In India's "Golden Triangle" - FT.com An alternative approach to Delhi, Agra and Jaipur - taking in the Taj Mahal and other key city sights, but staying out in the countryside in order to get a taste of traditional village life Colourful Delhi market ©IStock Photo Breakfast at the Chambal Safari Lodge Bateshwar Cattle Fair, which features lots of livestock, is one of the country's largest ©Caroline Daniel As well as cattle, the fair also features horses, oxen, goats and camels A horse at the fair with an elephant design and other markings on its back The many tents at the fair are spread over several miles A Diwali sweet stall A carnival float in Gangapur The 350-year-old Ramathra fort in Karauli The courtyard of Ramathra Fort A house painted for Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights Infinity pool at Samode Palace, north of Jaipur "You must come to see this!" shouts our naturalist, Gajendra Dagar, as we arrive back at the Chambal Safari Lodge. Several intrepid waiters and a turban-wearing snake specialist troop past hammocks, across the lawn and into the bush. IN Asian and Australian destinations The event that has prompted such excitement is a 6ft-long cobra being attacked by three mongooses. The furry assassins eventually dissect it into three pieces. This is all 50 yards away from our room; it is hard to believe we are only a few hours from the crowds posing on the "Lady Diana" bench at the Taj Mahal. I have come to Chambal, 70km southeast of Agra, to find an alternative way of doing India's "Golden Triangle," the tourist circuit that takes in Delhi, Agra and Jaipur. British-based tour operator Audley Travel has put together an itinerary designed to let visitors see all three, but also to immerse themselves in village life in rural India. After seeing the sights in the cities, guests retreat to hotels in the countryside nearby. After a hectic day in Delhi that had begun with a cycling tour (see below), and the next day spent in Agra, the Chambal Sanctuary lives up to its name. It is a 425km stretch of river that has been under national protection since 1979. The river, a 30-minute drive from the safari lodge, is broad, serene and devoid of people. Although we spot a jungle cat, the real interest is in the water, with 320 species of birds, turtles, the critically endangered gharial (a fish-eating crocodile), and the rare Gangetic dolphin. Two British birdwatchers who share our boat point out kingfishers - a flash of aquamarine feathers - an osprey flying aloft with a fish and a red-crowned roofed turtle with florid stripes on its neck. With the engine off, the only sounds are birdsong and the splash of dolphins. Our trip has fortuitously coincided with the Bateshwar Cattle Fair, which takes place close by and is one of the country's biggest. Dating from 200BC, it starts before Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights, and runs for three weeks. On offer are not only cattle but oxen, goats, camels and, on the morning we visit, horses. It is an epic spectacle - I feel I am walking into the past. Before me is a vast plain, dotted with orange and yellow tents spread over several miles. The scene is hazy from spirals of dust thrown up by horses pawing the ground. There are nearly 25,000, many tethered with ropes, others paraded by men with well-tended moustaches. We are the only tourists, and are soon swaddled by an entourage of the curious and the bored, who stare at us constantly yet benignly. Owners are eager to show off their horses - from white ones with peculiar blue eyes to Afghan stallions. One man attracts a crowd as he leaps on his horse, Ruby, and stands on her back doing bending exercises, then grins contentedly as he hugs her neck. Her bridle says: "I love my horse." There are stalls selling plastic necklaces for cattle and horses for Diwali, when farmers honour their animals by cleaning or painting them. One stall owner shows me how to attach a tinsel-laden jacket to the back of a patient horse. On our way out, we pass an advert for breeding stallions, with images of rabbits to highlight their potency. The owner, eager to show off one horse's virility, makes it rear up violently several times, showing off its ability to stand on its hind legs, and its hefty erect member. Choking on the ensuing dust, I couldn't feel further from the typical tourist trail. As dusk sets in, we head to the nearby Bateshwar temples. There are more than 100 temples in the complex, dedicated to Lord Shiva. They are in a state of decay but are atmospheric and empty of tourists. A Hindu ceremony is