At lunch India needed 238 to win with seven wickets in hand, and it looked like all three results could be possible, especially as Sachin was beginning to look as fluent as he had all series.

The noise when he came in to bat and started scoring some runs was possibly the loudest I have ever heard anywhere or at anytime. I leant forward and tapped the shoulder of the Indian fan sitting in front of me and waved my notepad and pen at him. “What is the name of the new batsman?” I asked him. He looked absolutely horrified. “That is Sachin” he told me, as if he had just met the most ignorant visitor to the sub-continent that he had ever come across. Perhaps he had. Eventually, I realised he was joking.

After lunch England were incredible. They came out and took 7 wickets in rapid succession. India had gone from 75-3 at lunch to 100 all out, and Shaun Udal aged 37 and playing in his just his 4th test had taken four for fourteen. Prior to this match he had taken just three test wickets at an average of 92.23. It was a fantastic thing to witness, like the ending of a modern fairy tale. And the first of the four was the greatest prize of them all; Tendulkar himself, the greatest player of his generation, prodding forward and getting an inside edge to Ian Bell under the helmet.

Yesterday I sat in the stands and listened to other spectators berate and mock a long list of England off-spinners. Today Udal was the unexpected punchline to their joke and it was delivered beautifully.

The day also contained another surprise, the visit of Stephen Fry to the media enclosure, one of my heroes and a huge fan of the game. I was lucky enough to have a brief chat with him, which was delightfully punctuated by the wicket of Dravid. Fry leapt to his feet shouting “He’s got him, he’s got him” at an astonishing volume, before immediately apologising to all those around whose view he had obstructed. A gentleman, and an unexpected end to my tour.

It has been hot. So very hot. Look at the state of me. That’s it. I must lie down. Get help.

And so it was that we (my friend Olly and I) ignored the vacant taxi outside the hotel and walked a hundred yards down the road and hailed another one. We got in and asked to go to the ground. “50 rupees” he said, and so we got out. Really they should use the meter. We hailed another cab, and this one agreed to use the meter.

Five minutes down the road, Olly realised that he had left his ticket in the room, and asked if we go back to the hotel to get it. The driver dutifully performed a sort of W-turn and we returned to the hotel. “Do you need anything from the hotel?” asked Olly, as he got out. “Yes”, I said, “perhaps you could bring down a dunce’s hat for you to wear for the rest of the day.”

As I waited for the fool, our taxi with its open windows parked outside India’s most expensive hotel began to attract a crowd. A girl put her hand through the window, and ordered me to give her money. I said I would give her some when my friend came back, otherwise I’d be handing out money until he came back. The front passenger door opened and another man got in. He called himself a traveller and said that I would also need to give him some money, purely because he was a traveller you see, and that meant that in a way I sort of owed it to him. I told him to wait until Olly returned also, so that the car didn’t fill with other people that it turned out I owed money to.

The man peppered me with questions. What hotel was I staying at? What was my name? What was my friend’s name? I lied for every reply, hoping to fill in the time.

When Olly finally returned I gave the girl and the man a hundred rupees each. The girl immediately called a friend over who appeared at the window immediately. I now had no money left. The cab driver drove off again, but we still had our traveller friend in the front with us; our friend who also turned out to be a little economic with the actualité.

“Where are you going?” he wanted to know. “The ground”, we told him. And where was he going. Also to the ground, because our taxi driver turned out not to know where it was, and so our traveller friend was helpfully going to navigate for us, and all we had to do was remunerate him a little further. It sounded like an excellent deal, although he was already earning more than the cab driver who had had nothing to do with any of the discussions up until this point.

Suddenly they were deep in discussion. The traveller turned round and asked us how many rupees to the pound there are. “I don’t know” I lied. “Seventy five” he said, “and so what is two pounds?” I told him it would be one hundred and fifty. “So what would four pounds be?” Three hundred. “Yes”, he said, “that is how much the driver says this journey will cost you”. We told him that that was not going to happen, and they accepted this philosophically. (They were from the shruggist school, so they just shrugged).

“I was a New York taxi driver for two years” the traveller told us, although without specifying in which life. I asked him if he had ever driven to the Statue Of Liberty. “Are you crazy?” he asked. “I was there for two years. I must have driven to it about a million times”. I found it delightful that even within the context of a lie he found room for exaggeration. “New York taxi drivers must be magical” I said. “Oh we were” he said. “Not like the ones here in Mumbai. They just try and rip everybody off!”. He laughed loudly at this. Olly and I laughed loudly at this. It was explained to the cab driver and he also laughed loudly.

