Kolhapur Onwards - The Nightmare Begins

Kolhapur is a town I know next to nothing about. It's got some deal going on about sugar, and it's got two entrances to the city from NH4. It's got one exit that has truly bitter memories, but hold your ghodas, more about that later.
What I do know about Kolhapur is that the city is supposed to serve the best mutton around. Dry spices are supposed to combine with suitably tempered oil, to which is added the most tender, the most succulent, the most delectable mutton that is found in India.
That supreme work of art is available in curry format (spiciness: bold, italicized, font size 72, colour red), or dry, or semi-dry. And it is.... sigh.
Along with it, those cruel tormentors from down south Maharashtra serve two varieties of rassa. If you do not know what rassa means, swarry.
One is tambda (red) and the other, pandhra (white). Green chillies, papad, friend onion, raitha, unlimited chapatis and rice, and a glass of what is, in my opinion, the finest non-alcoholic beverage on on the planet, sol kadhi.
Oh man oh man. What the meal, I be telling you.
We gorged on the victuals until kingdom come - this was at a place just a little bit into town, a place called Rutuja.
Chapati after chapati was wolfed down, and the carnage went on for almost an hour. At which point, satiated, rather bloated, we sat back and ordered yet another contemplative glass of solkadhi.

From Pune, you see, one comes down in almost a straight line, due south, to reach Kolhapur. At Kolhapur, one turns due west, one goes down the Sahyadris, via a very picturesque ghat called Amboli (old timers may recall this) and drives on to reach Goa.
This much we knew.
And hence, satiated and bloated as we were, we smilingly turned to the kind considerate waiter who had been serving us all this while and asked him if he knew the way to Amboli Ghat.
Slight puzzlement, slight frown. Slight movement that may have indicated the beginning of the shrug of the shoulders - and we were that far away from asking someone else.
But then the nuerons in that primitive brain fired, and zigged zagged around wildly in his cranium.
And there was a smile, and the dreaded, fateful question.
"Oh, you mean Amba Ghat?!"
Quick revison.
From Pune, go south, go west, go south again. Goa.
What to NOT do.
From Pune, go south, go north again. No Goa.
And so, at around 2 in the afternoon, after consulting the last surviving Neanderthal on the planet, the trio headed out to meet their fate.
Fate was carrying an unusually large, unusually prickly bamboo that day.