It had been 42 years since I had stepped foot on Saharan Sand and the anticipation of doing so again was intense, so much so, I could not sleep. I had to be up at 5am to join the tour bus in Jemaa el-Fna, the main square in Marrakech and at 2am I was still wide awake. A tummy full of butterflies and uncomfortable questions on repeat in my mind. What was I thinking? Christmas on my own, in the desert with a group of strangers, for 3 days! Surely, I should be safely back at home in Cornwall, cooking for my adult daughter and her partner, then visiting my Mum in the Nursing Home. I was being very selfish. But didn’t I have that right after the past fifteen months? Fifteen months of gruelling treatment for invasive breast cancer. I needed to get away, I needed time to think, and I needed a new plan. Eighteen months ago, I had been in Marrakech on a 4-day jolly with a couple of friends and had found the lump whilst showering after a hectic day of sightseeing. I was absolutely terrified. Keeping my discovery to myself for the next 4 weeks whilst appointments were made, and scans were taken, I really thought my life was over. At night I would lie awake, tears running down my face, thinking of all the things I had not achieved, and the beautiful places I would never get to see. Eventually the life changing diagnosis was in, and people must be told. Telling my daughter was by far the hardest thing I have ever done, and it broke my heart to see her so frightened. I told her that we were both going to have to be really brave and that it would all be ok. It had just been the two of us since she was a baby and being courageous for her was second nature to me, and I was not going to fail her now. But what followed was horrific and tested even my courage. Eight long, lonely, painful months of chemotherapy, then two surgeries to remove the cancer, along with all my underarm lymph nodes as the bastard had spread. Following the daily relentless radiotherapy to hopefully mop up anything they missed, I was left bald, bewildered, battered, and bruised and somewhat shellshocked. But hey, I was fifty-six and I was still alive, and I wanted to go to the Sahara Desert. Some of my happiest childhood memories were there in the sand, back when my dad and my sister were both still alive. I needed to be there, to feel the vastness of the landscape, and the smallness of me. I needed the warm desert sun on my face to wash me in memories of better times.

I stepped into the darkened tour bus. Would I be the only one on my own? Would I make a friend? Just one would do. I love solo travel and have been doing it for years now, but this was different, this was Christmas. I felt unsure of myself and a little lost. My confidence had taken more than a hit these past few months and I hardly recognised myself. I have never been seriously ill before, and that feeling of helplessness and needing people to do things for me was totally alien, and in truth, I had not coped at all well with it. I had pushed people away and had retreated into myself and I was still sad and angry at what I had lost. Would I manage to find it again, here in Morocco, on my own? I clung onto the hope that I would and sat down in a single seat by the window. The bus was a sixteen seat VW Crafter, and our driver was Jaffar. A small Moroccan man with a very smiley face. He and our tour guide Abdullah made me feel instantly safe and welcomed, and we set off through the dark streets of early morning Marrakech. Most people do not get to see the backstreets of the Medina waking up, and it was enchanting. Little pop-up coffee stands appear for the local traders getting ready for their busy day ahead and the avalanche of tourists that would soon arrive, all of them seeking to haggle themselves a bargain in the famous Souks of The Red City. Hooded faces lined the pavements, huddled round hot coffee in warm Burnoose coats. We drove on by, the bus quiet but for a few hushed voices, and we left the traders to start their day. I was near the front of the bus so I could not see who was behind me but from their sleepy chatter I gathered they were Italian, girls, maybe three of them. I was right, and later would learn their names. Mia, Beatrice & Elena, they would bring the girly fun and euro pop to our little group. To the left of me was a couple in their late thirties, from their looks and undecipherable language I surmised Norwegian. They were in fact from Finland, Eevi & Deyu, keen photographers, friendly but with that aloof serious scandic way about them, however, they were the first people that spoke to me on our early morning coffee stop that day, lifting me no end, along with the much-needed caffeine. The cold air of the High Atlas Mountains hits you like an easterly wind coming off the sea back home in Cornwall. It goes straight through you all the way to the bone, and I was thankful for my body warmer and my M&S cashmere jumper. Packing for the desert in December is no easy task and as with most things I embark on, I had really thought it through. Extreme heat and extreme cold, it would be challenging to say the least. Later in the trip I would laugh with a US girl named Kit at her abysmal packing, one t shirt, one hoody and a pair of leggings was most definitely not up to the job. A small rucksack is all I had allowed myself for this trip, as I needed to be able to carry my own luggage with ease. The chemotherapy had damaged my muscles, and I had recently weaned myself off the pain meds but most days it was still difficult to get going. Even though I had worked hard with daily swimming and walking for the past 12 weeks to build up my strength for the trip, I still felt like a shadow of what I once was, my fitness was still compromised, so I needed to travel light. Layers were key, and I was wearing all of them.

