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The road out of Zagora wound its way through the palm filled Oasis and onto the high plateau which seemed to stretch unendingly into the shimmering distance. We were heading for another dusty town to break our headlong rush north, when having stopped for lunch, another passing solo biker pulled up and strolled over to join us.

JB was a charming Swiss man travelling on an updated version of our now rather gypsy looking BMW. Although it was very clear from the outset we weren’t nearly so polished and beautiful, it was great fun to watch the two boys eye each other’s equipment up. Once bikes had been inspected and stories exchanged, we set off together on the eastward road. Our gentle pace seemed to suit JB and, being the wavering, wandering travellers that we are, we decided to take his lead and follow him to the desert town of Merzouga to see the fabled Saharan dunes.

On arriving down the long and dusty track we were greeted by a particularly aggressive breed of bored and angry touts. Matt and I, who are slightly allergic and quickly irritated by their persistent sales pitch, stood back as the much more charming and patient JB directed our hotel bargaining. Soon we found ourselves in Chez M’Barak sitting around a low round table, showered and clean, sharing an enormous plate of couscous with our new friend. It was a delightful evening, and more than adequate consolation for the heavy haze covering the legendary desert views.

It had been JB’s enthusiasm which had swung our weak decision making towards spending the night in the desert. Although it was only 40kms south out of our way, it meant retracing our steps the following morning. It seems to take us quite a while to pack up and load the Gypsy Caravan. With a picnic basket on one side and our rolled up djelabas on the other, both strapped onto the panniers, our day bags bungeed on the back, we look more like itinerant gypos than sophisticated epicureans…! As we were about to mount up and head out, we were engaged in conversation by a couple of American lads, both very jealous of what we were doing – if only they knew how stressful it was! To our bemusement JB returned, not to collect a lost or forgotten bag, but to tell us we had to follow him to a spot just down the road. Rising before us, by the side of a gnarled and doubtless thirsty tree, the great dunes of the Sahara, yellow gold, shimmering and shifting in the ever present wind, rose to greet us. It had made the hot and dusty trek along the south side of the Atlas, with the bone jarring piste, the mosquito ridden hotel rooms, and the ever present smell of drains all worth it.

A quick overnight in another forgotten town, its sleepy state mostly due to the border closure, and ever onwards, north, along flat, straight, flatter still and yet straighter roads, to the north eastern border town of Oujda. Although it sits directly on the Algerian Moroccan border, and although the Moroccans have made friendly overtures to the Algerians to re-open the border, it remains stubbornly closed, the only profit from the situation coming from the smugglers who operate a lucrative and diverse operation. Our intention was to get our visas from the consulate there, but we were informed in no uncertain terms it was not possible and we would have to apply in London. Having already done that and been refused once, it seemed as if our guardian angel was telling us something.

Still Oujda, although not a town highly recommended by anyone, surprised us in many ways: A dazzlingly busy souk untainted by tourists and tat, a mesmerizingly gory local meat market littered with goat heads and sheep eyes, some of the most exquisite nougat we’ve ever tasted and most appreciated of all, an unwaveringly genuine welcome from anyone we came across. Their kindness reached alarming levels when, sitting on a corner pavement to eat a street sausage sandwich we were offered a stool to share by an infirm old lady who would take no refusal. Shortly after, a stall holder came up to us with two bottles of mandarin drink, followed by another man proffering two broad bean pods. Lastly someone ran over and insisted we take his loaf of bread. Feeling overwhelmed and humbly grateful we rushed back to our favourite nougat seller and bought a kilo of nut sweets to share round. Unfortunately most of our new friends were unable to accept our offering as they no longer had any teeth, so Matt and I had to finish them off on our own.

Our welcome in the souk square, with all its blood running through the open runnel gutter, and the gory sight of offal, bone, skull and intestine, mixed with the heady scent of rose geranium bundles, orange blossom, and the colourful array of a dozen different spices next to the fruit and vegetable stalls was a welcome change from others we had visited. Truly it was a place of work, selling necessity to a living city and not catering to the tourist. However, with our request to visit Algeria in tatters, we waved goodbye to the kindly city.

In a small village in the hills, where we were having a lively debate about where to stay, we were greeted by a unaccustomed northern “Hello”. A couple of British archaeologists were strolling through the village en-route to a cave called Pigeon Grotto, where the earliest human jewellery (80,000years ago) has been discovered – a number of snail shells dusted with red ochre drilled either end to be strung as a necklace. Having been given a private tutorial on what was going on, and what they were digging for, we left the grotto and threaded our way on a winding ribbon of tarmac, weaving through wooded valleys and steep canyons, over turquoise streams, past scented blooms, to emerge as if from an enchanted world. Shaken back to reality on reaching the coastal town of Saidia, once just a small fishing village but now almost annexed by the Spanish who have poured money into building the ubiquitous and brutal ‘costa del’ high-rise hotel and apartment blocks. After over-nighting in the blustery and windswept nigh-on deserted town, we continued west to Nador to try our luck with the ferry companies only to be told the ferry had broken down, and might be ready in five days, and so we headed ever west to Al-Hoceima. Although we circled the town, we couldn’t find any hotel for less than £40 – way over our budget. In desperation we tried a 3*, to be told the price was 800dirham (£80). In my improving French we managed to get the price, including breakfast, down to 300 dirham, much to the receptionists surprise in the morning.

The road west by north west to Tangiers took us once more winding through the Rif Mountains, past our first haunt of Chefchaouen, through Tetouan and on to Tangiers, where much to our surprise the Tangerines would not bargain for anything. Trying as ever to protect our budget we opted for a Pullman chair, ie a sit up ride, on the ferry. On board, once customs and police formalities had been wound up, we asked about a cabin – I had got the number of nights on board wrong; it was three not two, and a cabin was strongly recommended. It was worth the additional spend, as we were to find out a few days later…