Thwack thwack thwack thwack.Our feet pounded against the floor of the airport as we raced through it, oblivious to the stares of the other travellers as we barged our way past. My small rucksack, containing only the essential passports and boarding passes, smacked against my back as we ran. Everything else we needed for the trip was in our main packs. Where were they? I dared to glance down at my watch, immediately regretting it as the worst was confirmed. Our flight had gone.

I remember reading years ago about how, as you approach the Sahara Desert, the whole horizon is occupied by what seems to be a never-ending range of mountains which loom out of the ground in all their burnt amber glory. Ever since reading about them, I have dreamt about the dunes of orange sand that are tall enough to reach the sky and stars. I’ve imagined the long-limbed, lumbering camels that carry their masters for miles upon miles, their steady, swaying strides never faltering. For me, this encapsulated the ultimate adventure: the hardship of the intense sun and persistent sand, combined with the beauty of the inhospitable desert and the exhilaration of travelling high on the back of such a foreign four-legged animal. Finally, after years of impatiently flicking through photos and reading accounts of camel treks in the Sahara, it was my turn.

“Only another fifteen minutes to the top,” Youssef said encouragingly, seeing our weary expressions and sweaty, glistening faces. I breathed in deeply, the altitude making it hard for my lungs to get enough oxygen. As I inhaled, I looked around, marvelling at the sharp ridges of craggy rock that fanned out below me before disappearing into the soft haze of the horizon.