We woke late and found Absalam had thoughtfully covered the bikes with a tarpaulin to shelter them from the rain during the night, and was now preparing our breakfast: coffee, fried eggs and bread, with fresh figs and apricots from the trees outside. This was the real Moroccan hospitality which my sister had told me about after her trip here a few years before!

We thanked Absalam profusely and gave him some dirham, before setting off south over the mountains. Today the aim was to get onto a dirt road marked as "scenic" on the map, which would take us all the way over the mountains to Fes-el-Bali.

After 50km of tarmac we finally got onto Moroccan dirt among some green and forested mountains. I had expected Morocco to be hot and dry, and was surprised to find green deciduous trees and even showers of rain, which meant there were even muddy ruts along the track, which made it quite technical in places. We were struggling a little to get used to the XRs with the extra 20-30 kilos of fuel and luggage, which made them noticeably harder to turn and steer through ruts, but it was good to at last be off the tarmac. Now and then we would get onto a really fast smooth dusty track with long curves where we could hold it wide open in fourth and fifth round the curves, leaning the bike slightly as the back end kicks out a little. Then seeing an old man up ahead leading a mule loaded high with hay; slowing down and hitting the kill button to coast past, and not frighten the animal. Nor the old man for that matter..

As we worked our way south asking directions every 10km or so (not many signposts on dirt roads!), we found people became more and more vague about the exact location of Fes-el-Bali. On the map it was marked as quite a major town, so we were puzzled. One young guy we asked said something about "le barrage", but we didn't really understand until we came over the hill from where we expected to be able to see down the river valley to Fes-el-Bali and instead saw an immense expanse of water, nearly a mile wide, and at least 10 miles long! "How are we going to cross that?" I asked myself. It turned out that they had dammed the whole valley and Fes-el-Bali was now officially off our itinerary, being under 150 feet of water.

By nightfall we had made another 80km south and arrived at Fes, the former capital city of Morocco which dates back at least a thousand years. It has impressive fortified city walls which stretch for miles around the old towns, and a solid casbah (fortress). However we passed by these and opted for a comfortable hotel in the new part of town, as it had a locked-up area to park the bikes overnight. After a tajin (Moroccan meat and vegetable stew) and a couple of beers (which are difficult to get, outside the main cities and tourist areas, Morocco being a Muslim country), we slept, fairly knackered after a hard days' ride.

After a short trip to the local welder to fix a broken side stand on Patrick's bike, we set off again (on tarmac) for Azrou, where the next long dirt section started. We passed through rolling green landscape under a hot sun, and through the town of Ifrane, which wouldn't look out of place in Central France: modern semi-detached suburban houses, wide modern streets with street lighting and neat gardens. Perhapsit's where all the rich Moroccans have a holiday home in the mountains.

After a good meal in Azrou (beetroot, carrot and tomato salad, followed by lamb and kidney kebabs on a stick) we climbed onto a moorland plateau where we left the tarmac for some fast dirt road and open moorland grass sections: this was fun !

We then reached the famous cedar forests which lie to the south of Azrou. These forests are laced with tracks and paths and we spent a couple of hours exploring, seeing no-one except for some surprised nomadic forest-dwellers who seemed to be burning large piles of wood covered in earth to make charcoal; and a Moroccan military camp, to which we gave a wide berth, just in case. We even found a couple of places to play around and do jumps. Eventually we headed south and as the sun was setting got completely lost in some very technical woodland. We had been following a path, hoping it would lead us back to where we knew there was a good dirt road, but the track just petered out. So we started collecting firewood (it was getting a bit chilly as we were at 1800m altitude) and prepared our sleeping bags to spend the night. Unfortunately the only food we had was one Power Bar, so as the fire blazed up and we dried off our sweaty kit, I carefully cut it into three equally-sized pieces and we slowly chewed them, savouring every morsel! The night was clear and we could see millions of stars. We counted shooting stars and passing satellites while falling asleep.

The next morning we were woken by the sound of goat-bells and the arrival of a toothless old shepherd who was carrying a jam-jar full of freshly-made mint tea and some bread for our breakfast. He explained that he had heard the noise of the bikes the night before, and guessed that we had got a bit lost, and would need some breakfast. Again our guardian angel and the famous Moroccan hospitality had seen us through in time of need! We thanked him profusely and gave him some dirham and a Nolotil painkiller tablet as he had a toothache. Bad luck, really, toothache when you've only got five teeth..

We set off re-tracing our tracks of the night before; or at least I did: I got separated from the others, who unknown to me had found an easy track back up the valley. I meanwhile was trying to negotiate the 45-degree slopes we had come down, dropping the bike every two minutes and exhausting myself as I tried to pick it up before all the fuel ran out (the second-hand five-gallon Acerbis tank I had bought for the trip had a broken vent on the cap). I had been cold and slept badly the night before and felt in no shape to be wrestling with a 150kg lump of metal on a hillside far from home. This was my low point of the trip so far: I couldn't hear nor see the others and really felt I wasn't going to be able to get the bike up the slope in the shape I was in. However after twenty minutes' rest I had psyched myself up: after all, this was terrain I would have no problem with back home.

After an hour and a half since I last saw the others, I finally made it up to the top, where the others were waiting, a little bit concerned by my disappearance.

We made our way south and spent the night in a French-colonial-style hotel in the town of Khenifra. One of my pannier bags had worn through so I bought a cheap travel bag to use as a pannier for the rest of the trip. We stored the bikes overnight in what seemed to be a ballroom in the downstairs part of the hotel; however we had to wait until 10pm to bring the bikes indoors, as by that time the old man who looked after that room would be asleep: it seemed he wasn't too keen on dirt bikes being stored there. Wonder why..

We set off early on the tarmac road to make some distance south, then turned off onto the scenic dirt road to Tounfite and Tagoudit, as it had been recommended a friend of Patrick's who had visited this part of Morocco previously.

Soon we were fairly lost, due to the plethora of dirt tracks in all directions. After asking directions at a small bridge where women were washing clothes in the river we got onto a tiny footpath which wound among the cultivated fields beside a river, dropping into mini-gorges where the path had subsided or just disappeared. Eventually the footpath widened into a track suitable for 4-wheeled vehicles and we made better progress.

I took a fast fall at one fast corner and managed to somehow bend my clutch lever forward so that it completely doubled back on itself: however it was still useable, with enough space for two fingers to pull the lever.

Eventually we arrived at Tounfite where we refilled with fuel for the long off-road section ahead. Here we met the only officious policemen on our whole trip: they wanted from us all details about us and our trip: where we had been, and when; what was our profession; our father's names and mother's maiden names ! Grating our teeth and trying to remain polite, we answered all their questions and volunteered some extra information about our favourite colours and the relative merits of African and European swallows. Eventually once they had two full pages of information in their notebook we were able to set off for Tagoudit.

The track we were on followed the course of a small river, which we had to ford every couple of kilometres, which was fun and kept us cool.

Aware of the sun becoming lower in the sky and that we would probably be sleeping rough again tonight (there were 110km of off-road to reach Imilchil, the next town), we stocked up in Tagoudit on some cans of sardines, bread, sachets of instant coffee and a can of evaporated milk for the evening meal, which we prepared as the sun set, on a grassy bank beside the river. We shared some sardines and bread with a couple of local lads who had turned up to watch us set up camp and build the fire.