Don Curry spends the night at the Maharaja's

Don Curry likes to stay in historic buildings. Perhaps this is because the house he now lives in could be considered his grandchild in a way - in terms of age. Houses that have experienced history and still breathe today have a special flair for him. Their rooms are usually not styled according to practical aspects, like modern chain hotels, some of them creak, maybe look a bit faded and old-fashioned - but they have character, charm, personality.

The Hilton Hill Resort in Yercaud was the exact opposite of all this: it had neither character nor style, it could best be described as an overnight factory - and it was surprisingly annoying. Since today's schedule included only a few activities and a relatively short distance, Don Curry had arranged to meet Prince at 10:00 am and accordingly turned off the alarm clock. Finally a chance to sleep in! At 7:30 am, the phone next to his bed rang: he was asked if he wanted tea or coffee. "Coffee," Don Curry replied sleepily. 15 minutes later, the doorbell rang. A young man brought him coffee. Well, at least one service of the hotel, thought Don Curry still friendly, until the young man demanded 25 rupees: about €0.35. At 8:30 am, his phone rang again: when did he want to come for breakfast. Maybe, said Don Curry, maybe not. He had imagined this sleep-in to be much more relaxed. At 9:45 am, he checked out, with the young coffee pusher expressing his horror that he hadn't even had breakfast yet...

Don Curry decided to compensate for the destructive emptiness that the non-existent hotel ambiance had left in his aesthetic perception with some landscape impressions around Yercaud, nothing more was possible here anyway. First, Prince drove to Pagoda Point, which offers wide views of the surroundings.

Very similar to the next destination: Suicide Point - if you wanted to jump off a cliff, the last seconds should at least be filled with magnificent landscape impressions. Don Curry limited himself to looking, not jumping, after all, he still wanted to go to the Botanical Garden afterwards.

This destination turned out to be tricky. Google Maps provided clear directions as always; but at the end point, there was absolutely no Botanical Garden. The locals Prince asked all knew the Botanical Garden, but pointed in completely different directions. So Don Curry decided to aim for a different destination first, the Shevaroy Temple on the highest mountain of the Shevaroy Hills near Yercaud. The temple was actually a dark narrow cave with an attached anteroom. Only in a stooped position could Don Curry enter it. Since the Hindu priest had time, he invited him to the sanctuary, asked for a donation, and gave Don Curry an orange blessing dot.

After a brief, wide-ranging view from the viewpoint near the temple, the "Botanical Garden" project started again. At first, it seemed certain that Don Curry and Prince would have to return to the town of Yercaud. But as soon as they reached the road towards Yercaud, a inconspicuous entrance gate to the Botanical Garden appeared on the left side. Which tourist would ever find it? Yet, with over 25,000 orchids, it is one of the most important in India. Don Curry actually found the orchids, although only three of them were blooming. Early February is probably not the best time for botanical gardens, even in India.

A bit disappointed, Don Curry returned to the car, only to experience an even greater disappointment. Prince informed him that there were no more tickets available for tomorrow morning's planned train ride. Three months ago, Don Curry had informed his Indian travel agency of this item on the itinerary with the exact departure time in Mettupalayam, and one week ago, he had reminded Prince, who had immediately checked with the headquarters. So now this result! Prince could see Don Curry's annoyance so clearly that he called Mr. Benny in Cochin and then in Delhi and vividly described the customer's displeasure. 30 minutes later, Mr. Benny had obtained a ticket for the morning train, but in the opposite direction: from Ooty to Mettupalayam. So the plans for today and tomorrow had to be abruptly changed. Because suddenly an overnight stay in Ooty was necessary, no longer in Mettupalayam - and the way to Ooty took at least two hours longer. Accordingly, Prince now had to start off, and the cozy day of rest turned into a hectic day of driving: serpentines downhill from Yercaud and three hours later serpentines uphill to Ooty, which is located at over 2200 m above sea level.

