To reach Henties Bay we had to cross the Namib Desert. This is reputed to be one of the oldest in the world and I hoped our little Sirion car was tough enough to bounce its way across. This was no place to get marooned. As we approached the Atlantic coast the sky became overcast and fog began to develop. It only took five minutes and I began to miss clear, blue skies and sunshine. We had passed from summer to autumn in a few moments. The sky was leaden and the air cold. We hit the Atlantic coast at right angles and headed south to Henties Bay. This stretch of coast is a favourite for South African fishermen who gather here in shoals. The town was shrouded in mist and deserted. I had not felt so miserable about visiting the sea since we had turned up at Morecombe Bay in the drizzle many years before. This certainly wasn’t the hot, sunny Africa we had become used to. We had brought tents but we could not bring ourselves to face the inevitable misery involved. We found a tolerable apartment advertised in a local supermarket. Once we had a roof for the night Georgina announced she wanted to drive up to Cape Cross to see the large colony of seals. To me it was a plan guaranteed to make us more miserable. But it was good. As we walked onto the boardwalk viewing platform the noise and stench from the fat, slimy creatures hit you. There were thousands of heads bobbing around but only one toilet, the beach. The colony was a huge food store for hyena and black-backed jackals. We had seen a jackal on the road to the beach and were warned that they were often rabid. On the edge of the seal colony a dead jackal lay on the rocks and, sure enough, it had been foaming at the mouth.

I was delighted to leave Henties Bay behind us early the next morning hoping we would escape the gloom in Swakopmund. We didn’t. Either the depression followed us, or it was already there. Admittedly, we did not see Swakopmund at it’s sunny best, but one could get the idea of this Namibian Weston-super-mare, teeming with South African and German holiday-makers and wishing you weren’t there. We did, however, have a delicious mug of hot chocolate in a smart cafe just around the corner from the beach, but the owner, who welcomed us with open arms when we arrived, greeted our departure with brusque indifference. Maybe we didn’t spend enough? Still, the hot chocolate and restrooms were welcome. We visited Paul’s antique shop and marvelled at the souvenirs from the Third Reich but resisted buying a German military helmet, though it might have fitted under the bed and been useful at night.

Swakopmund was a disappointment. Walvis Bay was worse. It is a working fishing port and has an air of shabbiness and decay about it. Fresh fish would be the natural thing to eat for lunch. But the best we could find was a Kentucky Fried Chicken, which we took to the attractive lagoon in the better part of the town, where we sat eating our American fast food looking at the flock of flamingos.

Hopefully, the world’s highest sand dunes at Sosousvlei would be different. They were spectacular and were at their best at first light looking just like the photos you see in the guide books and the Windows desktop image. We drove down the winding road between the dunes to reach the car park and the short trek to the main dunes, meaning to take photographs of the dunes we passed on the way back. Of course, the light had changed by then and most of the dramatic shadows had softened. We climbed the ridge of one of the highest dunes and galumphed our way back down the side. I didn’t break my neck and felt ten years old again.

We headed back towards Windhoek as there were only a few days before Sally’s flight to the UK. The dirt road through the scrub seemed endless and our bodies continued to vibrate even when the car had stopped. It was a relief to arrive at the tar road at Malteghohe and find our campsite for the night. This was situated in the front garden of a house and craft studio. The lady of the house kept a few dogs which she let prowl around the camping area at will. One of these was large, powerful and aggressive. “They are good dogs and won’t get in your way,” she reassured us. One, a powerful-looking Rottweiler, she kept caged up during the day, letting it scare off intruders at night. She had to introduce it to us so that it did not take us for burglars and eat us. It sniffed our tent, cocked his leg and weed on it. We lit a fire to cook our food. The dogs sat with us looking hungry and expectant. I, for one, was not prepared to argue if they decided our food belonged to them. We cooked and they stared and licked their lips. The tension became unbearable. In the end we had to ask the owner to lock her pack away from us, which she did. “By the way, she added. I always let the pony out at night to have a walk around.” We cowered in bed that night listening to the clip, clop of heavy metal hooves inches from our heads and we hoped the pony would not copy the disrespect to our tent shown by the Baskerville hound, at least, not while we were in it.

Back in Windhoek we had a proper bed at the Rivendell Guest House, and, boy, did it feel good. Our little Sirion had brought us back safely and looked weary, having travelled thousands of miles around Namibia, as it sat in the car park caked with mud. “What would Simon, our car expert in the family do?” I thought to myself. So I gave it a good wash.

It was sad to say goodbye to Sally and watch her drive off to the airport But we had Christmas to look forward to when we would meet up, not only with our children, but the Maust family, too. Wow.

We stayed in Rundu for the next few days to catch our breath before heading south to the Etosha National Park and the coast. This gave us a chance to chill out, and for Sally to visit Georgina’s school and meet the learners. On our way to Etosha we camped overnight at Treesleepers where elevated platforms allow you to pitch your tent amongst the branches of the trees. A wooden spiral staircase is built in, so you don’t actually have to climb the tree. It is a long and perilous way to the lavatory from the platform, so if you think you can hear the distant sound of Victoria Falls in the middle of the night you can imagine what is occurring. Unless the moon is shining, the total blackness and absolute absence of artificial light will protect anyone’s modesty.