The sun started to rise over the mountain passes and the day warmed up along with the passengers in the bus. In front of me, on another single seat, was a Greek lady in her fifty’s I estimated, and I thought she too might be travelling alone. I soon realized though, that she was in fact with her daughter Thea and her son Andreas who were sitting just behind me, who I had mistaken for a young couple. We would affectionately refer to them all as The Greeks during the trip and although Mama Greek seemed cold and tired a lot of the time she really put in the effort for her kids. Around mid-morning when we were all more awake, Abdullah, forever to be known as ‘the best tour guide in Morocco,’ span round in the front seat and told us how the first day of our adventure would pan out. His English was perfect, and he was dressed head to toe in designer gear. I loved him immediately, and that twinkle in his blue eyes spoke volumes about his twenty something age, and his interesting life as a tour guide. The young Italians became positively giddy on more than one occasion. He then proceeded to put an abrupt stop to my guessing game as to the ins and outs of what, why and who were my fellow travellers, as he made us do a quick meet and greet. Sally, from Cornwall in the UK, second time in Morocco, solo traveller and single as a pringle.

The Greeks were in fact, living in Berlin, and the Italian Girls, two sisters and a friend, all from Verona. Kit was asleep at this point so it would be a few hours yet before we got to hear her back story. There were two brothers in their mid-twenties from Long Island, Adam & Isaac, who seemed shy, sitting together on the back seat, along with a young couple of Instagrammers from Iran. We would never learn their names. And then there was the Advani Family. Shahid and Mahira with their 10-year-old son Amir.  Hailing from Pakistan but living in Stuttgart in Germany, they were quite possibly the happiest people I have ever met. I was hoping for a friend, and I found three all at once. We hit it off straight away, myself and Shahid discovering quickly that we shared the same sense of humour, and he made me belly laugh less than 4 hours into the journey. I relaxed. I could do this. It was going to be ok.

Our bus meandered up through the snowcapped mountains, Jaffar skilfully navigating the famous Tiz n Tichka pass, a set of hairpin bends high up in the Atlas. I was totally absorbed in the scenery passing by my window when a small voice behind me asked if I had a plastic bag. I turned around to see Adam looking very worried and pointing at his brother Isaac who was the colour of cabbage. Oh dear God I thought, 6 hours in and someone is going to be sick in this tiny bus. I motioned to Shahid and he in turn called to Abdullah, Greek Mama got out the travel sickness pills, and the bus stopped. After some air and a quick shuffle round to make room for Isaac at the front of the bus, that is where he stayed for the rest of the day. He soon perked up and returned to the normal colour of a New Yorker and we all narrowly escaped a vomity bus. There is nothing like a crisis to break the ice and we now felt like a team of adventurers. Apart from the Iranians who had not so much as uttered a word since Marrakesh. We trundled into the Ounila Valley, upon the old caravan trail from Marrakesh to the Sahara and into Aid Ben Haddou. I had heard that this was a Berber stronghold, and I was excited to be there.  We would lunch and then a local guide would show us the historic fortified village where all the big movies have been filmed. This was the extent of my knowledge surrounding this UNESCO site, but by the time our guide, Idir, was finished with us, I felt that if I had to, I could talk confidently on the subject for a good 15 minutes. A local lad from the village, he knew his craft well. He collected us from the restaurant in full Berber garb. Head to toe looking the part. A wide brimmed hat on the top of his head, his pale blue tunic and traditional Berber sandals completing the look. He led the tour with so much wit and flair he could have easily been in the West End. But his pride of all things Berber still shone through. You access the site across a long foot bridge spanning a dry riverbed and as you wind through the back alleys of the new town to reach it, you do not realize the scale of the place until you are staring at it from across the riverbank. Rising out of the valley, it stands magnificent in all tones of reds and ambers and is instantly recognisable from movies such as Lawrence of Arabia, Jesus of Nazareth & Gladiator. 007 had his turn here too with a visit from Timothy Dalton back in the 80’s for the shooting of The Living Daylights. The one that got me excited though, was to know that the Khaleesi herself had walked these dusty paths for the filming of Game of Thrones, albeit with a healthy dose of AI thrown in! Idir glibly told us that he and his family had been extras in so many movies that he would have to charge us for his autograph but that we could touch him for free. A few Berber families still live across the river in the old town, but with no electric or running water, you can see why most have made the move across the bridge. They sell their handmade crafts from the small earthen clay dwellings as you rise through the middle of the impressive structure. Beautiful hand-crafted wares in colours of Saffron, Indigo and Khol line the crumbly walls, and I could have bought a suitcase full. But I’m travelling light remember, so I pushed on past, climbing to the summit. My creaky knees and aching legs were protesting, but Mama Greek hung back and together we spurred each other up to the top. The view was outstanding, stretching out far over the valley towards the snow-capped Atlas giants, and nestled in front, russet red villages, lush green palm groves, and a never-ending rocky riverbed, creating a pallet of colours an artist would die for. From the other side, an arial view of the red adobe brick Kasbah in all its glory. A complete 360 of this magical country that was healing my body and my soul.

