Mount Toubkal, the High Atlas Mountains, Morocco, Marrakech … wide blue skies, pink chunks of rock and suddenly the pages of a geography book have sprung into life. I am home and safe, and I cannot believe so much happened in just a week. I am as brown as a berry due to some lotion I bought on the plane. Two drops gives your face a glow, four a burnished glow and eight a bronzed healthy makeover. As I wore factor 50 the whole time I thought I would just add eight or nine drops – just to show that I had actually been in the sun. Well, you can imagine the result. I am certainly a deep bronze!

We had a brief time in Marrakech before we assaulted the mountain.

We met our fellow walkers; we were 13 in total, a mixed bunch, some very fit, some not so fit. One lovely girl from London quietly told John that she had not given the walk much thought. Her idea of ‘training’ was to burn the candle at both ends and enjoy a bottle of wine a day. I liked her very much.

Mohammed and Hamed were our guides, one in front and the other bringing up the rear. Our trek started at 1,600m. The initial climb was steep and the day was hot. The mules ambled sprightly ever upwards, laden down with our bags and detritus including a cooking stove and all the provisions needed for our banquets on the mountain.

We passed red clay Berber villages built into the hillsides; we passed neatly tended vegetable patches of potatoes, carrots, onions, lentils and beans and orchards of walnuts, apples and cherries. Agriculture is second to tourism in Morocco’s economy.

I gazed ever upwards at the High Atlas peaks, North Africa’s highest mountain range, known by the local Berbers as ‘Idraren Draren’, or Mountains of Mountains, a trekker’s paradise. They run diagonally across Morocco  for 1000 km and these saw-toothed Jurassic peaks act as a weather barrier between the mild Mediterranean climate to the north and the encroaching Sahara to the south. The peak we were going to attempt to climb, Mount Toubkal, is the highest of them all at 4167m.

The day grew hotter, and we stopped to nibble dates, figs and nuts, and to drink thirstily.  We climbed higher and left the domestic vegetables behind and now the hillside was dotted with gnarled juniper thickets. The smell was overpowering and the hard black berries carpeted the ground. The smell for me will always evoke the altitude sickness I suddenly experienced. At around 2,200m, I suddenly had the urge to retch, and I was so sick. I continued retching as I climbed and I felt overpowered by a headache and panic. I just wanted to stop, go home and never go back. Hamed put his arm round me and encouraged me to climb a little higher where we were due to stop and have lunch, and then we were to descend down through the juniper forest into the Azaden Valley and on to the next village where we were due to spend the night. If I could continue I would feel better, once I had some rehydration drink. I trusted him, and staggered upwards and I did improve and enjoyed the peace and shade whilst we all rested. No one else seemed to be affected.

Sure enough I perked up on the descent, and joined in the fun of the first overnight stay in  the most basic of hostels. We shared dorms, queued for two toilets, along with another German group, and brushed teeth alongside strangers.

The evening ritual of ceremonial tea pouring from silver tea pots began. This must be where the expression ‘high tea’ comes from. It was nice, mint and refreshing. I felt fine.

That night the altitude was 1,850m.

The following morning we trekked steadily up through the valley, towards the Tizi Mzik pass.

I began well, but as we got to 2,489m I became breathless, each step was an effort. I knew my limitations, and I knew I could not climb higher. The next stage was an ascent of 1,257m and I was struggling. Mohammed could see my distress, and agreed that I should stay behind at the next village of Aremd which has an altitude of 1,950m.

On the high pass we came across a stall selling freshly squeezed orange juice.

Oh my, it was so good. We posed in front of the most wonderful kaleidoscope of mountains.

Naturally, I had to restrain myself from launching into song. Julie Andrews is still deeply imbedded inside me! The hills are alive! And then it was down down down down, passing the hedgehog plants, spiny, domed bushes that burst into flower,

until we stopped for  lunch under the shade of the juniper tree. There were hot lentils, a massive platter of tomatoes, cucumber, olives, beetroot, peppers, almonds, arranged artistically with slices of melon for dessert.

Our new hostel was a modern gite set high up in the village. Looking over the balcony on the roof terrace I could see a captivating mix of terraced farming and stunning mountains. This sleepy village would be my home for the next three days.

The following morning I said farewell to John and the group as they set off for the Mountain Refuge high up on Toubkal, where they would stay a night before attempting the summit. The mules left, then the climbers and suddenly it was silent. Only me and the cook, another Mohammed, who was designated to look after me.

I read, washed some clothes, and then he prepared my lunch. My own tajine, salad, brochette, and rice. I felt like a queen in my tower! It was such bliss, silence, peace and no demands of me.

A young girl checked into the gite. She was full of smiles and joy. She befriended me in an instant. She was Camille, she was French and a textile designer. She was here to recruit local women to sew intricate local designs that she hoped she could interest the designers in Paris. Would I like to go for a walk with her? Oh yes!

We wandered down the crooked street and came to the outlying orchards where the cherry harvest was in full swing.

The paths through the trees were running with juices, and boys were hidden in the branches of the trees collecting the black fruit. Would we like some? Oh yes! We laughed at each other as juice ran down our chins. Camille was agile and young as a goat; in contrast I took my time balancing along thin walls, and clambered over loose stone dykes. She patiently offered me her hand, a stranger an hour ago and yet we were sharing this magical place with no fear or inhibitions. We gasped as a brown snake slithered past our boots, disappearing into the green vegetation.

