How did I end up driving from Goa to Bangalore by road?  I mostly write about walks and hikes – so this journey was a change. I just got furious with the irrationally high airfares – the luxury car with a/c and a driver was less than half the cost of the airfare. And it was too far to walk.
Time wise, we need to be at the airport two hours ahead of time, so must leave 1 hour before. And on arrival it takes us at least an hour to get home, plus one hour flight time..so thats five hours, The road trip took us 13 hours, 12 hours driving time, the extra hour was for stops.

If you think road trips are just about getting from point A to B, then you’ve never driven from Goa to Bangalore in a car that thinks it’s competing in Formula One. I certainly hadn’t planned this journey. But sometimes, the best adventures are the ones that sneak up on you, turning hesitation into exhilaration and transforming a long drive into an unforgettable odyssey. Our driver was an expert – lots of Tetris driving between slow trucks in the slow lane. I never thought that I’d see speeds of 120kms on an Indian highway.

The Dawn of the Journey: Goa in the Mist

We left Goa in the early, misty morning, trading the salty sea air for the cool embrace of the Western Ghats. The world outside was a dreamy haze—wisps of fog curled around the trees, softening the landscape into a scene straight out of a forgotten tale. The mandatory stray cow stood guard in the middle of the road, reluctantly aside at our approach.

As we crossed the Mandovi, the first light of dawn shimmered on the Mandovi River, a gold path on the water pointing us to the west where the river met the Arabian Sea. Somewhere in the distance, a lonely fishing boat made its way down the river.

We turned left at the end of the bridge, leaving Panjim and the Arabian Sea behind, and headed down the coastal road towards the mountains.In the early morning mist, the red roofs and church towers peeked above the mist. And on the roadsides, the sleepy pi-dogs shook themselves awake, ready to bark and chase motorists in fruitless pursuits. The new highway whipped us past wetlands and mangroves, and the coastlands receded as we climbed into the low green hills of the western ghats.

Into the Ghats

Then came the foothills, threading their way through the sparse yellowing forests, looking back we can see the iconic Goan coast recede. The driver grumbles about the seemingly endless police checkpoints, and warns us not to carry “bottles”. Bottle of liquor that is, Goa’s carefree attitude and policies about drinking are not reflected by governments across the border. We climb higher, passing some groaning heavy laden trucks, and watching carefully at the many twists and turns.

As we climb higher, the forests thicken and turn green, and we are hopeful for animal sightings, given the many signs as we enter the last forest reserve of Goa.

At a grubby village at the top, we are stopped by a pole across the road and the mandatory check for liquor. Ahead we can see roadworks for the way going down towards Karnataka. But all is clear, and the guard pulls up the pole and waves us through.

Our driver takes a sharp left and stops, at a roadside teashop, where we all get out. The tension of the possibility of the police checks and ghat road may have been too much for our driver.

Stopping for Tea

Naturally we have to stop for tea – though I have coffee. This is Karnataka after all, and the cafe is busy is other travellers, young and old, on cars, and on motorbikes.

It’s set dosa for me, a light and small meal, but tasty and not greasy.

It’s also time for the mandatory toilet break – following my rule of using the toilet whenever you can, as you never never know when you will be next able to go. There are a few cafes here at the top of the ghats, of all denominations,

The Secret Forest Road

After a short break for tea and snacks, we head back to the car, and the driver turns away from the highway that is loud with earthmovers and Men at Work signs, and heads down a quiet forest path, that winds about between avenues of green trees. This is a forest only road, originally it was the road, but the construction of the highway has diverted traffic onto the busy motorway.

Of course there are Cows

The roads are empty except for the occasional unbothered herd of cows saunter out across the road. The cow herd is resting in a wooden shack by the side of the road, and he ignores us, as the cows meander across the road. We’re now at the top of the ghats and the rolling edges of the Deccan plateau reveal thatched huts and terraced fields still golden with the harvest.

A stop at a railway crossing led to a surprise encounter—a chance chat with the railway guard, who spent his long, slow days in a tiny guardhouse in the wilderness, poring over books, preparing for his school certificate exams while waiting for trains to thunder past.