The Berber people fascinate me and have done since I was a child. The very first Berber I ever met was a lady called Aiesha. She used to come to our home some days and help Mum with the washing in our little flat in Annaba, Algeria. She also used to babysit me and my sister, and we loved her. She would arrive in the morning once Dad had left for work, wearing the full black yasmak that all Algerian women wore when we lived there in the 1970s. She would walk up the street with her friends, and my sister and I would wait for her on our bougainvillea covered balcony. I could not tell which lady was Aiesha until she opened our gate as all Algerian ladies looked the same in their black cover ups, that was until she got inside, and then she would remove the black cloak, and like magic she would turn into a glittering rainbow. It was mesmerising, because underneath she wore bright flowing dresses, layers of them, all in different colours and she was covered in gold:  bracelets, necklaces, rings and even a chain that used to go from her nose into her hair, I thought she was very beautiful. She had henna drawings all over her hands and sometimes they would be on her face too. She was kind and cuddly and as a curious 6-year-old I thought she was wonderful, and I would look forward to her visits. She told us stories about her people who lived in the mountains and other stories of relatives that lived in tents in the desert, we were captivated. We would eventually, when I was a year or so older, travel deep into the Sahara, and I would see for myself the people who live in tents. I would play with their kids whilst Mum & Dad drank thick black coffee out of little brass cups, and my sister would fuss over their goats. Berbers are the indigenous inhabitants of the Maghreb region of North Africa, thought to be descended from Stone Age tribes. The Maghreb region covers Morocco, Algeria, Libya, Tunisia, Mauritania, and parts of Mali & Niger. This diverse group of ethnic peoples, who predate the arrival of the Arabs in this vast area, are first mentioned in Ancient Egyptian writings as early as 2000BC. You can see why they are immensely proud of their heritage! The tour continued with Idir telling us of the colourful history of the Kasbah. Originally settled around 757AD, the site is named after its founder Ben Haddou, legend tells us that his tomb is buried deep beneath the structure, but the exact location has been lost in time. The village was first fortified in the 11^th Century, when it was a strategic stopping point on the trade route connecting the Sahara with Marrakech and then out to the coast. It is so evident that this would have been a busy vibrant trading post and as you walk through the winding alleys you can almost see and hear the gold, silver and spice merchants haggling for the best price. The Moroccans love a good haggle, and they are very skilled at it! I did succumb and buy one souvenir, a tiny painting on a scroll, small enough to pop in my rucksack. It is a wide view of the Kasbah from the riverbed, and it is painted using a technique unique to Southern Morocco that is called Fire Painting. Using saffron and indigo pigments to create an image, the paper, sprinkled with lemon juice, is then heated over a Bunsen burner and the painting reveals its depth and becomes fully visible, almost like a magic trick. I could not resist! The artist even wrote my name on it in the Berber alphabet, well he said it says Sally, it might just say ‘emmet’… (that is a Cornish joke, and you will need google to get it). After an enjoyable, but tiring afternoon being totally emersed in all things Berber, our little group was really starting to gel. I had now learnt that Kit was in the US military but stationed in Italy. She was also travelling alone, and it felt good that I was not the only one. In the new town, which to be honest looks far from new, we grabbed a cold drink, took some shade under a large palm tree, and waited whilst Shahid found a quiet spot for his afternoon prayer. Then we all said our fond farewells to Idir and climbed back onto our bus. We drove through the valley, Abdullah and Jaffar taking charge of us once more. We were heading for Tinghir, the oasis city at the foot of the Atlas Mountains in the Valley of the Roses and here we would spend our first night. The Valley of the Roses is exactly what is says, a valley full of thousands of rose bushes, sadly though, not in bloom in December. You must visit in May to see that spectacle of colour. We pushed on through and arrived at dusk at the hotel that would be home for the night. The hotel was large and basic, clearly a transit hotel, catering for the many tour bus’s passing through on their way to the Sahara. Abdullah checked us in and handed out our keys. Kit and I were next door to each other so off we set together to find our rooms and settle in before meeting everyone in an hour for dinner. We located them on the third floor and after a faff with my key sticking in the lock, helpfully resolved by Kit, I entered my room and sat down on the bed. It was cold, bare and in truth, a bit grim. The call to prayer from the nearby mosque interrupted my thoughts and I slid open the window to look out. I could see its tall shape silhouetted on the skyline with the hotel pool and gardens below. It all looked a bit tired and uncared for but hey, I was not here for luxury. I had plenty of that in Marrakech.