Don Curry had chosen a very special accommodation for this British hill resort, where during the time of the Empire, the entire high society of South India would come together in the summer months: the former summer palace of the Maharajas of Mysore, a building over 150 years old with externally discreet but splendid furnishings, but internally expressing without restraint the significance of its former owners. However, it did not give the impression of cold ostentation, but rather that of a familiar, high and noble second residence - a 120 m long summer cottage in the countryside, so to speak. 

From the individually furnished rooms, Don Curry chose a junior suite that was still somewhat reasonably priced, and now he could reside for one night in a room that was four meters high, painted a vibrant green, and adorned with large golden crests. Two chambermaids prepared the room for him, made the bed, provided an extra thick blanket, and turned on the small fan heater, because since the Maharaja family only visited in the summer, no one had thought of a heater.

Don Curry quickly realized that he was the only guest in the palace. He only had to share it with the lavish staff. The doorbell rang, and a servant politely asked what the gentleman would like to drink for dinner. He had to buy alcoholic beverages in town first. Don Curry ordered a beer and a small bottle of rum, and specified that he wished to dine at 8:00 pm. The alcohol servant thanked him for the opportunity to fulfill this order and assured him that his culinary wishes would be promptly fulfilled.

Meanwhile, Don Curry intended to explore the estate. Countless photos of the Maharaja family hung in the corridors, giving Don Curry the impression that he was a private guest of this historically significant family. In the garden behind the palace, finely distributed whitewashed Victorian iron chairs dreamed of the next tea party. Under tall cedars, Don Curry absorbed the timeless magic of a sunset over the Nilgiri Mountains. The present faded away, the significance of the current century became meaningless. Don Curry was, is, will be - why?

With an appropriate delay, Don Curry finally arrived in the dining room, the former ballroom of the palace: a towering room nearly 10 m high, with such understated splendor that no one would have dared to ask for a price tag. Above the two portals to the hall were two mighty galleries, one for the female members of the Maharaja's family, the other for the royal court orchestra. Much to his regret, both galleries remained empty, and the around 120 other chairs at the remaining 29 tables were not used either. Only Don Curry breathed new life into the former scene of lavish parties - but only as a diner.

The staff also let the appropriate time pass in which the guest carefully intended to choose a suitable place to sit, and then in a coordinated dramaturgy, they made their appearance: first the headwaiter with the menu, then the water bearer, then the alcohol servant with the anticipated beer, followed by the headwaiter again to take the order, which he repeated twice conscientiously to ensure that he had not missed any possible request from the guest. From the extensive menu, Don Curry had ordered a mulligatawny soup and a lamb curry (boneless) with - according to the menu - Rissi Bissi, presumably Risi bisi. Devotedly, the headwaiter thanked him for the opportunity to serve this order and assured him that his culinary wishes would be promptly fulfilled.

Another servant, possibly the water bearer, soon served the steaming soup, while the bread servant presented two tiny rolls on a separate plate. Don Curry very much enjoyed this typical result of British-Indian coexistence, although genuine Britons would probably have consumed only porridge for three days after this dominant spiciness, in order to revive their taste buds. The boneless mutton curry also demonstrated the exquisite seasoning skills of the chef, but consisted exclusively of lamb bones with a little meat on them. The headwaiter turned pale when he realized that the guest had only nibbled on the meat. Although Don Curry assured him that the curry sauce and the Risi bisi were excellent, the service master could not let this humiliation stand. He offered Don Curry a complimentary dessert, and when the guest ordered a coffee to go with it, that too proved to be priceless - and not worthy of payment.

Nevertheless, completely satisfied, Don Curry returned to his green chamber. His smartphone had received the train ticket by email: the train that Mr. Benny had promised to leave for Mettupalayam in the early morning was leaving exactly at 2:00 pm. Don Curry once again had to change the day's plans. And he thought of a bygone era in which time and money played absolutely no role for Maharajas & Co...