I do not always enthuse about holiday destinations. Goa - our last week away before the big return to Europe, coming up soon - is an exception.
A stunning green landscape. Superb food, at less than half London or Paris prices. Elegant architecture, much of it a legacy of 450 years of a Portuguese presence. Relaxed, friendly people (for the most part). And a bloody great shipwreck off the coast of Candolim...
Here's what I made of it at The National......
On the shores of the Arabian Sea, three hours by air from Dubai, the five-star Fort Aguada resort promises exotic tropical beauty and pristine beaches.
Another feature receives less attention in the publicity that lures visitors to this part of the beautiful south-west Indian state of Goa.
For nine years, the sea view has been dominated by the River Princess, an iron ore carrier that lies, beached and rusting, a few hundred metres off the coast.
One report suggests that the ship, 240 metres long, has devoured 40,000 tonnes of sand. It would cost up to 700 million rupees (Dh52m) to shift, which is why it is still there.
Perhaps unfairly, this scar on an otherwise idyllic location brought to mind a dinner in Northern Ireland, long before peace broke out, at which a newly appointed director of tourism cheerfully described his role: “Promoting a war zone as a holiday destination.”
Goa is not at war. But the Goan government is being urged by one of its own committees to declare the River Princess a “state disaster”. The effects are said to include the loss of 110 metres of those pristine beaches and the threat of flooding to two villages and a moat between Fort Aguada and a sister resort.
There are people who pay for “war tours” of Belfast. Others book battlefield trips to the Somme, Gallipoli and Gettysburg. It had never occurred to me to take a holiday in a disaster zone.
Staff at Fort Aguada and a neighbouring holiday site, Bon Appetit, complain about the eyesore. But I can truthfully say, without belittling its impact, that it came nowhere near to ruining our stay.
Other parts of India have magical qualities. But Goa is worlds apart from the jangling chaos and crowds of the north. Half a century after the Portuguese departed, the villas and churches stand in stylish witness to their elegant influence.
There is, except on the roads, an unhurried approach to life. People observe their own version of GMT: Goan Maybe Time.
Hippies, or good impressions of them, still frequent the flea market at Anjuna beach, swaying (in some cases unsteadily) to trance music at Cafe Looda. Delicious food is served at reasonable prices. Even timeshare touts are relaxed. We were invited to one complex and told we had won a free holiday, conditional only on attending an hour-long presentation. On our arrival, the condition was removed.
Was it because we seemed hopeless cases, unlikely to have enough rupees to rub together to buy anything? Or were they trying to make up for our solitary encounter with western-style stress? The taxi driver sent by the resort had angrily chased a young motorcyclist until finally cornering him and delivering a sharp clout to the face for some earlier provocation.
But the Goan spell withstood that unexpected burst of road rage just as it had refused to be broken by the ugly princess who stalks the Candolim coast.
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