So there we all were, strangers laughing together about lies we had told each other. A traveller who had never been anywhere was giving directions to a man who already knew the way.

Acording to the meter and the conversion chart we owed fifty rupees. The whole journey did in fact cost three hundred rupees once we had paid our fare, the waiting charge, travellers tips and money that other people deserved more. The cab driver had in fact been spot on in his prediction. And the man opposite me at breakfast had been the biggest liar of all.

The stadium, with its steeply tiered rows of wooden benches, is also by far the busiest of the Test venues. It was packed today, and not just with Indian fans. There are said to be about 6000 English supporters who have made the trip, swelling the numbers of the Barmy Army.

The Barmy Army have already been busy in Mumbai. Prior to the Test they held a cricket match and also had a sponsored one mile run through the city streets, all to raise money for Sport Relief.

They’ve also been in fine voice and have brought with them a brass band, who let rip every now and then, especially to signify bowling changes. When Freddie Flintoff comes on they play Meet The Flintstones. Rather more whimsically, Yorkshire man Matthew Hoggard is greeted with the theme from Last Of The Summer Wine.

Not every player has his own theme yet, but I’m sure they all will have by the end of the Test. We’ve been discussing possibilities in my area of the Stand. Shaun Udal’s nickname is Shaggy so perhaps the theme from Scooby Doo might be the trick although someone suggested, perhaps a little unkindly, that his bowling could be accompanied by Pulp’s Help The Aged. It would be a little harsh as Udal probably isn’t even as old as Jarvis Cocker.

Someone working particularly hard in this match is Ian Blackwell, the twelfth man. he seems to be getting more exercise than in the match he played in. Yesterday he had to sprint on and off the field practically every over to bring our batsmen fresh gloves, a towel to mop their brows with or a drink. By tea time he looked knackered, and in the last half hour he was replaced by Matt Prior. It must be hot if the twelfth man needs a replacement. Either that or he’d picked up an injury and was receiving physio.

It is also home to Tara, a fifty year old elephant with whom nearly every visitor to the camp falls in love. In the afternoons we would follow Tara down to the river where she and her Mahout would play together before she would lie down on one side and a crowd of us would gather round and help scrub her skin with stones.

At the slightest sign of movement we would leap back and give her space to get up and then lie down again on her other side. I leapt back particularly far at these points, much to the derision of Tom, a volunteer at the camp. She weighs two tonnes, for goodness sake, but clearly in the wild it doesn’t do to show your fear.

After being scrubbed Tara would like to invest a little time blowing water at us all as we feebly attempted to splash her back. It seems that no matter how hard you try, you cannot beat an elephant in a water fight.

We were there for three nights and in that time saw an astonishing array of animals; langurs, samba, peacocks, wild boar, jungle cockerels, jackals, spotted deer, barking deer, barasingha, serpent eagles, kingfishers, and Indian bison.

But the highlight of the visit was our final morning. It was the third safari that we had ventured out on with our guides and naturalists Neil and Sidat. At about half seven we discovered that a tiger had been seen making a kill by a group of mahouts on their elephants, and so we set off to find it as quickly as possible.

There are 126 tigers in Khana national park, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that you will see one whenever you go out. No guest at the camp had seen one since we had been there, but at about half eight we met up with the mahouts and we climbed from the jeeps onto the elephants’ saddles so that they could lead us from the tracks and through the undergrowth. There we came across the tiger.

It was an astonishing sight. Not only was he an unbelievable size but he also looked so astonishingly calm and relaxed as he dozed in the sun. But then, what does a tiger have to worry about? Poaching and extinction in the wild, but in a national park he has no such fears. Just like Tara, he plays the camera beautifully.

Later in the morning we came across him again, when he crossed the track about two jeeps in front of us. A moving tiger is a different proposition altogether, and there was a real sense of fear when he appeared to be heading straight towards us. In the end, he changed his mind and headed off into the undergrowth and of sight to be a King in private, and leaving about ten tourists desperately hoping that their cameras had been working properly.

Thankfully they were. That would have been really annoying.

To do this I first had to fly to Nagpur again on an 05:55 flight. I had only had three hours sleep and had had to get up disgustingly early in order to wait for the plane that was delayed and turned out to be going via Raipur.

