Mr Abdul Hamil (?) has 2 rooms adjoining the living room; the one I shared with Khalid had a glass fronted wardrobe with glassware, photographs and Christmas cracker type plastic toys (?). There was a pile of mattresses in the corner – we had two, and two were laid in the living room for, I presume, Mr Abdul, wife and littlest one. In the morning he roused me peremptorily and sent me on my way with hardly a word (at 5.30am!).

While the sun rose, I wandered up and down the street listening to the cement works in the distance and looking at the half finished (but inhabited) houses. After an hour of this, I gave up and paid a pick-up driver to take me to Shobak. He drove incredibly carefully, economically even – who’d have thought it in a Middle Eastern country! He also stopped once, pulled a small branch from a roadside plant and rubbed it to release a herby smell. He said it makes a good brew for stomach problems (siih [wormwood? As in Artemisinins, Absinthe, anti-spasmodic]).

Shobak was pretty, looking over a little wadi, a few shops (with good choice of vegetables! Cauliflowers, aubergines etc). But again, no chance of a ride until the Amman bus 4 hours later, so I walked to the castle just out of the village. Like Karak, there’s not much in the way of thrusting battlements, but the road had to wind around the hill to reach it, in the proper way. It didn’t have the big halls of Karak but pastoral views and sounds made up for it. And this time I found a staircase winding underground for 55 steps! Exciting stuff, but nothing at the end, not even a room, just a dead end. Hitched back to the main road with some Irish folk, then a taxi gave me a free ride back to town! Eventually a service taxi came by with 2 Aussies in front, a religious family in the back (3 kids) but they squeezed me in.

Petra was busy with tourists, and the stables and horses reminded me of the Pyramids. I mingled with the multitude going down the wadi – it differed from the usual in having broad rock faces, and in these tombs and icons began to appear. I ignored them and carried on sneezing from the dust of the horses’ hooves, as the wadi narrowed and deepened to become the siq. The sides are not sheer, but bevelled, so they seem frozen in motion, overhanging. And although I wasn’t expecting a surprise, especially with the tourists around, the appearance of the Treasury (Khasneh) building was really awesome. You don’t appreciate the size of it from photos or films.

To get off the beaten track ASAP, I veered off and up to the high place of sacrifice. Steps are cut into the marvellous multi-coloured rock, which wind up the crag to reach a refreshments tent (a la Bedouin), above which are two obelisks, also part of the rock, and above those a wonderful stone cut altar – steps lead up to it , channels run off it, and it has a dramatic view. Taking another way down, I passed a life sized lion sculpted from the rock, with channels running down to its head (a bit beat up). They must have had plenty of water, the Nabataeans, to have such fountains. Above the Roman tomb there was a squat dark opening, about 12 foot up the sheer face. Some Bedouin women and children laughed to see me try to climb it, but I managed it – it was empty but the dust and straw were undisturbed, and my feet sank softly into the ground leaving deep prints, and the only ones but for thin lizard tracks. Magic, untouched atmosphere (and I don’t have to feel guilty either). Feast hall opposite has false columns, and the rock has a red and black Art nouveau marbled pattern (or like oak grain).

Lizards scuttle, invisible birds twitter (saw an eagle from the road this morning! Gorgeous). Meet my French friends at a café, where I have a sandwich without too much ill effect. I’m feeling good, just now hungry. A young man from one of the souvenir stalls invites me to his home in the Bedouin village for the evening. But it is just a village and he wants money, so I put it off. A 10 year old called Kasan says there is swimming down the nearby wadi, when I ask if there is a spring. We set off alongside the hoses from the restaurant and enter a garden of ripening figs, grapes, oleander and olive bushes. There is a small algal spring but we continue until we hear those excited shouts which always mean swimming. Below us is a turquoise pool, where a man and 8 kids are splashing around. They welcome me in, and fill my bottle from where the spring runs down the rock (now substantial). They dive, paddle, bask, and dry off by a wood fire! We talk lots, and they seem really happy with their lives. Kasan even said his mother (widowed) was happy. I’m not wearing trunks and the sight of my penis initiates a session of penis comparison. Aaron, the father of two of them, included. Walking back Muhammad plucks me a bunch of grapes.

This site is enormous, even just what is within sight. Though it isn’t as old as the Valley of Kings, and lacks the art and treasure, the landscape is beautiful, by turns grand and intricate. I join the trekkers up to El Deir, the Monastery, but clamber around the surrounding bumps and crags. Stairs, caves, tombs appear. But so too do great piles of Pepsi cans and mineral water bottles. There’s already too much rubbish on the main routes. El Deir is again impressive, but as you climb higher it becomes insignificant among the peaks. TO the west, other ritual places just out before a vista of mountains and gorges disappearing into the haze. The beginning of Wadi Araba, I think. The sun sets in a blood red sea, the landscape merges into its own shadows, and a few lights are visible far away and below. There is a square well on one of the ridges covered with corrugated iron with a plastic bucket beside, so I have water. The wind blows warm and strong. I’m in an open cave, but there are people above me, and I’ve seen others sitting around just like me, without the dead give away rucksac.