Ladies gathered together after a funeral on the path, all greeting the widow who stood under a bower of apple, walnut and cherry trees. A little boy seized my hand then kissed it. Camille told me this is what youngsters do to older people as respect. Above the verdant  orchards, the High Atlas mountains loomed, huge and golden, framing the sky. Somewhere up there John and the group were slowly making their way to the Refuge before the big push tomorrow.

Camille pointed out the military post where hikers must submit their passports and show evidence of their group and guide, a sad reminder of the terrible beheading of two Scandinavian girls that occurred earlier this year in the next village. The continuing shame still haunts the local people, the suspicion that fell on all the local men. Camille knows about it as she arrived a week after the girls were killed.

Camille is very friendly with a local family in the village and is negotiating for possible business opportunities for her textile interests. She took me into a room behind the mosque, where some ladies were busy on sewing machines.

I was impressed with their intricate stitching, a far cry from  the rather tacky crocheting efforts that you see for sale. Baby clothes in crochet, in shades of purple and yellow.

Later we shared mint tea as the sun set over the great pink bulk of the mountain and talked with ease, like-minded spirits, regardless of age, time or geography.

Alone again, after eating my evening meal in glorious isolation, I listened to children laughing outside, and watched women climb on to their roofs to water their plants. The sky turned white and pink and the palest blue. Night was falling. My thoughts drifted again to the refuge, no thick lush vegetation there, no paths stained black with the juice of cherries, just the hard relentless rock and dangerous scree.

The following day I read and dozed. The great mountains drowsed with me, silent sentinels of human endeavour. John  would be up on the summit, I keep looking up at the hard slab of rock, pink in the midday sun as I ate my beautifully prepared lunch.

Mohammed loaned me his two sons, aged 11 and 9, to escort me as guides down to the waterfall. We set off, me in hiking boots and the boys in flip flops. I try to entice them with my fluent French, ‘Comment vous appelez-vous?’ and that was the end of communications. Mustapha and Omar.

We wove our way down through the uneven track through the village, me wishing I had my poles for support, then we took a path consisting of giant boulders and somehow I jarred a knee. Oh dear me. My group are hiking high in the clouds and I hurt my knee… Oh the shame. I gave up my dignity and slithered down on my rear end, the boys watching the whole performance with wide eyes showing not a whit of compassion.

Anyway I viewed the waterfall and the lush trees and the heavy canopy. It was a right old playground, with mattresses strewn around for afternoon reclining, and lots of orange juice vendors to keep everyone hydrated beside the cascading waterfall.

My two young friends had little to say. I must have been overwhelming for them. When we reached the bottom I just hoped and prayed that I would be able to climb up with dignity, and I did, surprisingly! The knee felt stronger on the ascent, so fewer dramatic manoeuvres were required to overcome the boulders.

I returned to my roof top eyrie and kept up my mountain watch. The mists suddenly developed into thick cloud. Toubkal was covered in a  thick veil. It felt cold and windy, black birds circled around. I hoped John was OK.

Camille has gone, and I had another wonderful banquet on my own. I felt echoes of my life in Vietnam when I spent solitary days in Tien Yen, in a self-imposed confinement. I quite liked it. Though maybe not for too long.

And  they all returned! Safe well, sunburnt and tired. Even our London wild child made it, cajoled and bribed by Hamed to the top.

Three others did not make it, the scree and wild terrain was too off-putting, but John did, and was exultant to stand and pose with the conquerors. He was so happy with himself, and quite rightly so.

He said the downward descent was treacherous. The going was rough and loose  and the scree so dangerous that even the nimble youngsters fell once or twice. John did come a cropper; he lost his footing in the grit and scree, and tumbled off the narrow path and over the edge, but fortunately he landed on a big boulder, and was saved from plummeting hundreds of metres. Alison, who was behind him, later congratulated him on his  aerobics as he flew horizontally over the precipice!

Everyone was quiet and subdued at dinner; they had all pushed themselves, and all had found it challenging, and all had survived to tell their tales. I smiled happily, and told them about the snake I had seen. They were very enthralled!

Hamed told us about the marriage markets in Morocco, where country people gather to eye each other up and sign contracts for husbands and wives, and possibly buy and sell some sheep or goats. ‘You just look around and if you see a girl who is very beautiful or has beautiful eyes, then you go and talk to her father and then you sign the papers.’ Talk about the 30 second rule of attraction… you apparently can tell if you are physically attracted in the blink of an eye.

And the mission was accomplished. The bags packed, the tips paid to muleteers and cooks, and the minibus took us back to Marrakech.

Suddenly it was noisy, busy and the obligatory visit to the Medina and the souks were such a contrast to the almost aesthetic purity of our mountain retreat.

We ate with some of the group, the others were off at a hammam,

then we went to haggle for the last minute souvenirs in the now dark Medina square. It was edgy, frightening, aggressive. Yet there was a wonderful confusion of noise and colour; streets alive with drummers, musicians, snake charmers, beggars, and blind men. One lady had her dying husband draped over her legs with a begging bowl in front of them. The only thing in the bowl was a packet of cigarettes.

Could it be that we were there just a week? We are home now, and my dry skin is covered in Argon oil, the boots and laundry are all clean and put away. My new Sahara Blue scarf is in readiness for another adventure, as I have been taught how to wrap it around the head in a turban in the fashion of Lawrence of Arabia. Who knows? A camel ride in the desert, or a walk in the high Himalayas? Dreams do come true!