Farewell sand, hello goats!

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Geo: 30.48, -8.88

During a fitful nights sleep (the beds were titled on the sand, giving you a perpetual feeling of rolling out of bed, while the pillows appeared to have been constructed from excess sand from the floor,packed tightly into a pillowcase), we took a trip to the outhouse of the camp. The moon illuminated our path, the millions of stars above creating a diamond drenched ceiling above us. We woke again before dawn ready to witness the sunrise in the desert, eager to see and photograph how it would change the faces of the dunes. Grateful for the relative cool of the morning, we mustered our strength and scaled the high dune, settling down on the cool sand to enjoy the sunrise.

From where we were sitting, we could make out narrow, twisting tracks in the sand, tiny pinpricks creating patterns on the surface. These, we quickly worked out, were snake tracks. They did not appear to begin or end anywhere, which, we assumed, meant that they had burrowed down into the sand beneath our seats. It was with caution that we sat down from then on! On the horizon, layers of coloured light were stacked one on top of the other, a never ending patchwork of reds, oranges, pinks, blues and violets. Eventually, as the sky began to lighten, the sun began to peek out from below the layers, its rays shooting outwards like sabres, piercing the coloured hues. The sand all around us began to take on new colours, the reddish greys of the night giving way to fiery reds and oranges, each shade shifting over the peaks and troughs of the dunes as the sun rose further in the sky. Undulating as far as the eye could see, the ridges ebbed and flowed, a vast ocean of flaming waves catching the glow of the sun.

We left the snakes to wake up and slither out of their hiding places and stumbled back down to the baked ground below. Here we had a simple breakfast as the sun continued its path higher into the sky, every now and again catching sight of the beauty around us and remembering just how fortunate we were to have witnessed this incredible place. We packed up our things and bade a sad farewell to the stunning location. Clambering back into the jeeps, we had a three hour journey ahead of us, taking us to the other side of the desert, where our adventure would continue. Five minutes into the drive, we passed a stunning sandy-coloured building, with four towers and ramparts, just like a castle. This, Mohammed informed us, was the school built by the Germans for the nomads, to help to educate the children. They had made one huge error and neglected one very important fact, nomads, by their very nature, are nomadic! They are constantly moving on. They school was never used and is now guarded by one solitary man, whose unfortunate job it is to bake in the heat of the desert and watch the jeeps scramble past, speaking to no-one, doing nothing.

Our ride was even rockier than the previous day - the dunes to be scaled larger, the landscape closer to the mountains and therefore blighted with huge rocky crevices and mounds which tested our spines and cores to the limit. En route, we passed a convoy of rally drivers, it was an all female rally that takes place annually, their brightly coloured cars thundering past us, churning up the dust as they went. They were bedecked in full driving gear, including helmets, which we eyed enviously, our own heads bouncing precariously on our spines with every jolt and twist. We passed herds of animals, their shepherds dressed in long, woollen clocks and the traditional wide brimmed, domed hats, reminding us that this was still Moroccan winter, though to us it felt like driving through a kiln full of dust.

Finally, we had some respite as we left the insane terrain of the last two hours and skidded elegantly onto a vast flat plain of cracked earth, like crazy paving. This was an ancient lake, parched and dehydrated millennia ago, leaving a wide stretch of dry ground that could have accommodated a landing plane. Huge circles were dotted around, where previous drivers had formed doughnuts on the parched surface. We rested here for a while, before tackling the last hour of the journey - more rugged that ever before. Our bones well and truly rattled, we saw the village rising before us, like a mirage through the dust. Each time we dipped below ground level and rose back up again, we expected to see the gates standing before us, but ten minutes later, we seemed to be just as far away as we had been before.

