Unperturbed he launches into a new topic informing us that people always assume he is much younger than he is due to his, #headtoss, flick of hair# incredibly good genes, fabulous looks and amazing coiffure. We are stifling laughter by this time.

Finally, as we are walking through the gardens we are interrupted by his mobile phone ringing. He then calmly informs us that it was his stockbroker calling to advise him where to invest his millions. Apparently the guiding is just a playboy 'hobby' of his. Well, really with all those good looks and conversational skills we weren't really supposed to believe he was an ordinary tourist guide were we?

Unfortunately for him Brian chose that moment to lose his temper and inform Hugh Heffner that he was not interested in his personal life or his sexist views, he wanted to learn about the sight that we were paying him to learn about. Ali/Hugh quailed, looked miffed and regathering his thoughts he proceeded to lecture us on more boring old mughal history. Sadly Brian had failed to note that the girls and I were getting far more enjoyment out of our guide when he was an entertaining deluded old duffer.

And so our trip round Rajasthan has ended. Naresh got less than he expected, more than he deserved. We went out for one last Snacky Bite with Catherine and Nicole before leaving them at the mercy of the sing-sing hotel and the breakfast nazi, and left them sobbing and wailing at the side of the road as we headed for the airport.

Naturally they are going to miss us, all they have to look forward to now are the bitter winds blowing off the coast of Galway, a smoky peat fire and the happy clink of a large bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. It's been a Jolly Good Romp - see you in Thailand!!