as it hurt to prise my eyes open at 5.30am, I knew the next excursion would be worth the wake-up call.
This time the watchtower would not do and a group of camels was summoned to take us further into the desert, to a spot of complete isolation. In the pitch black, we could just make out the line of animals waiting for us in the sand, their owner huddled next to them.
Initially I worried about my lack of horsemanship but camels are like armchairs on legs, transporting all manner of shapes, sizes and abilities without too much fuss. Wrapped up in Berber scarfs against the early morning wind, our group headed for a Roman fort perched high in the middle of the sand dunes.
The desert daylight came quickly, and the brown-stone ruin in the distance played a disappearing trick – coming into view then vanishing as our camels plodded up and down the dunes.
Suddenly we were there. From the fort’s high vantage point, we watched the birds wake up and soar off for prey and marvelled at the endless sand, wet from the night rain and now brick red. Time for a photo of the sunrise, and then back to the civilisation of the oasis for a fry-up and pot of tea.
Back on the minibus for our whistle-stop tour of the south, the desert scrub turned into canyon country – dramatic red sandstone mountains and gorges, and hairpin bends to put our driver through his paces.
There was so much to see. The ancient Berber village of Chenini carved out of the rock it stands on, unchanged for centuries, except for a few souvenir shops. Then there are the abandoned granaries of Ksar Hadada and Tataouine, like huge stone beehives; and the cave houses of Matmata, hollowed in traditional fashion out of the sandy rock, where we had the chance to taste freshly-baked bread and locally-produced olive oil.
In between each pit stop we admired terraces of olive trees, clinging impossibly to the mountainside, gleaming white mosques where you would least expect to see them, goat herders in jeans, and velvet-backed donkeys ploughing fields.
And then on to the nearby island of Djerba, reached via a tarmac causeway from the mainland. Its lazy, rural feel has attracted scores of German visitors but the British have yet to discover its charms.
Houmt Souk, the main market town, picturesque in white stone and blue wooden shutters, is a great place to round off your trip and buy souvenirs. A mass of alleys yield hidden antique shops full of ancient coins, paintings, puppets, pottery and wooden ploughs – and the age of the spoils make it more of a museum than a shop.
More up-to-date items await around the corner – traders yell out to you to buy leather jackets, slippers, waistcoats, bags, carpets and the ubiquitous toy camel.
Just make sure you have your haggling hat on.
ksar ghilane tented camp
Best time to go:mid-September to mid-May. In July and August it is too hot to visit – the temperature can go up to 65C.
Number of tents: 60.
Facilities:swimming pool and hot spa pool. The restaurant serves Tunisian specialities of roast lamb, grilled chicken and salads, washed down with local Magon red wine.
Style:Habitat meets Berber.
Excursions: camel treks, day trips to the market town of Douz and to Matmata’s cave dwellings.
Cost:Wigmore Holidays offers the camp from £45 per person per night. It is brochured as an add-on to Djerba, where a seven-night holiday in a four-star hotel costs from £486, including flights and half-board.
Getting there:flights to Djerba via Tunis from Heathrow or Gatwick. It’s then a 3hr 30mins transfer by four-wheel-drive vehicle from Djerba to Ksar Ghilane. It costs £300 per jeep for a return transfer for up to five people.
DESIGNER canvas awaited us. Imagine a row of silvery white tents under the green palm trees of an oasis in southern Tunisia, the picture completed by beige- coloured sand and a brilliant- blue swimming pool.
After a rollercoaster four-wheel drive down dirt tracks, with barren desert scrub to the left and right, our group now stood on the edge of the Sahara, at the Ksar Ghilane tented camp.
We got there just in time for sunset thanks to our Tunisian rally driver. He had gone hell for leather as he knew that just 10mins later and we would have missed the rays going down over the dunes. To catch that special moment, the camp has its own stone watchtower, and we dutifully fired off some rounds of film.
Ksar Ghilane is a tented camp but this is camping with a difference.
There was not a sleeping bag or ground sheet in sight. The tents are pitched on solid wooden platforms and they have pine beds and gleaming en-suite bathrooms with plumbed-in showers.
The stylish rugs on the floor and walls, and matching bedspreads, are best described as Habitat meets Berber. There is air conditioning for the summer and, thankfully, heating for the winter. At night, the wind kept the temperature firmly below zero but once I closed the flap and sealed myself inside the heavy-duty canvas walls, the tent became a cosy haven.
The only thing missing was a mini bar but for one night, in the middle of the desert, I felt I could live without that.
Sunrise was the first thing on the agenda the next day. Much as it hurt to prise my eyes open at 5.30am, I knew the next excursion would be worth the wake-up call.
This time the watchtower would not do and a group of camels was summoned to take us further into the desert, to a spot of complete isolation. In the pitch black, we could just make out the line of animals waiting for us in the sand, their owner huddled next to them.
Initially I worried about my lack of horsemanship but camels are like armchairs on legs, transporting all manner of shapes, sizes and abilities without too much fuss. Wrapped up in Berber scarfs against the early morning wind, our group headed for a Roman fort perched high in the middle of the sand dunes.
The desert daylight came quickly, and the brown-stone ruin in the distance played a disappearing trick – coming into view then vanishing as our camels plodded up and down the dunes.
Suddenly we were there. From the fort’s high vantage point, we watched the birds wake up and soar off for prey and marvelled at the endless sand, wet from the night rain and now brick red. Time for a photo of the sunrise, and then back to the civilisation of the oasis for a fry-up and pot of tea.
Back on the minibus for our whistle-stop tour of the south, the desert scrub turned into canyon country – dramatic red sandstone mountains and gorges, and hairpin bends to put our driver through his paces.
There was so much to see. The ancient Berber village of Chenini carved out of the rock it stands on, unchanged for centuries, except for a few souvenir shops. Then there are the abandoned granaries of Ksar Hadada and Tataouine, like huge stone beehives; and the cave houses of Matmata, hollowed in traditional fashion out of the sandy rock, where we had the chance to taste freshly-baked bread and locally-produced olive oil.
In between each pit stop we admired terraces of olive trees, clinging impossibly to the mountainside, gleaming white mosques where you would least expect to see them, goat herders in jeans, and velvet-backed donkeys ploughing fields.
And then on to the nearby island of Djerba, reached via a tarmac causeway from the mainland. Its lazy, rural feel has attracted scores of German visitors but the British have yet to discover its charms.
Houmt Souk, the main market town, picturesque in white stone and blue wooden shutters, is a great place to round off your trip and buy souvenirs. A mass of alleys yield hidden antique shops full of ancient coins, paintings, puppets, pottery and wooden ploughs – and the age of the spoils make it more of a museum than a shop.
More up-to-date items await around the corner – traders yell out to you to buy leather jackets, slippers, waistcoats, bags, carpets and the ubiquitous toy camel.
Just make sure you have your haggling hat on.