I had been in Morocco for 6 days already, staying in a luxurious boutique riad just outside the city. It was my treat to myself, somewhere to retreat, relax and heal for a few days before the desert trip. I had chosen it because unlike many hotels in Marrakech, it had a decent size heated outdoor swimming pool, and I needed to swim each day. Swimming, I have found, is the only activity that can get my muscles moving smoothly and keep me pain free without the use of the drugs that the oncologists are eager to prescribe, so I did not want to seize up whilst away. Back home I belong to a local hotel spa and swim nearly every day either before or after work. Doing lengths in the warm indoor pool relax my muscles and I finish off with a sauna for good measure. I am lucky that I can do this and know that my healing would have been much slower without this opportunity. I had double checked via email with the riad owner that swimming would be possible in December and through an exchange of emails with her, I had explained that I had been poorly, and her friendly tone had helped to quash my concerns of going away on my own so soon after finishing treatment. The riad had exceeded all my expectations; the staff were so kind and welcoming, and I could not have been more spoilt. I had spent my time quietly reading, practising yoga, swimming and being waited on hand and foot. The riad was set in the centre of beautifully manicured gardens, with a turquoise ornately tiled pool being the focal point. Ancient olive trees for shade, along with wooden sunbeds to catch the winter rays and fluffy orange pool towels, the place was a sanctuary of wellness. Inside the large terracotta coloured riad, the central open-air courtyard housed towering palm trees, decked in fairy lights, which at sundown would become home for the night to hundreds of twittering finches, all vying for the best roosting branch. I had spent six wonderful, restorative days there. Bliss. When I had set off at 4.30 am that morning, with a steaming cup of coffee in my trusty travel mug, the night porter Imad, seemed genuinely concerned for my welfare. I assured him all was fine; it was a reputable tour company, and I would be back in 3 days. Ok Miss Sally, but you have our phone number if you need us. Quite how they were going to rescue me 550 km away in the Sahara I was not sure, but it gave me a feeling of security that I very much needed. I freshened up and looking about the small room with two tiny single beds, a stained and wobbly nightstand and threadbare curtains, all clashing and not in a good way, I decided sitting in this depressing room for an hour was not for me. I headed downstairs and bumped into Adam & Isaac. They too were very underwhelmed with the accommodation, but we made light of it and sat in the foyer to pass the time. Dinner time rolled round, and we headed into the restaurant and found our group spread over two large tables, thankfully near a heater! I sat with the Advanis, the Italians and the New York Boys and despite a very mediocre dinner and very grumpy waiters we had a great evening. Slightly marred by a lack of Kit. She did not show up for dinner, so I went and knocked for her but there was no answer, we all decided that she probably had fallen asleep after the long day of travelling, and I decided not to panic until breakfast. I was already dreading the morning because I had noticed that my sparce room did not have tea/coffee making facilities. I am a friendly outgoing person but not until after my first cup of morning coffee. No facilities in a hotel bedroom mean that I must interact with people before this cup of coffee, and this is something I dread. I pre warned the group and said my goodnights. I thought I would struggle to sleep once upstairs in the room of doom, but I was out like a light. Woken by the dawn call to prayer, I got up, skipped the shower, as the bathroom cleanliness was a tad suspect, dabbed on some musk argan oil to mask any smells and went downstairs. I was hoping to grab a coffee and head outside thus avoiding any interactions but bumped straight into Shahid. He politely said “Good Morning Sally, I will let you wake up”, and carried on to the buffet. What a gentleman. I grabbed two coffees and headed outside. Once fit for public consumption I made my way over to our table, thankful to see Kit there eating a large array of breakfast foods. I cannot eat that soon after waking up but did grab a couple of hard-boiled eggs and put one in each of my bodywarmer pockets for later. This little trick I learnt whilst travelling around Italy, they keep perfectly well in a pocket and are great for a mid-morning snack. I educated the rest of the group to this travel tip and became known as Sally, smuggler of eggs!

