Rohet Garh

‘Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun,’ says Mr Smith, as he manoeuvres his lounger into the full shade of a parasol. The colonial era turn of phrase seems fitting, given our surroundings at Rohet Garh, an 18th-century family fort an hour’s drive south of Jodhpur.

The truth is that I’m not the only mad dog basking in the dry desert heat. A handful of other guests are stretched out under a high sun. With a cool, courtyard pool to slide into, it’s hard to resist the temptation, as my skin prickles in the warm air and faint memories of British winter melt away.

To stay here is not only to soak-up the climate, but to travel back in time. When we arrive, Mr Smith and I are whisked through a manicured garden, past strutting peacocks and water fountains, to an open-sided lounge. There, a waiter magics chilled glasses of nimbu pani lemonade from behind a mahogany bar and we collapse into low chairs, as a wicker fan lazily clicks overhead.

It’s impossible to shrug this sense of time travel at Rohet Garh, which was built in 1622. ‘We have our share of architectural peculiarities’ a guest letter in our room coyly admits – in case the tiny doorways, winding staircases and arched entrance big enough to fit an elephant through hadn’t already given the game away.

When sun sets, any semblance of the 21st-century fades away, and the hotel starts to resemble the last days of the Raj. A band pitches-up in the garden, and soon sitar music soars above the clink of ice cubes. Sepia images in the bar which capture Jodhpur’s polo team, hunting parties and stern Victorian portraits no longer seem like staring faces from the distant past, but from a far closer age.

Despite the elegant Edwardian setting, dinner is a joyously relaxed affair – no flourishes and fancy garnishes. Instead, it’s top-notch home cooking. The kind which usually comes from a tip-off about an alleyway dive, rather than something you’d expect from a boutique hotel. The creamy tadka dal has simmered away overnight, rogan josh lamb falls apart at the faintest poke of a fork, and the fresh breads are flecked with char and dripping with ghee.

A black labrador brushes against Mr Smith’s leg. It’s owned by a man who shyly introduces himself as a member of the founding family. When the fort was turned into a boutique hotel, he explains how he moved to Switzerland to study hospitality, before returning home to Rajasthan to run Rohet Garh. We ask if there’s anything we shouldn’t miss. He points to the stables of Marwari horses next door, and reminds us that a village safari is included with our stay.

In all honesty, Mr Smith and I had been a bit reluctant – perhaps it’s the fear of voyeurism, or a lingering whiff of colonialism. The fact that the safari would take place in a cool, white Mahindra Jeep was enough to sway us though, and so it was that we found ourselves hurtling along dust tracks the following afternoon, heading out to nearby villages.

‘First of all, we will go to a Bishnoi settlement,’ says our guide, explaining how the families living there are part of a small religious sect, who are at one with the landscape – not even believing in tree felling, certainly not killing animals. ‘There’s a famous Bollywood actor, Salman Khan, who shot two blackbucks here almost twenty years ago, and he is still running away from the law,’ our guide chuckles.

The jeep ahead of us is ferrying a film crew: ‘It’s almost impossible to take a bad picture in Rajasthan,’ they grin as we pull into the village. We’re introduced to the village elder who poses outside his hut, while gaggles of giggling children scamper round him. There are mounds of drying melon seeds from a recent harvest, a doe-eyed calf which has just been born and, in the next village, a potter who uses a stick to flick a stone wheel into action – building up enough momentum to deftly throw balls of clay into pots and platters.

On the way back to Rohet Garh, the Jeep behind us skids to a halt. The film crew clamber out and spin their cameras to capture the silhouette of a lone farmer cycling into a hazy orange sunset. Yet another winning shot.

Later that evening, Mr Smith and I are reading in our room. With no television in the bedrooms, and only a small patch of WiFi in the garden, there’s complete silence. The bedside lamps throw soft light onto the hand-painted walls and block-print curtains, and it strikes me that even in a dark corner of a bedroom in an old family fort, Rajasthan really is picture perfect.