The man sat next to me on the plane was an Indian civil servant and was great fun, and explained to me the role that the English language plays in India – it is basically only used when people are giving instructions or when they are angry. He was also an enormous fan of Kenneth Williams, and indeed of all the stars of the Carry On films, and explained to me his favourite joke from Carry On Camping. It was slightly complicated and I got lost somewhere in the middle of it but it had something to do with Barbara Windsor and another girl trying to put up a tent with the help of two men and it all leading to some sort of horrendous sexual misunderstanding. Talking of which, he also told me I was handsome.

At Nagpur my luggage disappeared while I was in the loo, and I eventually tracked it down in a far flung office where a man told me that I needed to give him my boarding card to prove that the luggage was mine, but I could no longer find it. I showed him that the name on my passport matched the name on the luggage but he told me this was not good enough. I let a look of profound frustration flash across my face and he suddenly shrugged and relented, and handed me my suitcase with a “what’s a bit of luggage between friends anyway?” expression on his face.

Outside I found my driver, who was to drive me for the four hour journey to Kipling Camp. “How are you?” he asked. “Tired”, I told him. “Don’t worry, you can have a good sleep now” he told me, as he braked suddenly and frantically beeped the horn.

An hour outside Nagpur, I finally managed to fall asleep, but was awoken by the driver shouting. I looked up to see a lorry heading straight towards us as rounded a corner whilst overtaking a cart being pulled by a cow. I braced for impact, but my driver skilfully swerved off the road to let the lorry just squeeze past us, before he steered us to the right again and back onto the tarmac all in one smooth action. It was incredible stuff. He may even, although I could be wrong about this, have put his foot on the brake for a moment.

I was wide awake for the rest of the journey.

I also had to wait for my travel agent, Barry, to confirm the details of my journey and introduce me to the man driving me to the station. “You’ve got the same driver we used yesterday” he told me, “he hit a motorbike, actually, so he might drive a bit slower than usual”. Comforting words.

Embarrassingly, it was only at Chandigarh station that I was left entirely to my own devices for the first time on the trip. Travelling with the press corps we go around as a large group, and every time we pass through a gateway or check-in, a man appears with a little sign telling us where to go. Here I was all alone, getting in everybody’s way as I wheeled my suitcase around trying to find a sign whose instructions I could understand, or someone that might help. In the end I just allowed myself to be swept up in the general mayhem and seeing where it led me, a technique that I have found myself using with surprising success on this trip.

Once I got into the right carriage and found my seat I realised that there was no space for my luggage, but about ten other passengers got up and all moved theirs along to make space for mine. I can’t imagine that happening on GNER. Nor, for that matter, could I imagine the stranger sitting next to me explaining their conversion to Christianity in quite such vivid and excited terms. Hey ho.

At one stop a huge number of photographers got on and crammed into the next carriage, all snapping away furiously at something or someone. When the scrum had calmed down and they had all got off I asked a passing passenger what the excitement was. It turned out that Kumble and Dravid were travelling on the train, and were happy to pose for photographs with any old idiot, so I trotted through to get a picture taken with them.

They couldn’t have been nicer. I congratulated Kumble on his 500th Test wicket and chatted briefly with Dravid about Scotland, where he played two summers ago. I then sat down with them and had a photo taken. Rather cleverly, you will notice, I have somehow made it look as if they had asked to have their photo taken with me.

They were clearly both thrilled.

Olly has been obsessed with elephants since he was in an incubator it would seem, but Tara has become a source of particular fascination for him, and our visit seems to be taking on the feel of a pilgrimage. It’s taken a great deal of planning to organise the trip, although not by me. I’ve left all the graft to Olly and my travel agent, Barry. We’re travelling separately and both have to get planes, trains and lengthy lifts along what promise to be rather bumpy roads.

Once we arrive and I’ve left Olly and Tara alone together for a few minutes, we are going to spend three days looking for tigers, leopards and the like. I’m sure Olly said something to me about swimming with elephants and this sounded like fun. I was talking about it briefly with David Gower who is very keen on conservation and first visited Kipling Camp twenty five years ago. I said I was particularly looking forward to the bit where I’d get to swim with elephants. “They’re not dolphins” he said.

It turns out that what I can actually expect to do is have a bath with an elephant. All I insist is that it gets the end with the taps.

Olly has been obsessed with elephants since he was in an incubator it would seem, but Tara has become a source of particular fascination for him, and our visit seems to be taking on the feel of a pilgrimage. It’s taken a great deal of planning to organise the trip, although not by me. I’ve left all the graft to Olly and my travel agent, Barry. We’re travelling separately and both have to get planes, trains and lengthy lifts along what promise to be rather bumpy roads.

