Cochin, Kerala: We arrive in Ernakulam and, not liking the look of it too much, we take a ferry across to Fort Cochin. After haggling we get a room with two doubles and attached bathroom for 110 rupees. The following day we acquaint ourselves with the locality and what seems to be the best place for breakfast. On Wednesday I meet Ludo and Gaille in the Indian Coffee House where the waiters look like something straight from the days of the Raj. We also meet a bloke who is the spitting image of Lonely Planet's Ian Wright and Scotsman called Graeme. The side of Graeme's face is one huge scab, the result of using his head to slow himself down after coming off a motorbike in Goa.

As each day passes I become more and more relaxed. Fort Cochin is an enchanting little place with a small tourist community. The ranks swell daily. We are joined by Naama, and even Pierre pops up again. The daily routine is of a leisurely breakfast (pancakes and masala tea, taken with the haunting background flute music of Hari Prasad Chaurasia's 'Immortal Essence'), a trip to the beach or the Jewish quarter, a visit to the dock to choose our fish for the evening meal and a sing-along on the guitar Ludo has bought. I'm feeling like a right hippy.

Today was not an untypical collection of experiences. We took the ferry from Fort Cochin to Vyppen Island, then the hair-raising 18km bus ride and 2km walk to the beach at Cherai. A guy comes to talk to us on the beach. He has a gang of grinning friends (grinning at the girls) along with him. They get very few tourists out here, so we're a real novelty and they're not afraid to ogle. He asks whether I believe in god. 'Which god?' I reply. 'The universal god.' I tell him that maybe there is, and maybe there isn't. 'What about religions', he continues, 'do you believe in any?' 'No', I say 'religions are man-made, and I don't trust them.'

Crouching silently, he thinks for a while. Shortly he says 'I believe in no god, and no religion. I am a communist!' he proudly proclaimed. He talked for some time about what the communists had done for the people of Kerala. After Indian Independence fifty-odd years ago, the democratically-elected Communist Party immediately set about ensuring people had basic land, education and health rights. Since then the state has had a long tradition, on and off, of communist governments.

Setting out on the walk back, a jeep with a bunch of screaming and waving school kids passes. We thumb a lift. After exchanging names we tease them by insisting that they sing along to the Hindi music blasting from the radio, and they suddenly become very shy.

Whilst in Fort Cochin we have the opportunity to see Kathakali, which is a dramatic dance performance based on the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. The shows at the River Road Kerala Kathakali Centre are aimed at tourists. Instead of the usual six hour performances we are treated to a cut-down two-and-a-half hours. Given your average westerner's stunted attention span (myself included) this seems a good idea.

The doors are open as soon as the performers begin to put on their make-up. One of the troop talks us through the make-up process, explaining that it is all made from natural ingredients - bark, coconut oils and various flowers. The performance is all hand, face and body movement, accompanied by drummers and a harmonium. Some of the basic movements are demonstrated and what they signify. 'Hummingbird sucking nectar from a flower' was my favourite. It is quite evident that the skill involved in coaxing such precise and expressive movement from the face takes years to hone. Our master of ceremonies tells us that they train for seven years, including the musicians.

The performance itself lasts the remaining one and a half hours. We are treated to tales of seduction and revenge among the warring Pandava and Kaurava families, and its absolutely absorbing.

Varkala, Kerala: After a few days we head further south. We're aiming for Varkala, another beach resort, but supposedly quieter and less developed than Baga. It gives us the opportunity to cruise Kerala's famous backwaters. We take another Russian roulette bus journey to Allapuzha, arriving around midnight. The tourist boat leaves around ten the next morning and, while we take breakfast, just to remind us we are still in India, the various boat operators try to convince us they will make the best offer.

Rarely have I experienced such a tranquil eight hours. There are probably another dozen people sharing the large vessel with us, and for long spans of time we pass no other boats. We glide past family homes and farmed plots. Natives can be seen washing their laundry in the canals and even taking a shit. Fully immersed fishermen wait with the stealthy patience of their winged namesakes, the kingfisher. Amongst the verdant, palm tree-fringed scene the wildlife is abundant and we are treated to a variety of hawks and herons, kingfishers and other birds.

Varkala is certainly smaller than Baga or Anjuna, is more contained and has the added character of the cliffs for half the length of its beaches. It is from these cliffs that I get my first ever dolphin display and, coming out of the blue, it is very special. I am sitting in one of the cafes that looks out from the cliffs to the ocean, reading and chatting to this Welsh bloke, when someone walking past asks if we've noticed the dolphins. And there they are, a pod of them swimming up and down the coast, frolicking and throwing in the occasional triple somersault with double pike, or whatever, for a full twenty minutes. They disappear as abruptly as they appeared.

The resort has all the hallmarks of a budding Goa. Ramshackle provision of lodgings and eateries, the familiar sales patter of the predominantly Kashmiri shop-owners, and the mushrooming proliferation of newer buildings to accommodate the swelling hoards of package visitors. But, because of its rocky nature, the coastline does offer some choice, secluded beaches. It is also a real funneling point for the backpackers too, and here I encounter a group of Swedes I shared the bus journey from Hampi to Hospet with.

Once again it is time to move on. Beebi, my Indian friend from London is from Kerala, and will be in Calicut with her husband soon to attend a wedding on the 29th. We have been invited along and so Calicut is our next stop.