The Etosha National Park is the main Game Reserve in Namibia. It covers a vast area and has a large, dried up lake at its heart. If you’re lucky, you can see any number of zebra, springbok, Kudu, giraffe, wildebeste, elephant, etc. You have to be lucky to see lion and rhino, and really lucky to see leopard or cheetah. Buy a lottery ticket on that day. Naturally, when the animals hear that we are arriving, they scoot over to the other side of the park which is closed to visitors. In the several times we have visited we have seen most animals in various numbers, but we have not yet had occasion to do the lottery. With Sally we took the main route through Etosha stopping at the best waterholes on the way. Leaving one, we saw the biggest herd of zebra we have ever seen, coming out of the bush and heading straight towards us in our parked car. I hesitate to say this but no doubt they were looking for the zebra crossing. One of the most striking features of Etosha is the dried up salt lake at its heart. We drove onto the pan and surveyed the stark whiteness all around us. It’s an amazing sight. The Halali rest camp, with its shop, restaurant, information centre and watering hole, is a tourist village half way along the main route. The camping site resembles a hardcore car park which did not look at all appealing. I am told that the once pristine ablution block have deteriorated a lot. At the Anderrson Gate, the Park’s exit, we climbed the old brick tower and watched 2 old elephants destroying a tree just below us. As it would soon be getting dark we found a campsite just down the road. We arrived just before a large safari bus full of intrepid explorers who, fortunately preferred exploring the other side of the campsite.

We set off early the next morning for Outjo and, beyond that, the Atlantic coast. Sally was driving and enjoying the blue skies and empty, straight road. We were travelling fast, but safely. We could see as far as a mile ahead. The two black dots on the road ahead gradually turned into little figures, larger men and then full-sized policemen. Unfortunately, one had his arm raised, beckoning us to stop. “What’s your hurry?” he asked, good-humouredly. It was 7am on Sunday morning, no other cars in a five mile radius. Why were the police mounting a road block just for us? They didn’t seem that serious about it anyway. They sent us on our way with the advice to drive more slowly as we were just entering Outjo. He was right and the whole town seemed asleep apart from a few pedestrians and a couple of bare-breasted Himba women plus baby sitting by the side of the road selling jewellery. We took photos and Sally bought a trinket. Suddenly, a line of police cars shot around the corner at great speed, sirens blazing. Was the US President in town and under terrorist attack? The police response could not have been greater. We drove around and discovered police officers on every corner. At 7 o’clock on a Sunday morning this must have been a training exercise and explained our road block on the edge of town.

From Outjo we headed towards Khorixas. The deserted road was metalled, the scenary picturesque. Instead of the ubiquitous, flat, somewhat tedious, Namibian scrubland, we had interesting, rolling, Namibian hills. I was looking forward to getting to Khorixas. The name sounded exotic and alluring, like Timbuktu or Xanadu. In fact, it turned out to be a dilapidated, one-horse town, with a donkey instead of the horse. It was shabby and sleepy, the people looking as though if they were still suffering the effects of too much homebrew the previous night. But there was a filling station, and it was foolish in this semi-arid desert to pass a filling station without filling. Who knows where the next one would be? A group of aging Hell’s Angels had parked their huge machines by every pump (at least 2) and didn’t seem in a hurry to move. I had almost decided to send Sally out to give them some grief, but they moved off before she could get at them, the cowards. Next to the garage was a supermarket that had a group of males hanging around the shop entrance looking bored and thirsty. They did not look too intimidating but they followed with their eyes every movement we made until we were safely inside the store. The best crisps in Namibia are Simba Creamy Cheddar. We could only find small bags but we bought them anyway. Talking about cheese, there is confusion about the different varieties in Namibia. There is only one sort of Cheddar that tastes anything at all like Cheddar and that is made by Parmalat. The rest is rubbery and processed tasting as though it was made of plasticine. There is Gouda which is actually Edam, and Edam here is more like Emmental. The fridges are stacked with feta cheese and there is a South African version of Brie that is quite pleasant. Variety and choice are two unknown words in the Namibian English dictionary.

We backtracked a kilometre down the road leaving Khorixas behind us without a second glance and headed for the Brandberg mountains. The tar soon gave way to gravel and we began to leave a large cloud of dust trailing behind us. There were no cars following us to be inconvenienced and we met few cars coming towards us. The journey was long and arduous, the highlight being when we passed through the sign saying we were crossing the Tropic of Capricorn, but it felt just the same on one side as the other. Although the mountains and undulating road made the scenery much more interesting than the tedious flat scrubland of our usual Windhoek – Rundu route, we were being constantly bounced up and down and buffeted by the gravel roads.

Before scrub gave way to desert, we came across a group of huts all selling small Herero rag dolls. The ladies selling them wore traditional Herero costume including the headdress that resembles a cow’s horns. This exhibition was pulling in the tourists and the ladies were doing a steady trade. The amusing thing was that the Herero costume was not traditional in that part of Namibia. Evidently, someone had decided it would be good for trade, and it was.