It always feels against my instincts to head away from water, but on Tuesday 25 May, we turned our backs on the Tunisian coastline we'd been gently hugging for a few weeks, driving steadily westwards from Gabes, along the desolate, arid road, scattered with tiny settlements, goatherds and huge 'watch out for crossing camels' signs.
At Kebili, the 'friendly low-cost' campsite much hyped in our 1999 guidebook was by now both unfriendly and pricey, so we drove on to a desert village called Souk Lahad (literally: Sunday market). I'd read somewhere of a swanky three star hotel a few km from there, and had a strong feeling somehow that that night we'd have a taste of luxury. Not that I had any intention of paying for a room - I was feeling cheeky, and as I suspected, the truck worked her magic for us. She sauntered into the car park, practically swinging her hips and pursing her lips, and the manager, receptionist and half the guests rushed out to be willingly seduced by her charms. Within minutes the manager thrust mint teas and complimentary cakes in our hands and insisted we sleep right there in the car park, free of charge, with full use of the pool, toilets, showers and observation tower, from which we watched the large red sun set over the desert half an hour later.
The next day, after 30 divine cool lengths in an empty pool under a cloudless sky, we set ourselves the mission to catch a glimpse of Chott El Jerid, the massive salt flat in the north of the Sahara. We found a water tower, continually pumping steaming sulphurous water up from deep within the dry land, and climbed to the top. From that amazing viewpoint, we were treated to a stunning mirage. The Chott shimmered on the horizon, many miles away: if I hadn't known it was made entirely of salt, I would willingly have trekked those miles, believing I could jump into a sea of cool water when I got there.
That afternoon we set off south to Douz, the gateway to the desert, and a new chapter began.
Route, photos and more at www.thelongandwinding.co.uk