under way and our guide encourages us to remove our shoes and join in. Amid burning incense, we joyously smash the brass clangers with childlike glee before heading back to the hotel. Chambal Safari Lodge has 13 rooms set in a 35-acre plantation. As we sit drinking cold beers, I meet the owner, Ram Pratap Singh, who exudes a calm, quiet ambition. He has a keen sense of his local heritage - this has been the main seat of his family since 1472. Even here, he warns, there are signs of change. Rural life is slowly being eroded, he says, as distinct villages become sprawling towns, while land prices soar. "I bought 14 acres for Rs4m [£41,300] three years ago," he says. Now the cost is Rs2.5m per acre. It is driven by Delhi speculators; it's a bubble. The next day is our dullest: an eight-and-a-half hour schlep west by car. The rocky roads, navigated by our driver, Yashpal, jolt us out of any bucolic reverie. Still, there is interest in the rural landscape. I see wild peacocks and women carrying scythes in the fields. Western advertising is completely absent. I watch the build-up to Diwali: porch fronts smeared with fresh mud and painted with white abstract decorations; farmers repainting their houses in bright blues. Every town has stalls selling marigolds and pyramids of sweets. There are surreal sights too. Flagging, seven hours into the journey, we pass a hallucinatory carnival flotilla in Gangapur. One float has a boy on it, wearing a gold crown and curly tail, his lips smeared in red lipstick, being held rigidly aloft in the air. Other floats contain a man in a disturbing cow mask and a long-haired Jesus-like figure in red, carrying a small boy (who seems to be dressed up as Santa) in a purple velvet bowl. The boy Santa waves affably. It is a relief to arrive at the Ramathra Fort in Karauli. Keenly aware of the impact of the roads on her guests, Gitanjali Raj Pal, wife of the owner, defuses any fractiousness by greeting us with a freshly-squeezed lime juice and whisking us up to the ramparts of the 350-year-old fort. The view of the landscape below stretches for miles, dotted with straw houses and tilled green fields. Dinner is sourced from the local farm and served in the courtyard amid the aroma of jasmine. A Hindu ceremony is underway and our guide encourages us to join in. Amid burning incense, we joyously smash the brass clangers We are led to our accommodation - wonderful tents installed inside the walls of the fort. The six tents are beautifully decorated with a duck motif, handwoven rugs and private bathrooms. In the main fort, where some sections have been left abandoned to romantic dereliction and a coat of bougainvillea, there are two vast suites with outdoor baths overlooking the fields. For me, however, the tents have more charm. Early the next morning, the owner, Ravi Raj Pal, offers to take us on a Jeep safari. He is a modern maharaja, with a portly tummy, bushy moustache and commanding manner. His family dates from the 12th century, and his grandfather once lived in the fort. He is the laird of his land, stopping to chat paternalistically with local farmers. He drives us across the Daang valley, an arid landscape which used to be patrolled by tigers and bandits. Now the only inhabitants are lizards and a flock of goats, crammed into a rare patch of shade. We stop to walk to some cave temples next to a waterfall with banyan trees, their roots oozing out of the rock face. Rather than push on to Jaipur, we opt to stay an extra night. Although there is a tour of the local farm on offer, we prefer to lounge on the day beds, cooling off in the Jacuzzi built into the ramparts. The hotel is small and remote enough to create a homely, unoppressive atmosphere. In the evening, there is a boat trip on the lake; an ancient mariner rows us with handmade bamboo oars. We leave at dawn on an easy four-hour journey northwest to Jaipur. The roads improve; shops selling vegetables are replaced by electronics stores. Jaipur seems clean, crowded and commercial. Having never travelled before with tour guides - out of indolence and arrogance - I am impressed by those provided by Audley. In Jaipur, as well as showing us the blockbuster sights - the City Palace and Hawa Mahal - our guide takes us down what looks like an ordinary street. Instead, it is full of quirky success stories: a cartel of shops sells carved sugar, offerings for the gods, another has a monopoly on coloured envelopes for the gems that are the mainstay of the city. Our final stop is Samode Palace, an easy 40km drive north of Jaipur. Our room is the most sumptuous