Fes to Merzouga

A beautiful journey, South from Fes, over the Middle Atlas range, down again then over the High Atlas, through dust storms, rain and more dust storms to Merzouga on the edge of the Sahara not far from the Algerian border. As we went, there was so much to see, so here, in note form, are some of the sights that caught my eye or captivated me for a passing moment.

In the lowlands, green fields, dotted with wild flowers, poppies, something minute and purple, yellow blooms between vegetables. Apple trees in blossom, fields of grain.

Climbing higher, the landscape got drier and drier bit by bit, but still there were well irrigated areas where crops grew, water channels clearly visible.

Rocks, rocks and more rocks, some gravelly bits in between. Donkeys carrying loads or grazing by the roadside. Women doing their washing in streams, a herd of silky, shiny-coated black goats perched on a rocky outcrop. Suddenly a hillside of extraordinary trees, like brocolli. Irregular, but each one just like a thick-stemmed head of brocolli.

The High Atlas mountains appearing ghost-like through the haze. Snowy ridges and gullies against a hazy grey background, they looked as if they had been chalked onto the sky.

Looking down on folds of buff-coloured hills, freckled with tufts of scrubby grasses, like a crumpled blanket. The road snaked over the mountain passes.

Gnarly trees with trunks like dried rope. A wind of dust. A coca-cola stall that consisted of three bottles perched on a rock.

A high point of 1900 metres.

Like Rannoch Moor, bleached pale by sun and sucked dry, a huge and barren expanse of hill and valley, occasionally a small house in the middle of nowhere.

Tiny villages of semi-crumbling sand-coloured buildings, new houses under construction, a meagre looking population of a handful of people. Tents beside houses.

Dry river beds winding through valleys. Pylons bringing electricity to the remotest of places.

Suddenly, strips of vibrant greenery beside streams.

Clouds closing in, then rain twanging harsh and metallic onto the minibus, dark rivulets of water running down the glass, then it was over as quickly as it had begun.

Wind and dust, a dust-storm, sand whipped up here and there in thick wafts, but always everywhere. Dust in my eyes, ears, nose, throat.

A lake, seen through the dust, whitish blue as if mineral rich.

Hills of rocks like rolling waves, on the point of breaking, lined with extravagant strata at crazy angles.

Houses built of mud. Mud blocks or bricks, cemented with mud, plastered with mud. Some simple, some remarkably fancy. Many beginning to crumble. Remnants of houses and walls that have been washed away by the rain. Corners and edges rounded by rain, holes where collected water has broken through. They looked like sandcastles as the tide comes in, that same smooth washed-awayness.

Ten hours later, after an even dustier off-road section, we changed our minibus for camels and set off into the desert.