After a 6-hour journey into the desert, army trucks deliver us to our destination.
A mad scramble follows as we rush to secure both tent location and tentmates (which will then remain the same at every camp, for every stage to come)
A brief 5 minutes of self-satisfaction after this achievement, was then abruptly interrupted by a rainstorm, followed by a sandstorm that soaked and covered in grit, all items just unpacked. And then our bivouac (a sideless ‘tent’ made from sticks and sewn coffee bags) blew over. Not for the first time -or, I suspect the last, I wonder what the hell I’m doing.
The mood is lightened a little, by a Frenchman who either drunk or mad, runs through the camp, the gale and the rain, in nothing but a pair of incredibly small, black Y-fronts.
In a very British fashion we all titter and marvel at the liberal and eccentric nature of our European neighbours.
A greater alleviation came in the form of the evening supper provided where, after queuing for an hour; we were rewarded with a ridiculously generous chicken chasseur, served –to mild surprise, with a choice of either beer or wine. God bless the French.