Once we arrive and I’ve left Olly and Tara alone together for a few minutes, we are going to spend three days looking for tigers, leopards and the like. I’m sure Olly said something to me about swimming with elephants and this sounded like fun. I was talking about it briefly with David Gower who is very keen on conservation and first visited Kipling Camp twenty five years ago. I said I was particularly looking forward to the bit where I’d get to swim with elephants. “They’re not dolphins” he said.

It turns out that what I can actually expect to do is have a bath with an elephant. All I insist is that it gets the end with the taps.

I am not alone in this view. A number of the commentators, including Dean Jones and Nasser Hussein, have been mentioning it on air. Whatever I’ve picked up must have come from another source, otherwise Dean and co would be back at their hotels sweating and alone, and not on air endorsing the delights of the PCA lunches to a considerable audience of people that don’t have access to them.

Television has been my usual vantage point for cricket over the last ten years, but it’s been a little odd going back to viewing it that way after just a few days with the press corps. There you see all the commentators and queue up with them for coffee and biscuits, but on television you actually get to hear them, and in my sickened sate I’ve found it comforting to return to this more familiar relationship. The Sky boys have all been in good voice, although someone whose commentary I’ve not experienced before is Dean Jones, who amuses me an enormous amount. Yesterday he did a five minute piece to camera on the subject of cricket bats. He opened it with the remark “Personally I reckon that over the years bats have got better by about 30 to 40 percent”, which sounds to me like a bit of a guess, but he did it with the necessary conviction to make it sound like hard scientific fact.

He also said “Back in Australia 70 percent of bats are bought for people by their mums. Well it’s really worth getting your dad’s help as well”. These are the sort of insights into the game that I’ve been crying out for ever since I first became interested in cricket.

When he brings out The Dean Jones Book Of Bumper Cricketing Facts I’m definitely going to ask my Mum to buy it for me, although I appreciate that it will be worth getting my Dad’s help as well

I went for a walk near the hotel when we first arrived and I found it very pleasant place to amble and shop, despite the fact that there are more things buzzing around and biting you than would be considered ideal.

Along the pavements people sit in groups chatting and smoking together, and every few yards there is a little stove on which sweet-looking coffee might be bubbling away, or samosas being kept hot.

Chandigarh is a planned city, like Milton Keyes or Stevenage, and the whole thing operates on a grid system. There are a huge number of shops in the area around the hotel and not just on the ground floor. All of the buildings are a uniform three storeys high and there are shops on each level. Bizarrely, most of the shops are either mobile phone stores or places to go and have your photos developed, although quite what everyone is taking so many photos of is anybody’s guess. Maybe they take photos of their mobile phones.

There’s also a chain of fashion stores called “Virus Clothing”. This is a great name for a shop that goes on to be a chain. When then they first started opening a few more of them I bet some of the local wags probably said “Ah. Virus seems to be spreading”. Or maybe not. I’ve no whether the pun works in Hindi or any of the seventeen other languages recognised by the constitution. I suppose all over the world there must be millions of puns that go completely unnoticed for this very reason. Maybe that could be a quest for someone; to travel the world looking for and rescuing al puns that would otherwise be wasted.

At the start of the second Test he needed just four wickets to reach the milestone, but he was made to wait for them by the weather, England’s modest 300 taking until after lunch on the third day. On the first day he bowled Bell with one that went straight on, on the second day he bowled Collingwood with a ball that really bounced and turned and then yesterday it finally all happened at once after lunch. He bowled Geraint Jones off an inside edge that trickled back onto his stumps, and then trapped Steve Harmison LBW first ball to take his 500th. The crowd rose as one to salute him. Two balls later Panesar edged one to 1st slip and Kumble had taken five wickets in the innings.

I met Kumble once. It was 1995 and he was playing with Northants for a season. My friend Tom Harrison and I had gone to watch them play Middlesex at their second eleven ground in Uxbridge. We watched the game for three days, and would hang around near the pavilion during the intervals to get autographs. On the third day we bumped into Kumble and asked him for his. He signed very carefully and slowly, and thus left a silence that I felt needed filling. I had no idea why I thought it might be a good thing to say to him, but I eventually opted for “I’ve come all the way from Northamptonshire for this”. This probably sounded like a sort of complaint – the kind of thing you might say if you’d gone to Alton Towers to find out that it was closed. Anil Kumble looked at me with a confused look, signed Tom’s book and then headed off to the pavilion.

“Why did you say that?” asked Tom. “I don’t know”, I replied, “what do you reckon he was thinking?”

Tom thought for a bit and then said “He was probably thinking ‘And I’ve come all the bloody way from India’”.

