There we were in the desert of Rajasthan, sitting on a castle rampart, just us and a myriad stars twinkling furiously

I have a knack for spending the most romantic nights in the company of people who I do not necessarily wish to pounce on in the darkness. There we were in the desert of Rajasthan, sitting on a castle rampart, just us and a myriad stars twinkling furiously. There was someone else, actually: a man in a huge red turban, who looked on discreetly and leapt to attention whenever he thought the moment was right.

Down below, my bedroom was on one side of the small circular fort. The curtains were billowing just so out of the window. His room (the non-romantic companion, not the man in the turban) was on the opposite side of the fort. He was whistling, to try and take his mind off the rumblings of my desert-challenged stomach (deeply unromantic).

The man in the turban jumped to attention, offering a bowl of spinach and baked local cottage cheese in one hand and fried desert beans and turban-red onions in the other. I would have liked to eat. Problem: if I ate, I would have to bolt back to my room and miss out on the stars and the evening desert wind. If I starved, my guts would continue to be a loud percussion section for the whistling.

This was Rajasthan, but not the jaded Golden Triangle. It is the Hill Fort at Kesroli, a chubby little fort that pops up out of the flat expanse of dust and weaving camel carts. It is only about three hours drive from Delhi, given that you survive the trip amongst the narcotically-challenged freight drivers who terrorise the Delhi to Jaipur highway. The Hill Fort is the prize for the journey through that Hades of road rage.

Several years ago the fort was bought in a state of collapse by a French art historian, Francis Warziarg, and his Indian partner, Amun Nath. They already owned another, larger Rajasthan property a couple of hours east, at Neemrana.

The Hill Fort is a blend of French and Indian taste. It’s a good match, this marriage of muslin and masala: billowing cottons and antique spice boxes, French marinades and desert vegetables, chilli and Chanel. It is just simple style in the dust, with the maximum use of light and air, in a place that swelters at over 100 degrees F during the summer months.

The food is good and attentively served by the men in their big red turbans. The one weak link is breakfast. If you do not like the Indian version then you get nasty white toast and bright red jam that tastes like bubble gum. Forget breakfast and save up for dinner on the ramparts with the desert wind and someone who you would freely kiss.

(originally published in The Sunday Telegraph March 1999)