Eventually, we arrived, with blissful relief, at a paved road. We stopped in the village and reboarded our minivan, beginning our long winding journey back to the greener part of the north. It was a stunning drive, it also granted an unmissable opportunity to catch up on some much needed sleep! We woke up as the bus pulled up in a small bustling town, the locals bargaining, baskets flung over their arms, babies bundled into simple slings, crafted from woven fabric. Mohammed led us into a small shop, piled high with spices. This was not a spice shop for tourists, neatly laid out with prices to match our budgets, but a local establishment, the spices heaped into sacks, wooden crates, baskets and anything else - a mishmash of vessels holding brightly coloured powders and dried spices arranged in no discernible order.

This was saffron country - Morocco is the third largest producer of saffron in the world and it was where we would get the best deal on saffron we were likely to get anywhere. Pre-weighed into tiny jars, the saffron was sold in one gram batches. Each gram, which consisted of around 40 spindly strands, relieved us of 20 dirhams. This translated to the princely sum of £1.50. It seems that paella and cous cous will be on the menu in our household for the foreseeable future.

Soon, the dusty villages gave way to lush green argan forests, the thick bottle-green trees lining both sides of the road, dripping with argan nuts. We were told to keep our eyes peeled for the highlight of the region - the goats. It was around fifteen minutes before we encountered our first herd. Not content with grazing on the abundant vegetation in this area, the goats of the region use their innate climbing ability to feast on their favourite food - the argan nut. They clamber from the ground, onto low branches, stripping the trees of their fruit. We pulled over to the side of the road, catching the incredible sight of goats perched in huge trees, decimating the lower branches and then nimbly leaping to the higher branches to gorge themselves further. Those that did not climb lifted themselves onto their hind legs, supported themselves against the branches of the tree closest to the ground and happily munched away on the nuts hanging there.

We left the goats to their banquet and continued on. Along the way, we snaked along a road that wound between the Anti Atlas and the High Atlas mountain ranges, giving us spectacular arid mountain views to one side, and alpine views to the other. Soon, we were in the orange valley - small holdings and larger farms with high stone walls contained trees laden with citrus fruit and delicate white blossom, stretching for acres on either side of the road - the rich smell of orange blossom drifting in through the windows as we passed by.

A little while later, after passing through Oulad berhil - a crowded, crumbling town, packed with handcarts, mules and people weaving in and out of the traffic, we arrived at our accommodation on the outskirts of the town. Our resting place for the night was hotel Palais Riad Hida - a 19th century mansion that was abandoned when the wealthy landowners were driven out following the unification of Morocco. It was bought by a Dane who fell in love with its crumbling beauty and set to work meticulously restoring it over a period of thirty years. Just before his death, he left it to his servant, whose daughter still runs it as a hotel to this day.

High stone walls surround the riad, hiding its magnificence from the gutsy town outside. As we stepped through the doors, we were transported: not only to another world, but another time. The wide French windows led us out of the reception, down wide stone steps flanked by statues, into an enclosed garden. Here a long sunken pool was decorated in beautiful tiles with a trickling foundation at its centre. Narrow paths wound through the grounds, between fruit trees overhanging our route - satsumas, lemons and oranges dangling like jewels from the branches. The sweet, seductive scent of Bergamot filled the air. Suddenly, rustling in the dry leaves to the side of the path made us jump, until a peahen hopped onto the path, her crown perched jauntily on her head.

Our room was spacious and elegant, and had, luxury of luxuries, a bath. At dinner time, we ambled along the fragrant pathways until we reached the dining terrace. Laid out with fresh linen, candles in beautiful silver holders and wrought iron chairs, the table was set amongst the trees overlooking another small fountain. The terrace led out from the most stunning dining room - beautiful tiles covered the walls and floor, while the ceiling was decorated with intricate mosaics and mirrors, reflecting the fading light all around. The doors were set into huge marble arches which faced out onto a wide portico, decorated again with opulent tiles in traditional designs. We dined on a feast of tagine and Moroccan salad, the squark of peacocks and the call to prayer the soundtrack to our meal. After dinner, our walk back to our room was accompanied by a string quartet of cicadas, a chorus of which were playing right outside our door, lulling us into a gentle sleep.

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