I’m glad that I’ve have finally reciprocated.

I have travelled a considerable distance to watch England play India and the only thing I could get a good view of from my designated seat was the television, which was showing New Zealand versus the West Indies.

The situation was made more bizarre by the fact that Test Match Special had encountered some sort of technical difficulties in their own box which meant that they had to broadcast from the front of ours. When I arrived Sir Geoffrey and Mike Selvey were on air but there was too much noise between me and them and so I could neither see the cricket that they were describing nor hear their descriptions of it.

Next to me was sat Five Live’s Kevin Howells who had been forced by these circumstances to do his regular updates via his mobile. He was just relating the dismissal of Ian Bell to their listeners when a well-timed tannoy next to him suddenly boomed out the statistics of Bell’s innings so loudly that most of us dived for cover. Kevin, however, responded by being his usual professional self - only louder.

Some of us realised that we were in a prime position to interrupt all of his future broadcasts. I was going to wait until he’d started and then bellow “Would the owner of a blue Datsun Y-Reg please make them self known to the club secretary”, but luckily the technical issues were soon sorted and Kevin was able to return to the safer surroundings of the commentary position.

P.S. In a paper I read this morning there was a column written by Sir Geoffrey Boycott which delighted me greatly. It was subtitled “Yorkshire Pudding” and was accompanied by a photo of Greg Chappell.

From that you might construe from that we are not necessarily a particularly adventurous group, and you would probably be right. But then people are here to work, not on holiday. After long days spent in the cramped environs of the press box making copious detailed notes and competing in elaborate cricketing trivia jousts with colleagues and competitors, it is unsurprising that peoples’ collective curiosity is somewhat dulled by the end of a day’s play.

Or it was in Nagpur. Here, the end of the day’s play has tended to be quite early owing to adverse weather and people’s sense of curiosity is pondering the question “when is it going to stop raining?” and trying to find out where to go in Chandigarh on a rainy day. Delhi, possibly.

Here we have a considerable choice of cuisine just in the hotel. There’s Punjabi, Oriental and, down in the basement, an Italian restaurant that could be practically anywhere in the world with the possible exception of Italy. The food there is great although the music is a little loud and there only seems to be about seven songs on the CD they have permanently on shuffle, including cover versions of Meat Loaf’s “I will do anything for love but I won’t do that” and Elton John’s “Your song”.

I now know both of those songs extremely well, although not as well as I know “love lift us up where we belong” which yesterday was played three times in the time it took me to consume a minestrone.

In the Lonely Planet guide to India they recommend nine different restaurants in Chandigarh compared to just one in Nagpur. Despite that we had a choice of two in our hotel there. One was up on the roof - or the fourth floor as it was called - and was really very good, although it offered no protection from the elements or insects. When it rained puddles developed on the landing of the third floor, so I’ve no idea how soaking the restaurant must have been.

The other was downstairs and was drier, but it was far too confined a space for there to be a nightly live band whose efforts were passed through two enormous amplifiers. The night I was in there Ian Botham was sat right next to one of them and looked a little pained, not least during their seven minute version of “Happy Birthday”, which may well be something of a record. I’m not saying that they weren’t talented, it’s just that they were deafening. The keyboardist was particularly impressive, managing to play all the notes with one hand whilst sending text messages with the other. They were probably little notes to his friends saying “You’ll never guess whose ear drums I’ve just perforated”.

Andrew has been incredibly helpful, despite the chaos in which he has been forced to operate in since England’s arrival here. He spent a lot of the match in Nagpur sitting next to me in the press box and we chatted about a number of things, including the fact that the crowds at cricket matches here have a frequent tendency to make sudden and enormous amounts of noise at moments when nothing is actually happening. It certainly makes the rest of us look up.

He told me that it caused a lot of confusion in the pavilion as well, where people were continually running back from the lavatory thinking that a wicket had fallen. One member of the coaching staff was only gone five minutes and came sprinting back thinking that England had lost four wickets whilst he’d been in there. In fact they had been having a drinks break.

As I’m hoping to file the occasional story that will be of interest to the Western Mail I have been desperately attempting to find as many Welsh angles as possible, which has become rather difficult since the sudden and unfortunate departure of Simon Jones. These means that I have been pestering Andrew by regularly asking him things like “Does Kevin Pietersen have any Welsh relatives?” Someone else pointed out that he hardly has any English ones. He’s been very patient about it, although a few days ago he told me about a quiz night that the team had had. “And who won?” I asked excitedly. “No-one Welsh” was all he would tell me.