Calicut, Kerala: If you are in the South of India and looking for somewhere off the tourist tracks and pretty much authentic, then come to Calicut. It is a huge town of nearly nine hundred thousand people and, in all our time here, we do not see another tourist, other than a couple passing through the bus station. On arrival, we check all of the hotels and guesthouses listed in our guides - all but one is full. The one with vacancies has only air-conditioned rooms at inflated prices, which we don't want to pay. Why are all the rooms taken if there are no tourists here? Okay, so the World Youth Chess Championships are on right now, but surely that's not the reason. This conundrum is never solved.

We are on the verge of leaving town for somewhere down the coast when Gayle disappears into a courtyard across the road. She comes back ten minutes later to say they have doubles, triples, everything. This is the Hotel Imperial on the GH Road. It has three stories, with all room entrances overlooking the central courtyard. It's not a plush place by any means, but it's the biggest we've stayed at so far and it's spotlessly clean. What's more, Vanessa, Gayle and I get a flat with two rooms and en-suite for 115 rupees. Bargain!

I love it here. It is the first place I have been to - during my admittedly short stay - in India where the beaming faces and the shouted hellos from shop doorways do not segué into a tiresome sales pitch. It seems to be a town of tailors, restaurants and hardware stores. We spend a couple of days shopping around for things to wear to the wedding. I have difficulty explaining that what I don't want is a western shirt with buttons and collar - they just won't believe me! In the end I find what I want, whilst the girls get saris and sari blouses specially tailored.

The wedding: it's an early start for us as we take a taxi to Tellicherry, about 50 miles north. By the time we get there the ceremony is in full swing, and has actually been going a few hours. The bride and groom are seated on a temporary altar in the grounds of the maternal family's substantial grounds. It is a beautiful sight. They are beautiful, graceful couple anyway, but they are lent a beatific aura amidst the hanging garlands of jasmine, the rose leaf-carpeted altar, the filtered sunlight and the glowing embers of incense. The colour and aroma of the whole affair are magnificent - even if I don't understand what's going on. The scale of it, too, is breathtaking. There are at least one thousand people here, and some say there are two thousand (though I doubt it).

We mingle, being introduced to guests, at least half of whom are from North London or Leicester. As lunch approaches, we wander around the back of the house where huge cooking pots have been hoisted above charcoal fires, enough to cater for the throng. It's an impressive catering operation and, come lunch, we are encouraged to eat the splendid fare until our stomachs are bursting.

Leaving the free-form rhythms and mad melodies of the band behind, we take an afternoon stroll down to the seafront to work off our meals before the evening's Kathakali performance begins. Vanessa, Gayle and I drink beers and play cards whilst Ludo and Gaille go off to look at the fort. They return a couple of hours later and tell us they have met a family who invited us to their house. On the way back to the wedding we find their abode and stop by for a drink.

I had expected them to be middle class Indians but they were obviously very poor. We were invited into a tiny house of about three rooms. There were three generations of one family living here in this cramped space. Only the father had work - and not regular at that - as a porter at the railway station. Their reduced circumstances were further evidenced by their clothes, the lack of furniture and the obvious poor health of their child. They told us he was three years old, but he looked no bigger than an eighteen month old and coughed continually. They brought us lemon water and just watched us drink it. Conversation was difficult. I felt somewhat uncomfortable that here we were, comparatively wealthy westerners being offered hospitality by those that could clearly not afford it.

The wedding subsequently inspires what is to be one of the strangest days of my life to date. Ludo and Gaille have already had a civic marriage back home, but like the idea of the Hindu ceremony. Back at the hotel one evening we are sitting around in our room all together with, Phillip, a young salesman from Madras and the Brahmin security guard, Ravi and we start talking about it. Ravi says that he can arrange it for the next day with the local temple. We think nothing more of it, but at seven o'clock the following morning there is a knock on our door and we are told we must be down at the temple by eight.

Gaille has had her hair garlanded with rows and rows of jasmine and, in her orange and gold sari, looks fabulous. We sit around down at the temple for an hour and a half. The impression that we'll be the only ones accompanying the couple is soon dispelled as curious locals, a flower vendor and members of the local press begin to arrive. The ceremony takes place over the course of about one hour. The couple are doused with incense and circle the temple shrine several times before touring the grounds behind the priest, finally kneeling facing one another at the temple shrine.

When it's over the local press hacks are eager for interviews. It's the first 'alien' marriage in the temple's three hundred year history. Can you imagine? I am even grilled by one of the journalists. He's looking for something special and probes for profound quotes. "So, would you say that the couple are having authentic interest in Hindu faith?" I avoid answering all the questions directly, employing everything I've gleaned from years of listening to politicians. Still, I oblige by contriving something quasi-philosophical: "Ludo and Gaille," I say "are on a very special journey and, as this journey symbolises their life together, they wish to cement it with this holy ceremony." Scribbling furiously, the writer grins enthusiastically, and so it goes on.

After the interrogations are over, we are invited to the local food kitchen where chapatis, masala and dhal are laid on. Gayle, who is herself a pastry chef, even gets stuck in in the kitchen, producing very passable rotis. We are informed that the chief minister for Kerala was getting married this same day, and there is a greater presence here than there.

This fact seems to be confirmed as we pick up the early editions of the local rags late that afternoon. We are leaving Calicut today to head north again. As we walk out of town, shop owners and stall holders, even passers by, are waving newspapers at us and shouting hellos - Ludo and Gaille's picture is beaming out at us from the front pages. At the bus station we are literally surrounded by gawking locals, all shouting, all grinning, and all shaking their heads in that uniquely endearing fashion of the south Indian. The experience is unreal and hilarious.

We stop at Kannur, where the beaches are supposed to be good. But it's a truly uninspiring place and I stay just one night. It's here that we split up. I decide to head back inland and to Mysore.