I paid him a visit. He resides in Old Goa, the haunting remnants of the former capital, abandoned in the 17th century because of malaria. Ensconced in the great Basilica of Bom Jesus, in an elaborate tomb donated by the last of the Medicis, Francis is taken out for public display every 10 years amid hysterical scenes that would not be out of place in medieval Rome.

“You have just missed him,” the guide shrugged.

“They put him back last week. You will have to wait until 2015.”

“Did he lose any toes?” I asked.

The good saint has lost a few body parts. In 1614 his right arm was dispatched to visit the Pope, where it allegedly wrote its name on a pile of papers. His left hand went to Japan; his intestines to Southeast Asia; and the Perreira Braganzas are quite proud of their fingernail.

But toes have been a fatal attraction. In 1634 a Portuguese noblewoman, presumably deranged by devotion, bit off the little toe of St Francis’s right foot. She was found out by the trail of blood that led to her house. And in 1995, a devotee bit off the little toe of his left foot. She smuggled it out of the church in her mouth. She was only apprehended when she removed it in the queue for the ferry.

Happy in Goa, the Portuguese took their time leaving, lingering here in colonial lassitude until 1961. A few years later, the hippies arrived, on the overland trail to Kathmandu. They too were seduced by susegad, a vibe so akin to their own sensibilities that Goa might have been invented for them. A hammock, a good lady, a spliff and a badly tuned guitar were all they required.

For a time they had the beaches of Goa to themselves. But eventually word got out. Artists came for the marine light and the cheap accommodation; backpackers arrived; ravers checked in for full-moon parties, and finally tourists turned up. The word on the traveller’s street was that Goa had been spoilt.

But Goa is only spoilt in the places everyone goes to. Winding through the coconut groves on that road south to Palolem, I couldn’t see the problem. If this was spoilt, I don’t know what they’d call Ko Samui or most of the Caribbean.

I was following the coast of south Goa, where the beach runs for miles, most of it surprisingly empty. On this stretch, Colva is the only spot where too much development has tarnished the paradise — and even there, you can rent a bicycle and ride north or south along the hard sand at the water’s edge to whichever beach-bum ambience suits your mood.

Continued on page 2

()

Times recommends

• 'New York has lost its edge'
• The UK and Ireland's 25 best Christmas events
• Chalet Chef 2010: the winners