of the trip: a Royal suite, with its own dining area, terrace and outdoor Jacuzzi overlooking the Aravalli mountain range. Compared with the remote romance of Ramathra, it has a far more sophisticated, and more commercial feel. The palace hosts a puppet show for tourists in the courtyard; the puppeteer then proffers his protagonists for sale. Costumed camels have been laid on for a party of French tourists, who, not to be outdone, are dressed up in saris and turbans. The next morning, we walk past a gaggle of tourists preparing for Jeep, camel and horse safaris, and we amble down the cobbled lanes of Samode village. There are splendid havelis (private mansions), with fading frescoes, including a more than century-old depiction of pith helmet-wearing Britons on an early train. Many of the houses are boarded up, their decaying grandeur unloved by absent Delhi owners. We are generously invited into houses to see the aftermath of Diwali. I can hear boisterous children setting off leftover firecrackers. The final journey back to Delhi is along a dull highway punctuated by industrial estates being built. We make good time, yet it makes me wistful for the jolting ride into the remoter parts of Rajasthan. Caroline Daniel is editor of FT Weekend Delhi by bicycle You should not take pictures from the bikes. Strictly no selfies. We haven't lost anyone yet," explains our guide, Priyanka Mehra, of Delhi by Cycle. With that breezy reassurance, we set off on a 13km bicycle tour of Old Delhi. The bikes are bright orange, in honour of the company's Dutch founder, and chunky, with one gear. No helmets are provided. "The bell is your best friend," Mehra adds. I give mine an experimental "brnnng." Our first mission is simply to cross the road. That means counter-intuitively stepping out into a flowing stream of traffic that consists of buses with smelly exhausts, cars, tuk-tuks, other bicycles, running dogs, slow-moving cattle, men pushing unwieldy carts, rickshaws and motorbikes. What could be simpler? There are three Delhi bike tours on offer, all done in the morning before traffic becomes overwhelming. We start at the Turkman Gate and take in areas such as Chandni Chowk and Jama Masjid, the biggest mosque in India. It's an intimate way to explore the city. A cyclist (in blue shirt) negotiates Delhi's busy streets on the tour As we navigate the narrow alleys, my focus narrows to the few feet before me. Because you can't take photographs, visual impressions run deeper. Our first sight is of a man carrying an animal carcass so big that only his feet are visible. There are beautiful moments too: neat school children packed sardine-tight into rickshaws; a goat licking a wall; ornate old doors; the colours and smells of a spice market. We stop to climb up to a rooftop, via a stairwell tiled with images of Hindu gods to discourage men from urinating. On the roof we pause to absorb the misty views of a temple and the Red Fort. Alongside olfactory delights, we cycle through piles of rubbish (some of which are on fire); through the squish of mud and excrement; over lost flip-flops and around open drains. As we draw to a stop, an American cyclist puts a foot down. A rat runs over it. So far, the cycling has been chaotic but easy. You thought that was crazy? The next bit is crazy," Mehra warns us. We turn into a packed street market. I can barely move for people, jammed into a small area amid stalls selling Diwali decorations and garlands of marigolds. It is claustrophobic. I make progress by inches. Heading back on to a main road, my focus shifts to calibrating the inches that prevent a crash. In a car, I was conscious of the drivers" finesse in avoiding vehicles. On a bicycle you are fully engaged with it. I ring my bell randomly and horn sounds surround me. My body is alert to how the traffic self-regulates: cars have priority; bicycles are on the lowest rung. I swerve away from tuk-tuks but aggressively claim priority over cows. As our tour ends, I reflect that for all the chaos, I never once felt unsafe. It is not exactly fun, but it is exhilarating and different. And I'm glad the rat did not scamper over my foot. Details Caroline Daniel was a guest of Audley Travel, (audleytravel.com) which offers tailor-made trips throughout India. A nine-night Golden Triangle trip like the one described would cost from £2,445 per person, including return flights from London to Delhi, private transfers and guides. Bike tours around Delhi (see below) are available at a cost of £30 per person; see delhibycycle.com for details Photographs: Caroline Daniel; IStock