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I stepped out of the plane and out of my comfort zone into the sunshine at Marrakech airport. I was nervous and unsure of what to expect from the first African country I'd visited.

I wasn't ready for the dusty roads and the skinny donkeys pulling those heavy carts. The unrendered buildings, the traffic chaos and potholes, the flat lands leading to the High Atlas mountains. My only comfort was the reassuring feel of the bike that I was riding. I felt every bit like the naive western tourist that I was.

This was day one of a 17 day cycle tour of the High Altas and Anti-Atlas mountains in Morocco, crossing 3 mountain passes and covering over 600 miles.

Day 1 - Marrakech to Tahanaoute (15 miles) 

The High Atlas mountains stretched out in front of us, but we still managed to set off in the wrong direction. After studying the map, drinking some water and looking round awkwardly, we eventually found the right road and took it.

We'd arrived early afternoon in Marrakech to bright sunshine and temperatures in the low 20's. The first day was always meant to be a steady introduction to Morocco and that's exactly what it became. We cycled a total of 15 miles to Tahanaoute and stopped for a coffee. Clueless about accommodation for the night, we asked the 'patron' and he said we'd be welcome to stay at his house. He seemed like a nice guy (which he was), so we took him up on the offer. Bikes were locked in a garage next to his cafe and we were picked up in a people carrier with 5 strangers in it, and driven off down the road. So, within 3 hours of arriving in Morocco, we'd been separated from our bikes and were being introduced to 3 generations of a family of complete strangers.

Our room was, I reckon, the master bedroom; not sure where the patron and his Mrs slept that night. I woke in the night to the sound of a rat scurrying round in the room. I woke Janyis to share my discovery. She listened and eventually pointed out that it was a carrier bag blowing in the wind outside. This was the first of a few paranoid episodes that we shared in our first couple of days in Morocco.

In the morning, the Patron and his wife had prepared breakfast for us and we sat down in a slightly awkward atmosphere of anticipation. I asked Janyis to mention payment for the room. The patron suggested 'trent dirham', I took this as 300 (French is my fifteenth language) and handed over 300 dirham (about £25). Janyis looked distraught (he'd asked for 30), but the patron and his Mrs were elated. We were offered more coffee and 'Laughing Cow' cheese and then invited to the wedding of their daughter. With happiness all around me, I genuinely felt that this was the best £25 I'd ever spent needlessly.

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Day 2 - Tahanaoute to Ouirgane (25 miles)

So, off we went, cycling at a brisk pace towards the High Atlas. It was another beautiful day and my wallet was 300 dirham lighter, so I was pedalling at top speed. The road climbed gently and then more steeply towards Asni, which is where we eventually arrived. Not the prettiest town by any stretch and lined with folk just dying to sell you something, so we cycled straight through and on towards Ouirgane.

By now, the countryside was very pretty and the roads were quiet. My initial nerves were being slowly pacified and I was enjoying the ride. So, we turned up in Ouirgane mid-afternoon and saw the signs for 'bed and breakfast'. This was the first bit of English I'd seen in Morocco, so I headed straight for it. The owner of the hotel only spoke French, but as luck would have it, a guy called Mohammed was there as well and he spoke English. The cost of a room was 250 dirham, which Janyis reckoned was a bit steep, so we decided to go off and think about it.

After a coffee and a chat between ourselves (and Mohammed) we decided to take the room.Not a bad place, with its own little garden and bathroom with shower (freezing). The bikes were put in a shed across from the room. Mohammed was still around and showed us his wares - an assortment of bracelets and caskets, the sort of stuff that I see in Brighton, but never buy. He managed to talk me into buying one of his caskets for 150 dirham, so that he 'could put bread into his children's mouths' and support his grandmother who lived in the mountains. Saw the same caskets a couple of days later for 45 dirham. Told you I was a naive tourist.

That night, Janyis woke me up, convinced that Mohammed was going to nick our bikes, because we'd not bought enough of his jewellry. Paranoid episode number 2.

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Day 3 - Ouirgane to Iguer (35 miles)

The following morning and we're off again. It turns out that Morocco had been deluged with rain until 3 days before we arrived. As you can see from the pic below, things had changed quite dramatically.

We stopped on a quiet, deserted part of the road for a coffee and bite to eat. Within seconds we heard shouting in the hills and saw kids running down at top speed. This was something we'd witness lots of - you're never alone for long in Morocco. The main reason for the excitement is that you'll be carrying pens (stylo) for them. In the unlikely event that you haven't got a pannier full of pens, they'll ask for bonbons. If you don't have any sweets they will, at a push, settle for hard cash (d'argent). The requests are consistent in every single village and made us wonder how this bizarre business came about. We found out from some English folk in a camper that well-meaning tourists used to bring loads of pens and sweets and throw them out of their windows for the kids as they travelled through the country. The tradition has changed but no one's told the locals, it seems.