We met Abdullah and Jaffar outside and set off East heading towards the Sahara. Firstly though, we were going to visit the Todgha Gorge and see the source of the river that feeds the beautiful green valley we were in. It was 8am and still cold as the sun started to rise above the valley. We picked up another local guide, Rashid, who was going to show us this apparently spectacular gorge. He was a much older man, dressed in a long earthen brown Burnoose coat and sporting the extra wide black turban that the Berber men wear. Instantly he reminded me of the second Berber I had ever met, Mr Addi, our guardiane back in Annaba. An odd concept, he was an old man that used to just sit on a stool all day in our garden, and normally he was asleep. He would arrive just before my dad went to work and would leave when he returned. He did not do anything in the garden and my understanding was he was there to protect us, quite from what I did not know and to be honest, he was so old and crooked I could not imagine he would be much good in a fight. Occasionally, if he were awake, my sister and I would persuade him to be our ‘third’ for elastics. Now, the game of elastics was what we, and our friends, spent most of our free time doing, and if you are not familiar with the game I will try and explain it to you. You need a long loop of elastic, about 5 metres. On our yearly trips back to the UK we would badger Mum to go to the sewing shop and make sure that she bought enough of the stuff so we wouldn’t run out, as it breaks and loses its elasticity after a while, so a regular supply was essential. You need a girl at each end with the elastics looped around the ankles, and then the person playing does a complicated series of jumps in and out of the two lines of elastics, with extra twists for complexity. Once the ankle level has been completed successfully, you then move the elastics to knee height. The object of the game is to get all the way up to underarm height, following on from hips and waist, without making any errors on the jumps. The winner is who gets to the highest level first and we would spend hours doing it. It was ok at school as there were plenty of girls for ‘ends,’ but at home there was just me and my sister, so we would cajole Mr Addi to be one of the ‘ends.’ It must have been quite a sight this ancient Berber man in full Berber dress playing elastics with two little English girls. Obviously, he never did any jumping, or he would have likely thrown out a hip.

Rashid stood at the front of the bus, swaying precariously as we drove up the winding road and into the deserted gorge. The sun   just touching the upper parts of 400-metre-high limestone canyon walls, making them appear to be sheathed in gold, it was an impressive sight. We all got out and walked up through. Out of the sun it was freezing cold, and the wind was rushing through the 30-metre gap at a fair old speed. I was starting to regret my cashmere and bodywarmer combo and was thinking that I should have brought my ‘big coat.’ It was mid-morning and time for my boiled eggs. I had been using them as handwarmers up until then, but I was starting to feel peckish, so I cracked the shells on the canyon wall and munched on them whilst Rashid took us to the source of the river, bubbling up from the floor at the top end of the canyon. The sacred spot was marked with the word SOURCE written on the wall in a Sharpie, very North African I thought.

