Tailors, Turtles and Temples.

After Goa's infuriating placidity the buxom duo needed to move somewhere with a little bit of zing, pa-zaz or just any sort of life. Hampi was the destination and after a delightful train ride ( a brilliant, slightly insane experience, coming atacha in a future edition folks, don't you worry) and a less bumpy then expected rickshaw they arrived.

You want room? I give you good price? 500. 600. 450. My brother has a room. My uncle. It's a better room, you come see. They were besieged by accommodation hawkers but took it as a good opportunity to check out the interior design of Hampi's guesthouses (fairly plain).

Hampi is a small town with crazy little streets with lots of shops called Hampi bazaar and there's some big temple things like what you see below.

Hampi from afar by Billy Barrington

It used to be a big town, bigger than Bristol apparently and then it was deserted quite suddenly because of something or other. As you can tell they weren't given an official tour. No, Blindsey went on their bicycles, hard seated ruffians with little girls bells on and no gears. This was fun. Lots of fun. Lots of temples. Lots of fun. Lots of waving at schoolchildren and telling them where they were from. Always fun.

Then a water temple with turtles.

Then a river. Either turn back and cycle the 10km they'd just done or cycle across the river. What's that? A Coracle? An ancient wicker boat manned by a boy? With two bikes and three people? Across the river? There's nothing Blindsey like more than entrusting their lives (and bikes) into the hands of a 12 year old. So they did.

coracle crossing by Billy Barrington

Later in the evening, after crossing back over to Hampi in a slightly more modern boat, they noticed that the river was quite pretty. Quite.

Tired and weary and desperate for a notebook Blindsey dropped in on a little shop. The owner had a nice smile and a far away look in his eyes. Somehow the book became a skirt became a shirt (700 rupees). Ending up in the shop Blindsey were suprised to see a man hunched over a 'Weed World' magazine rolling a cigarette (?). Whilst the tailor went to work adjusting the skirt his magazine absorbed friend began to speak, or mumble incoherently about not being let into England because his English wasn't good enough. Maybe they were right but he was very funny so he should be let in anyway. He passed the cigarette (?) to Billy. The evening tumbled slightly out of view. Nandu, the owner of the shop (tailor caste), told the uneducated Brits Hindu stories as his eyes became redder and redder. Many laughs were had if not all words were understood. Unfortunately, no photographic or audio evidence was taken, it must have slipped their minds......