2 Nov 2004. Somewhere in the Desert.

Ho-hum. The obvious shot.

In the morning I can't get out of El Marsa quickly enough, but the ride down the coast of the Sahara would have cheered me up even if last night's pear sandwiches had given me dysentery. I stop and inch towards the cliff edge for a look. Huge unreachable beaches stretch for dozens of miles 250 feet below.

The day rolls by and somewhere past Echtoucan, I come to a petrol station with a restaurant attached. It's nearly 6pm. The manager tells me I can camp for free in the station, so I stop and eat, believing myself to be set for the night.

Unfortunately I haven't counted on Son Of Chucky, holder of this year's prestigious "Most Annoying Child In Morocco" award. Five minutes of him following me round and making motorbike noises while holding his hand out and repeating the word "Dirham?" is enough to convince me to ride another 10 miles and camp in the desert.

Putting a tent up in a gale in the dark on a clifftop is entertaining in a bad way, but being nowhere near Chucky Jr. is well worth the effort. An hour later I'm in the tent with an iPod, a billion zillion stars overhead and a mind altering substance which I proceed to smoke. The combination is very good indeed.

Where's my bloody breakfast?