Cruising through Campania

I am doing a hundred, a hundred and twenty. There's a speed limit of eighty, but that has a whole other meaning here in the south. I know because I am overtaken by a raven-haired beauty in a beat-up old car. She flicks her eyes at me in the rear-view mirror. 'Eat my smoke, nonno,' she smirks, as she slides across the lanes for the turn-off to Castellammare. I rev up to a hundred and fifty.

Driving down the A3 is a little like driving along the Sheikh Zayed Road from Dubai to Abu Dhabi. It's all about speed and panache; lane discipline is optional, but a dose of foolhardiness helps. Defensive driving looked right, then left, then right again, and never crossed the Channel.

The autostrada arcs over the Tyrrhenian at Salerno. A huge container port sprawls beneath, while the majolica dome of the San Giovanni Battista glints in the distance in Vietri. The Amalfi Coast: proof that God is Italian!

The tunnels grow longer around the Cilento. I find myself speeding past a small convoy of carabinieri – not a smart move. They must be coming off shift, however, because they don't care. The tunnel lights reflected on my windscreen twirl in a crazy dance, while on the radio someone sings a canzone di felicità.

I make it to Padula much earlier than expected.

The Scenic Route to Shimla

The little canteen in Dharampur comes as a charming surprise, with shelves laden with quaint preserves and a selection of wines behind the counter. Anil my driver decides to break the journey here for lunch, but we still have a long way to go.
'I'm not hungry,' I lie. 'Let's carry on.'
Anil is puzzled.
'Sir go Shimla?'
'No, no.' We've been through this a dozen times. 'Arki then Shimla.'

Anil is petulant about this. I can sense it. Here we are on a 90km detour along a little winding road to an obscure outpost in the Shimla hills - is the foreigner sahib quite mad?

'Sir, cold air,' he says maliciously, turning off the airconditioning and winding down the window so that a blast of warm air hits my face. It was 40°C when we set off from Chandigarh on the plains and, surprisingly, not much cooler here in the hills.

Arki, of course, isn't just another little hill town like the others, I muse to myself as we drive past the pretty Gurkha cantonment of Sabathu. It was once the seat of the small princely hill state of Baghal - the Land of the Leopards. The Outlook Traveller guide (aimed at the discerning domestic Indian traveller) describes it as a 'little-known regal hideaway' with a 'picturesquely located fort-palace' situated 'high on a spur overlooking the town at 4,200 ft'. Quite apart from its setting, one of the great draws of the fort-palace is its exquisite audience hall or diwan-i-khas, with 'fabulous murals' depicted in 'different styles of Indian miniature painting of the highest calibre' (see above).

I had originally set off with the intention of spending a few days quietly pottering around Shimla. Having delved a bit deeper into the history of the region, I resolve instead to explore the palaces of the old hill rajas - and would have done so but for Anil's lack of cooperation. After dinner that night, we have a falling out over my plans for an excursion to Jubbal the next day ('Sir, Jubbal far-far, road no good!').

Needless to say, he didn't get a tip!

Pottering around the Peloponnese

The dirt track peters out in the middle of an orange grove.
'Route recalculation. In 300m, turn sharp right and bear right.'
Thank you, sat nav.
All around me, in the fading light, are nothing but trees, save for a little shed to my left in which a little dog is slumbering, curled tightly against the cold.

It had been a pleasant drive all the way down to Corinth. Somewhere past the sprawling grey suburbs of Athens, just beyond Elefsina, the E94 hits the coast, and the Saronic Gulf appears, like an epiphany, shimmering under the bolts of sunlight that pierce the clouded sky. On the radio, a man with a harmonica sings a bluesy song. I catch the words 'καφές και τσιγάρα' (coffee and cigarettes), and attempt to hum along. I cross the Corinth canal without realising it (the half-smile and hesitant 'happy new year' of a bored toll collector still vaguely on my mind), and find the snow-dusted peaks of the Peloponnese surging to greet me.

I turn off the E94 just before Corinth and meander down a country road to Argos, before getting lost in the orange grove. I manage to reverse out and not run over an ancient man with a wattled neck, who was pootling along on an incongruously red scooter. He spoke no English, and did not remove his cigarette to give directions. It takes me a while to remember that 'ναι' (nay) means 'yes' in Greek.

I eventually enter Nafplio in triumph, and in time for dinner.