There were tourists in every room, all with their iPhones out. I was tempted to join them then decided not to. ‘I’ll take snapshots with my mind instead,’ I said as I put my mobile away. ‘And I can always revisit it on the Internet.’

‘We’ll probably want to do that when we get home,’ said Marcia. ‘I read that it’s snowing back in the UK.’

‘And of course it will be Christmas mania over there,’ I said. And not a time that I look forward to any more, I thought.

‘This part is famous,’ said Pete as we entered a pretty courtyard with a huge green and blue mosaic peacock, then moved into the adjacent room where the walls were made from small squares of blue, orange, green and yellow glass.

‘Colour combinations that are a million miles away from the pebble and taupe shades we live with back home,’ I said.

Marcia nodded, ‘Apple green and red, lime green and turquoise and everywhere gold, gold, gold. I love it. Pete, I think I feel some redecorating coming on.’

Pete rolled his eyes. ‘Again?’

‘The palace was built 450 years ago by Maharana Udai Singh II,’ we heard a tour guide tell his party. ‘It was added on to by subsequent generations, which is why it is now a series of palaces, eleven in all, measuring two hundred and forty-four metres long and thirty metres high. In days gone by, silk or muslin curtains, soaked in rose or jasmine water, would have been hung across the arched doorways and windows so that in the heat of the sun, the scent would waft through the palace.’

‘So romantic,’ I said to Marcia. Not for the first time on the trip, I felt a pang of regret that I wasn’t there with a special someone to share it with. Not that Pete or Marcia made me feel as if I was tagging along, not for a moment; but, all the same, sometimes I felt wistful that there wasn’t a hand to hold, or someone I could stop, look and treasure a moment with.

*

The health centre was a dark wood raised bungalow with a veranda at the front. It smelt strongly of herbs and sandalwood joss sticks, and in the background was the sound of chanting, Om, om, ommmmmmm.

We were greeted by a young Indian woman in a red sari, who took our names, then led us along a corridor and into treatment rooms. Moments later, I was undressed, on a couch, and had been anointed with what felt like a bucket of pungent-smelling oil. Soon, I was being pummelled and stroked by the two female therapists, one on either side of me.

They started to slap me lightly then poured on more oil and got to work. ‘Rosemary, good for muscles,’ said one of the masseuses.