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.

As the sun sets on a glorious and uncharacteristically warm Saturday evening in April, what would you find the majority of the English population doing? Probably lounging in their garden, cremating some food on the barbeque, fetching more chilled beers from the fridge… What was I doing? Sitting alone on a hill in Oxfordshire, enveloped by my sleeping bag, watching the sun slowly sink below the glowing horizon.

I'm going to get this ball rolling with a confession. Or several, to be precise. First up: I haven't quite lived up to my promise of monthly adventures alongside my new full-time job. I set myself this challenge before actually starting the job, before fully realising how much of an adjustment working 9-5 was going to be for me.