The sun is setting...

The clock is ticking. The sun will soon be setting on our time here. Now is a moment of reflection for me - Freya and Gus are out kayaking; Hamish swims by their side and Martha, my princess, sleeps and dreams, like a starfish, under her frothy net of protection.

I sit alone on my beautiful balcony, the sounds of the gentle waves completing their journey and the sweet smell of incense accompany my thoughts.

India, my India, has not failed me. It has presented the best of itself to my gorgeous children and won them too. Our love and loyalty are its reward, our thank you to this amazing country that has granted us such a safe and easy passage.

A backpack, three kids and a mountain to climb? The only mountains we've encountered are the snow capped Himalayas. There's been no other mountain, no struggle, no great effort for us (other than the rain in McLeod). No, we've had a bunch of bags (we've never found it is easy to travel light), three happy kids and plain sailing all the way to Paradise.

I knew that Indians loved kids, but I could never have anticipated how instantly my kids would melt into the safe, secure warmth that is offered to them. I thought Martha would have been the greatest challenge. I was wrong. She's been our way in,our fast track to people's hearts. She has been loved and adored everywhere we go. The soundtrack to our trip is the cry of, "Martha, Martha!"

She has made herself at home on arrival at each new place, at ease in every kitchen, at ease and most welcome. Not one person has ushered her out when she has wondered in. It has been a joy for us to delight in the pleasure everyone gains from her.

And Fergus, he has arms and affection draped all around him. He has no chance to feel alone, to miss his buddies.

(Brief interlude: Hamish and the kids have just returned from kayaking. They went to Sunset Island and as they arrived the barman was on the phone. He held it out to Freya and said, "It's for you,"

And it was! It was Dillup, our lovely friend from Cozy Nook, phoning to tell the guys the to give them a drink and to remind them not to go round the island!)

Back to Gus - he talks to anyone and everyone who'll listen. We lost him the other night; it was dark and he'd been gone a long time. Both Hamish and I assumed wrongly that he was with the other. I had two heart stopping minutes, panic rising from my being, when I spotted him at the bar. He was perched on a stool, chatting happily with an older couple, watching football on the TV behind the bar.

And as for Freya, they show her the perfect respect, acknowledging her age, neither a child or a woman, and they play it just right. No touching, just a little joking and plenty of smiles.

The nature of our travel, not doing it on a budget, has meant we've encountered little of the crap, infuriating bureaucracy you quickly learn to hate. Today, I sat in the police station in Chawdi (I went to report that I'd lost my phone) and I witnessed such nonsense - nonsense that ironically fits so seamlessly with the ease and beauty of India. 

Some guy had made a written complaint about a policeman. The Deputy Officer who sat so importantly at the front desk, under a sign that said 'Report Room' was not accepting it. He sat shouting at the man, who looked smart, respectable and intelligent. The officer continued to express his intense displeasure at reading this complaint, until the man bowed his head. It reminded me of an angry headmistress reprimanding a small boy.

His technique, which basically involved a lot of indignant yelling, worked, and it wasn't long before he had broken the man's resolve.

"Now," he pointed crossly at the paper, "You will write down what I tell you. You cannot write this. You cannot write the truth. Are you showing awareness to understanding what I am saying?"

The tall man nodded, somewhat reluctantly.

"You write as I tell you. Quickly. I was mistaken," he indicated where on the report this should be written, and the man meekly obliged, " but now I have awareness. I have awareness of the situation,"

The officer sat back in his chair, fat hands linked behind his head, as he thought of the next line of the forced prose.

"I am feeling sorry for the wasting of time my actions are causing,"

The tall man, clearly sad at his defeat, wrote down these words. Then they looked at one another briefly, exchanged the customary head wiggle that means everything and nothing. And then he was gone. The cross and oh-so-important officer, sat back once more, sighed and took a rest.

He finally summoned me forward. I explained, as I had on my arrival, that I had lost my phone, it had fallen from my bag, probably lay buried somewhere in the sand, assuring him it had not been stolen, that I merely needed to make a report so I could claim for it on my insurance.

"You will need to write down what you are saying. My officer will show you how," He was too important to be bothered further with me. 

He left me with his second in command who told me what to write. I tried to say it as it was, but he didn't like that. He made me cross phrases out -he particularly didn't like it when I mentioned it had been in my bag- and he he made me change several words.

When I had finished, he waggled his head and signalled that I should go. I asked when I could have the 'certificate' but instead of answering me in English, he spoke to my rickshaw driver in Hindi. He, Sam that is, had loved every second of his time in the police station, eyes darting from one fellow to the other during the previous altercation.

I could almost see him rubbing his hands together with glee as he raced home to tell everyone the story.

As we left the station, I asked, "When do we come back?" He replied with a conspiratorial shake of his head, loving that he was in on the action. It wasn't until we'd crossed the road and were safely back in his rickshaw that he said in hushed tones, "If you are giving that man some money, he will do quickly for you,"

I raised my eyebrows. "How much?"

"I think 500 rupees should be doing it," About £7.

My initial reaction was to say "No," Not out of some sense that it was morally wrong. Baksheesh is such an integral part of the Indian system. But I hate being forced into a dealing, without willingly entering into in the first place. Like the time we arrived at Delhi station at rush hour with three kids and a stupid amount of bags. I get involved in an argument with a porter who had scooped up much of our luggage and in return demanded 200 rupees. My stubbornness, defiance and sense of fairness kicked in and we ended up struggling with it all ourselves for the sake £1.50. Similarly, this idiot policeman had annoyed me.

"Oh for goodness sake," I muttered. I was getting hot and bothered and wanted to be back on the beach. "If he does it quickly, when will it be ready?"

"Today, Madame. Otherwise it is taking several days,"

"Alright," I conceded. "Do you need to go back to tell him?"               

"I will phone him. He is my friend," Everyone is always everyone else's friend.

And so it was sorted. 500 Rs bought me a bit less hassle, a bit more time on the beach and a ridiculous report that looks like a five year has written it.

I loved that whole thing had given Sam so much pleasure and once I was back on my sun bed, having relaxed in the bath like sea, I could see the humour in it too. Stuff like that doesn't make me love India any less. It just good when it's over.

I am starting to feel the weight of my sadness as I can see this dream coming to an end. I don't want to go back to work, to tidying the house, to emptying the washing machine, to trips to the supermarket. I don't want to exchange this simplicity for the complications of home.

I recognise this feeling. I know it well. I have never been able to leave India without this sense of sorrow. I know the only answer is to promise myself that I will be back. 

And I won't be waiting a decade, that's for sure.