Day 189. Delhi, India. Scaryplane.

A last swim and we were on our way to Goa airport where a tearful farewell saw us boarding 3 different planes.

Me and Wend heading to Jaipur then Delhi in what turned out to be the scariest flight either of us had ever experienced (heavy winds on the approach to Jaipur, enough said). Dave and Juliette to North Carolina via Mumbai, London, Manchester and New York (ouch) and Steve to London via Mumbai and Milan.

Confused? We were.

Day 188. Mandrem beach, Goa, India. And then there were five.

Said goodbye to Sarah this morning as she left to catch an early flight home to London.

Nothing else of significance happened today. We swam, ate too much and sat around remarking on how ludicrously hot it is in Goa.

38C obviously isn't quite hot enough for me and Wend though, because we've now decided our next destination will be the Taj Mahal via Delhi and Agra, where temperatures rarely fall below 40 at this time of the year.

Day 187. Anjuna beach, Goa, India. Birthday boy.

A truly momentous occasion today. Dave's birthday. And we showed him exactly how much we love him by piling the breakfast table with cheap gifts, like a gaudy yellow Kingfisher t-shirt and a plastic toy tuk-tuk.

The kitchen staff joined in with the celebrations, wishing him 'Janum din Mubrak ho' which might mean 'Many happy returns' or - more likely - 'Why do you always moan about how long we take to serve the coffee you ungrateful English sod'.

They did however present him with a nice bouquet of fresh flowers and even attempted a bit of flattery by declaring he didn't look a day over 38.

Back to the Shore Bar at Anjuna in the evening for birthday drinks. At one point I thought Dave was coming over all emotional, but quickly realised the tears in his eyes had more to do with the chillies in the prawn vindaloo than any overbearing feeling of bonhomie.

Day 186. Little Vagator, Goa. Slippery cow.

The Portuguese knew they were onto something special when they colonised Goa all those year ago. In fact, so keen were they to repel marauding Muslims and Maratha warriors that they built a string of hilltop forts along the coast.

We visited one of the more intact examples today at the mouth of the Chapora river. A pile of rubble really, but the views across the estuary made clambering across what's left of the ramparts worth our while.

Cooled off at a bar in nearby Little Vagator, a seaside town as famed for its small herd of beach cows as it is for its considerably larger herd of drug addled ravers.

Almost a fracas towards the end of the afternoon when Dave and Juliette tried to have their photo taken with one of the more docile cows. This fat pissed-up Indian bloke ran across claiming he was in charge of all culture in the area (and hence, cows) and that all cow photography would have to be channeled through him.

The cow, obviously refusing to recognise fatty's authority, struggled to his feet and walked off into the sunset. Dave wasn't happy, but the spectacle of him and Juliette chasing the beast down towards the sea to get their shot provided some amusement for the rest of us.

Day 185. Aswem beach, Goa, India. No hash.

The day started badly when me and Wend missed out on the breakfast hash browns. 12 were ordered but we made the schoolboy error of being absent from the table when they arrived. So it was one each for us, two a piece for Dave and Juliette and a monstrous, artery-hardening three for greedy Steve and piggy Sarah.

The fact that I'm writing about unfair hash brown distribution is an indirect, but damning, indictment of what we thought of today's festival. Surely it would be more interesting to provide an in depth review of Goa's first ever Big Chill?

Well, no not really.

We had to put up with the same heavy handed security as yesterday, there were no pies on sale, and an uninspiring line-up left much of the crowd scratching their heads in bewilderment.

Apparently Norman Jay livened things up for a while in the afternoon, but me and Wend didn't fancy 2 hours in the company of the black Terry Wogan, so opted instead for Amba on the smaller second stage, where we constituted 25% of the audience.

Coldcut, who were headlining in the evening, were bad enough to have us running for the festival gates half an hour before full-time. They were dire. Attempting forlornly to blend their trademark mash ups with some local Goan hippy nonsense.

Shoddy in the extreme.

Day 184. Aswem beach, Goa, India. Unchilled.

One of the reasons we managed to persuade Dave, Juliette, Steve and Sarah to fly all the way to India was because we're such a fantastic couple. Witty, glamorous, generous and of course very good company.

Another, was that the people who organise the legendary Big Chill festivals had decided it was time they threw a bash in Goa.

We've been going to the Chills back home for donkeys now, and those mad weekends in the Malvern Hills are always a real highlight of our summer. To actually attend one of their events on a beautiful beach with guaranteed sunshine, lots of smiley happy people and cold Kingfisher on draught would surely be nothing short of paradise wouldn't it?

Well...

If truth be told, it's just too flaming hot to hold a festival here in April. When the thermometer nudges 40 quite a few folk start struggling, especially before the late afternoon shadows lengthen and shade becomes easier to find.

The Goan's take on security is a tad draconian for most chiller's tastes too. There's been a massive clampdown on drugs here in recent times, which is fair enough, but when there are baton-wielding uniformed guards walking through the site every 30 seconds it becomes kind of hard to relax.

Pulling the plug on all 3 stages at 10pm seemed slightly unnecessary too. I mean, we're all adults, most of us have spent a small fortune to get here, so a midnight finish would surely have been more the ticket.

Most of the music was OK, including an entertaining (if slightly old hat) set by Hextatic and a storming hour long jam by improv meisters The Bays. And yes, we all had a lovely time. But it's fair to say a lot of people were decidedly underwhelmed as they were kicked off the site at 10.05.

On reflection, the highlight of the day for me and Dave was allowing a hippy to convince us that sitting in one of his steam pods for an hour was a good idea. 40C in the shade remember, so this might not have been the smartest move either of us has ever made.

Boy the swim in the sea afterwards was good though.

Day 183. Arambol, Goa, India. Patience, patience...

Up early to tackle the 3 mile hike to Arambol. Not such a big chore mind as its golden sand and refreshing surf all the way, plus we'd agreed on a breakfast pit-stop at one of the ramshackle beach caff's along the way.

These are great little places in which to waste some time. Lots of cushions, plenty of shade and always playing some decent music. They have menus that are not only long and exotic but also entertainingly wonky in translation. Fritters become Flitters, eggs are scrabbled and there's generally a bizarre goodwill message involved too. This morning, for example, we were all urged to 'Have a nice enjoyment'. Which raised a smile and brought a glow.

While the food is usually pretty good, it has to be said that the service is bloody awful and in the few days we've been here we've learned to become very, very, very patient.

So when your double egg on toast takes an hour and a half to arrive you smile and say to yourself "at least it's cooked to order" and if your full English breakfast turns out to be a pot of tea (English breakfast, naturally) and you only find this out after all your mates have eaten, then you slap your own wrists for presuming the waiter is fluent in geordie.

Life moves pretty slowly in Goa - any slower and it would stop - the secret, is always to carry something to read, never to get shirty with the staff and, most importantly, constantly remind yourself that sitting in a beach bar watching the sun come up over the ocean is infinitely better than being at work.