Waking up in Camp 11 was significant from two perspectives. The first was that Peter W., who had been one of the original driving forces of the Trek, had to leave us.

Waking up on what I’d nicknamed the Mongolian Plain felt good. The previous evening, I’d managed to use a spray bottle to wash down my body, and although it was the chilliest of ‘showers’, it felt good to have a clean set of clothes on skin that had seen some soap.

It had been a short night. We’d arrived at camp well after dark, with the focus on getting the camels to rest, changing out of our riding clothes, cleaning up any injuries, and getting some sleep. No sooner had my head hit the bag I was using as a pillow than my alarm was sounding in the pitch dark at 0600.

Craig and I had surveyed the first five legs of the route the previous December, following our rider training in Tabuk. I remember vividly standing at the chosen location for Camp 5, staring at the ridgeline across a dried-up riverbed, and saying, “I hope to Christ we can find a way through that”.

On day six, I woke slightly before my alarm, which was set for 0600. Despite the cold of the night, I’d been cosy.