Journey > Articles > Road-Tripping in India

Our epic road trip started in Maheshwar, several hours from Indore, in the sweltering navel of India. Madhya Pradesh is one of the least developed states in the country, with roads as unmade as a teenager’s bed. If you were to choose the perfect components for a harmonious holiday with children, you’d probably not come up with a road trip with all the lurching comfort of a motorised camel ride.

But let me rewind. My 5-year-old daughter Simi and I weren’t starting out from Maheshwar as penance. We had just spent a week with friends at the most heavenly of palace hotels, Ahilya Fort, seat of Prince Richard Holkar, son of the late Maharaja of Indore.

Hidden behind 16th century fortifications, the palace has none of the grandiose twiddly bits you’ll find in Rajasthan; rather, it’s like a European villa, with whitewashed buildings and dappled courtyards – a gentle entrée to India. Dividing our day between lazing by (or in Simi’s case, leaping in and out of) the pool, boating on the mighty Narmada river below, and lunching in a shady spot on home-grown organic salads and pasta with home-made pesto, it was difficult to imagine we weren’t just a couple of hours from home, in some Italian idyll.

Occasionally we’d venture out of the fort gate and down the steep steps to the ghats. Indians tend to be much more physical than Britons with children they don’t know. Simi had soon warmed to the maternal Kunta Bai and other staff at Ahilya Fort, trotting off happily to pick fruit and help bake cakes. But she drew the line at pilgrims wanting to pinch her cheek. ‘What is your name?’ they’d demand, grinning, as Simi hid her head in my skirt.

But we couldn’t stay in our haven for ever. Tractoring over rocks at 10 kph, enveloped by dust, our first day on the road seemed interminable. Strangely, however, as discomfort levels plummet below what civilised man can expect, one’s tolerance levels miraculously rise. Simi and I passed the time in a meditative stupour, falling upon our roadside snack with elation, as if rewarding some major achievement.

Night had fallen and Simi was sleeping in my lap by the time we crossed from Madhya Pradesh into Gujarat. It was like crossing from Mexico to the USA. We slipped into fourth gear for the first time, and hovered down the smooth, tarmacked, white-lined highway to Baroda.

After a couple of nights staying with an architect friend, we met our new driver and his sleek saloon and headed over the border into Rajasthan to Udai Bilas Palace, Dungarpur, home to Maharaj Harsh Singh and his wife.

The young Maharani ushered us into the most fantastical of royal suites. The bedchamber shimmered with inlaid coloured stones and mirrorwork from top to toe, depicting peacocks, dancers and flowers. The bed beckoned Simi to bounce on it, while the vast bathroom floor invited her to lie flat out, to study herself in the ornately mirrored ceiling.

Although I’d hoped such fantasy palaces would supersede the Disney versions in her imagination, I can’t honestly say this happened. More immediate for her were friends, activities and animals – even if those animals were long-deceased. That evening, we sat down to a very authentic royal dinner under the gaze of a jungle’s worth of stags, tigers and leopards.

It was now that I introduced Simi to the concept of animal conservation. Exploring the palace, we lost count of the number of trophies staring out from the walls and spreadeagled underfoot. ‘Look, Mummy!’ Simi would cry, pointing around wildly. ‘Deer! Deer! Deer! Tiger! Those maharajas were so mean!’

The current maharaja recognises that his wallpaper can give some guests indigestion. These days, the former royal families of Rajasthan are among those who most fervently fight for conservation. However, the décor is part of his history – and provides a graphic contrast to India’s wildlife reserves.

Leaving this slice of old Rajasthan behind, we set off for an altogether different palace experience, the state’s first designer renovation, Devi Garh. I braced myself for the journey. The last time I had taken a major road through Rajasthan, I had worn an eyemask, so terrified was I by the oncoming traffic. But the new Udaipur-Jodhpur highway was a revelation – an empty dual carriageway reminiscent of Switzerland, save for the odd cow strolling across.

The Alpine effect was heightened by a startlingly clear sky. I’ve seen Udaipur amid a peasouper. I’ve seen Jodhpur in a white haze. I’ve seen Jaisalmer with deep blue skies and sand-hued horizons. But never before in Rajasthan have I seen such a luminous sky stretching as far as the eye can see, setting the Aravalli hills aglow as if they were under a golden spotlight.

The yellow-washed Devi Garh stood proud of the royal blue sky. But there, classic Rajasthan ended. We were greeted by an array of male models in black. Our minimalist room, a symphony in white with accents of beige, further unnerved me. India’s all-accommodating quirkiness and child-loving staff had made it so easy for us to travel in. Would this be the exception?

With trepidation we padded over slate terraces to the pool, a glassy expanse with white tented pavilions at the corners. It seemed the sort of pool one should slip into silently rather than frolic in. With a yell of delight, Simi leaped straight in, sending spray in all directions. I winced. There were no fearsome looks, however. Soon the cool water and brilliance of the day were working their restorative magic.

That evening, we were led to a private room for dinner. Were they trying to keep us away from the other guests? Perhaps, but we were the lucky ones. In a mahal that glittered by candlelight, we sat on white mattresses at individual low tables – something Simi much appreciated after having to peer above all those high tables. We feasted to the strains of festive music blaring from below.

‘Can we go and see what’s happening?’ Simi asked when we’d finished.

Following the music to an open doorway, we found ourselves amid a soignée family gathering. This was apparently a private suite, with its own swimming pool. ‘We’d better go,’ I said, pulling Simi towards the door. Simi tugged back. ‘I want to see the puppet show!’ The host graciously saved the day. ‘Please, sit, of course you must stay for the show!’ Simi laughed with glee and was soon up on stage with the other children, trying her hand at puppeteering.

A drive along narrow, dusty roads took us to our last stop, Chhatra Sagar, a white canvas tented camp pitched beside a reservoir lake in a glorious remote, natural setting. There was no lowering of living standards here – our pretty tent came with beds and attached bathroom. As we sat in deckchairs, watching birds, we were joined by a pair of naughty fox terriers. In seconds they had whipped my bikini top off the guy rope where it was drying, and were having a tug of war. For Simi, this hilarious spectacle beat even the puppet show.

Then it was time to hike to the sunset bar, a portable affair staged half way up a rugged hill overlooking the camp. With gin and tonics in hand, the grown-up guests gazed at the glowing sky, marvelling at the far-reaching views, while Simi played with the dogs. As dusk fell, we snaked down the hillside to dine in the traditional Rajasthani manner, en plein air, around a blazing camp fire. A road trip – especially one with deluxe stopovers – hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all.

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