Stopping for Trains

What, there is actually traffic stalled ahead – a car and a truck, and us. And there it is, the iconic sight and sound of an Indian childhood, a level crossing – here the road crossed a railway line, with a gate that can be closed, and a lone guard in the middle of the forest.

A stop at a railway crossing led to a surprise encounter—a chance chat with the railway guard, who spent his long, slow days in a tiny guardhouse in the wilderness, poring over books, preparing for his school certificate exams while waiting for trains to thunder past. He has a 12 hour shift, and lives in the next town, which he gets to on his bicycle. I sit and chat with him in the warm sunlight, and wait for the trains, one up from Castle Rock, chugging slowly as its hauling goods up from the sea, over the ghats and onwards to fuel the industries of India.

Castle Rock is near where you can see the waterfalls of DoodhSagar. Thats a trip for another day for me.

We have the double treat of two trains crossing each other on parallel tracks, and double the excitement and noise for us. And the driver waves to me. Ok, I was frantically waving. A hundred years ago that driver may have been a relative.

Into the Heart of the Deccan

As we climbed onto the high fields of the Deccan Plateau, the landscape stretched wide, golden, and endless. The thick forests of the Ghats gave way to vast open fields of corn and sugarcane, dotted with lone trees that stood like sentinels against the brightening sky. And then the increasing urbanisation as a shepherd led his goats across the road, their bells jingling in an offbeat rhythm, oblivious to the urgency of highway traffic.

Windmills

Then, out of nowhere, a futuristic sight—windmills on the hills near Chitradurga. They turned lazily, white blades slicing through the sky, an almost meditative presence amidst the earthiness of rural Karnataka. I hadn’t expected to see them, and maybe that’s why they felt so magical. But then there was also the devastation of quarrying – with whole granite hills savaged into rubble. 

The Highway Feast

Once upon a time when we drove through these areas, the only places to eat were tiny teashops and  rather grubby food stalls in the villages or towns. Heading into town meant finding a good Udupi restaurant to eat South Indian food. After driving through the food wastelands of Central India, this was a delight. But now the highway through Karnataka is a feast—literally.

• Punjabi dhabas served tandoori rotis straight from the clay oven with smoky dal.
• Udipi cafes ladled out crisp dosas with coconut chutney, accompanied by piping-hot filter coffee that tasted like nostalgia.
• Andhra restaurants tempted with spicy gongura curries, making us sweat happily as we ate.

Food stalls squatted next to posh chain restaurants, offering everything from samosas to sizzling kebabs. The contrast was both amusing and comforting—India in its full, glorious contradiction.

At each toll gate—and there were too many to count—vendors rushed to our windows, holding out farm-fresh treasures:

• Guavas, cut and sprinkled with salt
• Green gram still on the stalk
• Vegetables straight from the earth, sold faster than any supermarket could dream of

And then, in a restaurant perched along the highway, a delightful oddity—cheese toast smothered with diced onions, peppers, and a spice mix that tingled on the tongue. An unexpected but welcome detour from the usual highway fare.

The Final Stretch: Bangalore Beckons

As we neared Tumkur, the real world caught up with us. The highway narrowed, and the traffic thickened with trucks, cars, and bikes all jostling for space. The air grew warmer, tinged with the metallic scent of the city. But the excitement wasn’t over yet.

Bangalore welcomed us with its elevated metro lines, soaring high above the streets like a promise of the future. Each new station looked sleek and modern, a stark contrast to the old-world temples and tiny chai stalls tucked into street corners below. The city was growing upwards, but its roots were still firmly planted in the past.

Finally, we turned off into Bangalore’s leafy suburbs, where our 13-hour odyssey came to an end. The trees arched overhead, a gentle, green reminder that some things don’t change, no matter how fast the world around them does.

I stepped out of the car, stretched, and smiled. The trip had been fast, but the memories would linger. After all, this wasn’t just a journey—it was a rediscovery. Of India, of time, of myself. And, of course, of why slow trucks should really stay out of the fast lane.

Ready for another road trip? I think the next one will be from Rishikesh to Pauri for the writers retreat – come along and join me there.