I have been advised not to let this blog become a list of breakfasts, but today's in Hotel Oscar, Laayoune is probably worth recording. Pain au chocolat and a croissant each as big as a [insert: something between a grapefruit and a melon in size], plus fried eggs, yoghurt, bread, jam, honey, olives, coffee, real orange juice - from real oranges. Described by the hotel as "free". Hahaha. 

I forgot to mention something strange from yesterday. At one point, between the highway and the sea, lay a huddle of rudimentary shelters - plastic sheeting on rude improvised frames. People squatting amongst them. My sympathy awoke for these desperate people, doubtless destitute and traumatised as a result of the deranged ambitions of a megalomaniac politician somewhere else in this enormous continent. But then I noticed a camper van. Two, three, four camper vans. And SUVs, lots of them, and even windsurfers. These people are probably not escaping tyranny, but rather the daily grind of earning a living. Like in France, August is probably holiday time - but here they don't have Eurocamp. 

Heading out of Laayoune today I entered real desert, very like the comic book illustrations. Wind blown pristine golden dunes on both sides of the road. Mechanical diggers every few hundred yards working to keep the sand at bay, and cross winds fighting back to try to heal the tarmac scar defiling the prehistoric landscape. Beautiful, but it wasn't long before the parched low scrub was back. I guess the Atlantic winds bring enough moisture that this tough vegetation can just about manage to keep a toehold. And the road was shadowed for mile after mile by two rows of pylons. 

More than once I had to slow right down for camels crossing the road. They weren't about to be hurried - they merely looked down at me disdainfully through their luxuriant eyelashes, sneering, with their noses in the air. Is there a collective noun for a group of camels? If not can I suggest an "arrogance"?

Western Sahara is (unsurprisingly) one of the least-populated places in the world, so there is little to describe. Just my seemingly-endless ribbon of tarmac, sand, scrub, pylons, telecom masts and occasionally big wind farms. And the empty Atlantic always near, behind my right shoulder. 

There are only two places likely to have hotels on the road South from Laayoune: Boujdour (too close) and Dakhla (too far). So I decided to have an easy run down to Boujdour today and a more serious journey tomorrow to Dakhla. 

But then on "Maps.me" I saw a reference to a motel at a filling station, ideally located between the two towns. The problem was I couldn't find any corroboration of its existence anywhere else. I figured this would not be much of an adventure if I keep playing safe, so I shot through Boujdour with high hopes of finding a convenient bed further along. 

The big pay-off for 12 years at boarding schools during the 1950s and 60s is that I can pride myself on my ability to bunk down almost anywhere. But there are limits: the "motel" was two dark dusty cubicles (one for men, one for ladies) opening off a grubby "restaurant" - with mattresses covering the floors, and by mid-afternoon apparently already crammed with noisy humanity. And the petrol station only sells diesel. 

So I pressed on towards Dakhla - forlornly hoping that something might turn up. it was a long arduous day for an old guy on a little bike. More than two and a half times my planned distance for the day. Over 500km.  When I was about 20 miles away, and confident I would probably reach Dakhla, I booked a hotel online. Purely on the basis of location. No idea what I was getting. 

What I got was quite fantastic. The desert sweeps down through a ravine to a spectacular bay full of kite surfers. And overlooking it all is the plate glass picture windows of a mega-funky kite surfers' campsite and hotel - £55 with full board. The bedrooms are clean little cabins, with a nearby toilet block. It couldn't be better. I might stay another day, partly so I can try to do justice to the incredible setting with my phone camera. And partly because I need a rest. And partly because the charming young new father who owns it looks like he needs the business. And also because he sells booze. 

A relaxed evening chatting with young, sporty francophone people who did a touching job of appearing to be impressed by my travel plans. First proper human contact since Eddie and Maxime in Agadir. I have started talking to myself.