We then headed back down into the valley where Rashid was going to show us around the valley ‘gardens’ and the Berber Jewish Quarter. The ‘gardens’ looked more like UK allotments, each one tended by a different family, and growing a variety of vegetables and crops. There were even cauliflowers, which to be honest, I was not expecting. It was a beautiful, relaxing walk, narrow paths winding through the different plots with Rashid pointing out the different crops. Dates, oranges, pomegranates, olives, and potatoes to name a few and lying on the rich red soil that the sun was yet to reach, frost! We crossed the crystal-clear river on a makeshift bridge and headed into the Jewish Quarter. This would be my least favourite part of the trip as it was really just a rouse to get us locked in a carpet shop. After we had walked around the old quarter which pretty much resembled a building site we were ushered into a house to see ‘how the carpets are made’. What followed was a sales pitch that Del Boy would be proud of. The carpets are indeed magnificent, but carpet shopping was the last thing on my mind as by now I just wanted to see the sand dunes. We left empty handed and headed to the bus. Abdullah told us we would stop for lunch in an hour and then drive the 4 hours to the town of Merzouga at the edge of the Erb Chebbi dunes, the start of the Sahara. We would arrive and collect our camels and trek for about an hour and a half into the dunes to our desert camp. Now this is what I had been waiting for! Well, not so much the camels, I have ridden plenty of camels and they are very uncomfortable, grumpy and they smell, but hey, when in the Desert! Lunch was in a lovely restaurant in a small one street town on the way. Boasting a rooftop terrace with a view of the rocky flat landscape it made a change from the mountains, plus it was now a very hot sunny day. I removed some of my layers and sat down to a traditional Moroccan soup, perfectly spiced, with a chicken tagine in a thick tomatoey sauce and lashings of cous cous. It was the best food of the tour so far and once full and rested we set off on the long journey in search of sand. Abdullah cranked up the radio and we listened to the popular Moroccan songs of the day until Shahid took over. A what’s app group was created and we all sent over song requests which he duly found and played. A couple of the classics played were Hotel California, requested by Isaac and Bidi Bidi Bom Bom for Mia. We were a diverse group for sure! The What’s app group would later be used to share all our wonderful photos and to keep in touch for weeks after the end of the trip. The scenery changed again, and the rocky scrub land started to turn sandier and eventually, far on the horizon the dunes started to appear. As we got closer, they rose high into the cloudless vivid blue sky from the desert floor, in all shades of terracotta. The excited anticipation in the bus was palpable. I remembered the very same excitement my sister and I would share on our visits into the Sahara, the anticipation of getting to the dunes, and the squeals when we arrived. “Pull over Dad, please Dad!” we would wail from the backseat of our dusty blue Renault 16. He would, and we would race up to the top of the nearest dune and run at full pelt straight off the top, tumbling down, over and over until landing at the base with sand in our mouths. I still missed her so much, Lorraine, my beautiful big sister, dead at 25. I had spent most of my life now without her, but she was never far from my thoughts, and in moments like this, I could almost feel her beside me.

The excitement in the bus pulled me back to the present. We were just a couple of hours away from sunset and the sun was low in the sky, just perfect timing. We pulled off the sandy road to a pitstop, grabbed some water and used the facilities, then leaving all our bags in the safe hands of Abdullah and Jaffar, except for phones and cameras, we walked 5 mins into the dunes where our camels were waiting for us. Abdullah told us he would meet us at the camp later with all our belongings. Our camel guide was Issam, he spoke no English but through the medium of mime he eventually got us all mounted on the caravan and we set off. Now, my previous experience of travelling on a caravan of camels led me to hang back and opt to get on the lead camel as they are normally the most docile and you get the best view, sand dunes and not another camel’s arse. Led by Imman we set off and I have to say the hour spent walking the ridges of these magnificent dunes was unexpectedly enjoyable. I finally found the peace I was seeking, the warm desert sun on my face and the rhythmic sway of Mabel. She was such a lovely camel; she deserved a name. Eventually, Issam pulled the row of camels to a halt on the top of a particularly steep sand dune, and we all dismounted, inelegantly, as is the only way to get off a camel. A bit further along the ridge we could sandboard if we liked? Most people accepted the challenge and wandered off, but I declined and taking my Rocket Dogs off, I sat down on the sand to watch the sun go down. My bare feet in Saharan sands again. I had waited for this moment for a very long time, and here I was, finally doing it. It was so peaceful in the dunes; my memories once more came flooding in and my heart filled with the love for my family from long ago. You have come so far, I said to myself, and then, suddenly I could feel my dad, his strong arms around my shoulders saying, Well done my darling, you made it!

