Arnie stayed with Jaboud and his crew for the best part of three days. We never did find out what caused the crack in the fuel-tank seam.

But the tank came back from the welders and was refitted. Jaboud’s crew made a protection plate for it too on the grounds that you can’t be too careful.

And they added extra leaf springs in the rear suspension to stiffen it up a bit. I cos-played garage mechanic by crawling about checking stuff under Arnie, tightening, fixing and generally getting in the way. Though they did include me in their tea breaks. Handing me a glass of golden tea, mechanic Omar said “Berber whisky!” with a wink.

We stayed at the Riad next door – as camp a hotel as I have ever been in.

The proprietor, Ali, had a series of rooms full of treasures bought in trading trips to Timbuktu over decades.

There were camel skin satchels, ritual masks, great wooden doors from Amasigh kazbahs, ancient rifles, dowry chests, silver boxes and rugs from all over Morocco.

Mostly he sold it on to antique shops in Marrakesh and Rabat. I couldn’t help thinking that there were some extraordinary cultural treasures here.

Until quite recently, Zagora had a famous painted sign by the river saying Timbuktu was 52 days away by camel. Actually “Tombouctou 52 jours”. We asked after the sign but it had gone, replaced by a replica at the town hall.

It was late on day three when Arnie was all back together with the dust hosed off. We said our grateful goodbyes to Jaboud and his team – a really friendly and hard-working bunch.

P and I headed to a palm-grove campsite just out of town, relieved to be back in our cosy space.

The next day we drove two and a half hours to Ourzazate along the dramatic Draa valley.

It felt great to be on our way again but when we stopped for the night we discovered a pinhole leak in the new weld from which diesel was oozing. The welding was the one thing Jaboud had outsourced and it hadn’t worked. We rang to tell him we would be back the next morning.

We set off back to Zagora as soon as it was light, watching the sunrise through the mist.

But after 90 minutes the drip suddenly turned into a gush and the tank emptied itself. We spent an anxious few minutes looking for a good place to stop – off the road. With the needle jammed on empty we found a cafe behind a police checkpoint with a taxi rank outside and a wide place to stop. It couldn’t have been better. We called Jaboud, who drove from Zagora with another mechanic. Together they removed the tank and whisked it away to another welder.

P and I sat in the cool sunshine outside the cafe wondering how long we’d be there. The friendly owner brought us coffee and tea and Berber omelettes, happy to have some trade. There was a tiny mosque at the back of the cafe and we bid good morning to the elderly Imam, a slight figure, face darkened by the sun with a twinkly smile. He stood a little behind us and sang the call to prayer in a beautiful clear voice, which I wish I’d been able to capture more of. It was a lovely peaceful moment.

We walked a bit, read a bit and fended off the avaricious attentions of two persistent young lads for about four hours until Jaboud returned with a much better welded tank which they re-attached and poured some diesel into. We were off again – back to Zagora to make sure that this time it worked.

P and I had one last evening in Zagora – not somewhere we had planned on staying at all initially. But it was good to get under the skin of the place a bit, find places to eat and see how people socialised. There is a definite evening promenade time when groups walk and congregate. A couple of confident young women wanted their photo taken with Philippa.

We headed back to spend the night in Arnie on Jaboud’s garage forecourt. One thing we’ve discovered is that as long as it is relatively flat and relatively quiet, inside Arnie is always exactly the same after dark – comfortable and secure – so it really doesn’t matter where we are.

The following morning Jaboud’s mechanics went over everything again, pressure washed Arnie again and we were ready to go.

They turned back to their other jobs and we slipped away too, heading back into the drama of the Draa Valley with its Ksars, Kazbahs and palm forests. We were finally leaving the desert behind us and heading towards Marrakesh. But Sahara, we’ll be back!