From Jaisalmer we travelled to Jodhpur (home of the trouser of the same name, fact fiends). Jodhpur is known as the blue city because a lot of the houses are painted a beautiful indigo colour. We visit a huge fort dominating the hill that overlooks the lovely blue houses and learn lots more facts about maharajahs and maharanis that we never knew before and will still not know in another ten minutes because, like all the other bits of information we are squishing into our brains these days, there just isn't enough room for all these dates and dynasties. Too bad.

But some of these royal rooms are breathtaking in their size and detailed embellishments. Elaborately curlicued alcoves built to hold a myriad of shimmering oil lamps, intricate painted friezes and delicately patterned ceilings surround multi-coloured mosaics designed to reflect and enhance the guttering candlelight. Carved screens enabled the women of the household (and of course these royal dudes frequently had a coterie of wives, concubines and dancing girls) to flutter around the building without being seen by, gasp, another man. They also allowed the rare summer breezes to pass through the building, wafted along by huge ceiling fans operated by a trusty punkah-wallah.

We only spent a day in Jodphur before climbing back onto the bus and heading for Udaipur, called the 'white city' because, oh well, work it out for yourself.

The Indians like to call Udaipur the Venice of India, and it's certainly a beautiful town, with lots of water, dominated by a picturesque palace in the middle of a large lake (that's now a hotel) and most surprisingly no, repeat no, rubbish. It's the cleanest place we've been in since leaving home. Apparently the Maharajah of Udaipur is a canny (and rich) bloke. He's making lots of money from tourism and ploughing a lot of it back into the city. Good for him. He's instigated all sorts of health and education initiatives and they seem to be paying off, even the scabby dogs look a little more soignée here.

Actually we almost have another close royal encounter at the tourist-riddled palace when the current Prince of Udaipur passes by in a golf cart, waving regally at his subjects and the odd bemused tourist, but he fails to spot us in the crowd, or forgets to apply the brakes in time and thereby misses his opportunity to meet us, shake our hands or ask us 'what country please?'. Still, as Brian points out, every other Indian we pass in the street is asking us that question, so maybe the news will get back to him. And, damn, we didn't get a chance to find out how many camels he would offer us for Nicole. We're slipping. A Prince too, Catherine is gutted.

We took a boat tour on the lake, stopping off at a little island where they filmed scenes for the James Bond film Octop**** # Liz Hurley held her wedding there with Arun Nayer (that's the one before the botoxed cricketer), the Beckhams had a party too at some stage and Shakira performed there just a few months ago. We are told this last fact by almost every person we encounter in Udaipur and it becomes a bit of a running joke, how many times can they squeeze in the Shakira reference before we all die of boredom?

We bump into the Palace on Wheels tourists in Udaipur, recognisable by their bronze badges, expensive cameras, geeky clothes, slightly glazed looks and bundles of notes hanging out of their back pockets. They only get 5hours in each place, and that includes 2 hours of intense shopping in the most rip offy shops all clamouring for their business. So they are being whisked through the palace at a whistlestop speed, then it's back to their luxury train for aperitifs and canapés and a little lie down. Lucky things.

Our food has been ok so far. When we can escape the clutches of Nareesh and his predilection for cavernous, cold and deserted hotel dining rooms we have used a combination of Lonely Planet and Tripadvisor to find some quirky fairy light lit places, usually on a rooftop overlooking a fort or a palace and, despite the drop in temperature once it gets dark, the heat from the curry, a good old whinge about Nareesh and the flush of warmth from a nice bottle of beer has kept us, if not warm, then alive.

Breakfasts are, on the whole, a bitter disappointment. Stale cornflakes, tepid milk, white bread toast with the consistency of soggy cardboard and butter that bizarrely proclaims itself to be 'cow butter', as if there are a multitude of other kinds of butter. The jam is a peculiarly vivid shade of magenta, which Catherine likens to something that would normally be seen smeared on a wound. Adding that the tea this morning looks like weak piss. She has a way with words - usually and unfortunately while we're eating. One day we are so ravenous after a particularly underwhelming breakfast that she declares she could eat a scabby leg. It does sound quite whimsical in an Irish accent, but suddenly we're not so hungry after all.

One more fact we learnt (and retained) in Udaipur is that Nareesh's name is actually Naresh. So after a few days of addressing him by the wrong name, at his insistence, I can only conclude that to add to all his other irritating habits he doesn't even remember his own name from one week to the next.

# off exploring object to certain 'rude' words, you're going to have to work that one out yourselves, crumbs it's quite a challenge this blog today ain't it?! Go and have a little lie down and a nice glass of wine....