Varanasians (Varanatians? Varanoosians?) like to pretend that the thick cloud of grey smog that permanently hovers over the city is a weather blip. They refer to it as fog, as if it were a transitory thing that might blow away at any moment, revealing blue skies, fluffy white clouds and clean air. But in a city of 5 million people, most of whom are cooking over open fires or using calor gas to cook their food they've already got a fight on their hands to maintain any form of breathable air. When you add into the equation the constant stream of pollution from the wall to wall motorbikes, tuktuks and taxis and the numerous open funeral pyres at the burning ghats on the Ganges, where thick plumes of dense smoke curl ever upwards, outwards and, in the case of our nostrils, inwards too, it's no great surprise to discover that every day in this city is the same - a pea-souper.

Varanasi is a big, bustling busy city. Everyone is in a hurry, everyone has somewhere to go, and they should really have been there half an hour ago.The traffic is far far worse than Kathmandu, the rules of the road seem to be a constant nudging forward, never mind what is behind, just avoid hitting anything in front. Dont worry which way you go round the roundabout and keep beeping the horn. You need three things to drive in this city, good horn, good brakes and good luck. Beep beep!

The first morning we headed for the ghats, really the only place to go in Varanasi, they're a long succession of steps leading from dingy, fetid, bustling alleyways down to the holy of holies, the River Ganges, into which all forms of rubbish and effluence is routinely chucked to mingle with the sooty remains of the recently cremated and the odd animal corpse. Not exactly blue flag territory.

Walking along we encountered plenty of men trying to interest us in a ride in their boat, shifty loking hustlers who wanted to practice their English, washer men and women endlessly slapping bits of fabric against stone slabs at the side of the river, small kids flying kites, holy men in their orange robes with mad matted ash-strewn hair, mangy dogs fighting over suspicious looking bits of gristle, squawking monkeys and, of course, cows. Cows, cows everywhere. They're always a common sight in India, but they seem even more prevalent here, lolling around, enjoying their revered status that ensures they can pretty much do as they want. They can't believe their luck. And, like the rest of the population of Varanasi, they can poo where they like, which makes any journey on foot a precarious and dangerous pursuit, not for the faint-hearted or indeed the flipflop clad traveller.

We have to be ever-vigilant not to tread into anything unpleasant, particularly in the dark, which we do early one morning on our way for a dawn boat ride. We went to see the sun rise and hopefully chuckle at a few hardy bathers who can brave not just the stinking, heaving mass of liquid pollution, but also the extreme cold. Actually the weather is the least of their problems, as you can imagine.

During our daytime meander we came to the notorious burning ghats where groups of 'untouchables' perform the final ceremonial rites for the never ending stream of dead bodies that need cremation on the banks of the river. The main burning ghat is kept busy 24hours a day, and, it is alleged, the fires have been alight here for hundreds of years. It's an unnerving, almost biblical, sight, seeing these gaudily wrapped corpses being carried through the back streets of Varanasi down to the river, followed by the male mourners - the women stay at home to grieve (and make the tea I suspect, just like the world over). The body is then given a final dunking in the water and laid to rest on a great pile of firewood, which has been heaved from one of the many barges laden with a seemingly unending supply of wood tethered alongside the bank. More wood is added on top of the body and the pyre is lit by one of the sooty boys who seem to swarm through the ghat, barefoot and tattered but diligently attentive to the fire's requirements. As the body burns, more of the corpse is revealed; a crisply burnt arm here, a gleamingly pink swirl of intestine there.

At the end of the burning, when the body is almost indistinguishable from the charred remains of the bonfire, the principal mourner smashes the skull with a large stick and, with his back turned to the fire, tosses over his shoulder an earthenware pot full of Ganges water, a last symbolic gesture to the recently departed. Only then can it's spirit depart, fast tracked to rebirth or enlightenment purely by dint of the fact that it's earthly carrier had the good fortune or good planning to expire close to this holy place.

Watching these ceremonies for any length of time is sobering, but there were plenty of other people hanging around who didn't seem to have anywhere else they would rather be, and that made us feel less uncomfortable. But it's hot, dusty and smokey hanging around these ferocious fires and we knew we should leave when we noticed that a thick film of dead person ashes had settled on our head and shoulders. It was time to stop being voyeuristic and rejoin the world of the living, even if that meant treading in the odd bit of poo.

On our last evening we took another boat ride to watch a ceremony at one of the ghats that involved some extravagantly attired men in silk jackets and turbans waving candles in the air to the sound of constant bell ringing. It's a popular tourist attraction, so of course a rival outfit have set up camp at the neighbouring ghat. Doing exactly the same thing. Unfortunately the two groups have seen no reason to coordinate their timings or their music, resulting in a cacophonous melee that is neither pleasant nor tuneful. Half an hour of watching blokes in coloured tunics waft large smokey lamps around is enough for us, we make our excuses and leave to trudge through more poo on our homeward journey.

Brian is a little fearful of the cows, I think he imagines that each of them will turn and flatten him against a wall with a flick of their disease ridden hooves. He gives them a wide berth and a 'don't mess with me' stare. They generally move along, they get the message despite the language barrier.

They have Mcvitie's digestive biscuits here - they're smaller than at home, just slightly larger than a ritz cracker and, as I soon discovered, with the merest smidgen of lip stretching, I can just about fit a whole one in my mouth in one go. Brian does not seem particularly impressed with my feat, preferring to take teeny tiny nibbles of just the one biscuit before wrapping the top of the pack and declaring himself 'stuffed to the gunnels' with biscuit.

At Varanasi airport, on the way to Delhi, I discovered another Digestive Delight - they fit neatly into a polystyrene cup of coffee, thus enabling maximum dunkability. But, as all Dunkers know, there is a fine line between that moment of slight delicious sogginess and the over-dunking disaster that results in total biscuit annihilation, and it's a very, very fine line between one and the other. Of course just as I was demonstrating to, a frankly disinterested, Brian my brilliant new discovery I had a momentary split second delay caused by my running-dunking commentary. Disaster! Particularly as it was Brian's cup of coffee. He declined to drink it further and, with a slight sniff, phased it over to me with a hint of disappointment in his eyes. Whether in me or the loss of his cup of coffee I could not tell.

This week Brian has been busy, and not only avoiding treading in a Heinz 57 conglomeration of poo. He has also been worrying about the preponderance of inverted nazi symbols (and inviting me to share his fascination at regular, some would say irritatingly regular, intervals). He has become fascinated by the burning of dead bodies, stressing over his trousers which got covered in massage oil after an Indian head massage, and admitting to not liking Mars bars' as if that were a normal thing.

As if that wasn't sufficient he has also been pondering the purchase of a new torch, threatening to buy some mosquito coils and finally slipped into the conversation the fact that he has five pairs of shorts in his case. Handy if we join the Boy Scouts.

He has spent three nights in a row eating chicken sizzlers, not only do they taste mighty fine he argues, the fact that they keep sizzling for a good ten minutes after the plate has been placed in front of him ensures all potential germs have been zapped into oblivion. And so ends The Book of Brian....