The sun finally set, and the temperature plummeted. I had left my cashmere in my rucksack and my bodywarmer was barely holding up. Thankfully it was only a short ride to the camp where we would be staying for the night. It was Christmas Eve. I said goodbye to Mabel, and even gave her ears a rub and we all walked into the camp. I was not sure what I expected, a Bedouin set up maybe from like when I was a kid, but this was something else. Large square tents lined a walkway up to a central gathering area complete with a large fire and sofa seating. All lit with beautiful copper Moroccan lamps, It was visually stunning. There was a large, covered restaurant and a tent next door for the Guides. It took a moment to find our guide, Abdullah, because in our absence he had swapped his designer gear for full on desert attire. A flowing Berber robe in nightshade blue, a wide cream turban and traditional desert shoes he absolutely looked like he was about to star in the latest production at Ben Haddoud. For the second time he handed us our accommodation keys, but this time, the anticipation of our beds for the night was far more enjoyable. My tent was close to the main area, and as I stepped inside, I knew that this was indeed the right place for me to spend this Christmas. The tent was spacious, with three beds inside, one being a very large double. Thick blankets were piled high on each bed and the linens were white and soft, there was even a feather pillow. Heaven. We had an hour until dinner, and unlike the previous night I was more than happy to spend it pottering about in my tent. Off to the side, shielded by a draping curtain of silk was a little bathroom, complete with a hot shower. I stripped quickly and dived in, not for long though as it was still bloody cold in the tent, I dried off and wrapped myself in one of the soft blankets and curled up on the comfy bed. Checking my phone, although I knew there would be no signal, I started to look through my photos of the sunset. What a marvellous day it had been and what an exciting evening to come. Abdullah had told us that dinner was at 8pm and then there would be drumming and dancing around the fire. It was indeed a magical evening, We ate tasty Moroccan food, danced to the manic beat of the Berber drums, gazed at the millions of stars visible on this most unusual Christmas Eve, and chatted around the roaring fire late into the night. Tomorrow was Christmas Day and if we wanted, we could go out into the dunes on quad bikes and watch the dawn break. Well, I didn’t need to be asked twice. I love quad biking. I had only done it once before, the last time I was in Morocco, but I had sworn to myself that if I beat this bloody cancer, there was going to be a lot more quad biking in my life. The Advani family were also keen but being there were three of them, the numbers didn’t quite add up, so I offered to take Mahira on the back of my quad, leaving Shahid to take his son. It was all agreed, and Kit, the Fins and the New Yorkers were coming too. We all signed up and were told to be ready to leave at 6.30am. Breakfast would start at 6. Now, sunrise at that time of year would be 8 am so I was confused as to why we would be leaving so early, surely they were not going to let us loose in these huge dunes on quads in the pitch dark, but this is Africa, and that is exactly what they did.

It was exhilarating! Once I had gotten control of my nerves and the quad bike, with Mahira clinging on to me for dear life we set off. An hour and a half, racing through the dunes, sliding on the sand and feeling so alive it made me tingle all over. I was wearing every piece of clothing I had taken, topped with my bodywarmer and still, I was ridiculously cold, but I didn’t care, I was having the time of my life. Mahiras’ hands were frozen, and she asked if she could put them in my pockets as she held on, “of course!” I shouted over the roar of the engine, “just don’t squash my boiled eggs!”  

Dawn was magnificent, and dismounted and warming up by a small fire our quad guides had built for us, we all stood and watched the sun rise over this unforgettable Christmas Day. By late Boxing Day I was back in Marrakesh, chilling by the pool with Youseff bringing me endless pots of English Tea. My trip to the Sahara seeming almost dreamlike as it faded into the past. It would come back into focus throughout the next few days as more desert photos would suddenly appear in the What’s app group along with little insights as to where everyone was now and what they were doing.

I had travelled into the desert lost, lonely and lacking in direction, but I had returned more alive than I had ever been and with a renewed sense of purpose. Finally, there in the warmth of Morocco, I had found the strength to make the decision as to what I would do next, and at last, I was excited for my future again.

There was much to do.