I first met my friend Monty in Pokhara in 1994, we became good friends travelling through Nepal and India, but we had not travelled together since. We often talked of another adventure, and it finally came to pass. Senegal was to be our destination, and Monty proposed that we drive there from the UK in his 16-year-old VW Golf. 

France, Spain, Morocco, Western Sahara, Mauritania, Senegal. The plan was to donate the car to a charity before flying home from Dakar. 

3 spare wheels, 2 car jacks, a set of spanners, a socket set, a spare oil filter, 2 air filters, foam puncture repair kits, an electric tyre inflator, 5 football shirts, clothes, a medical kit, 3 juggling sticks and 2 guitars. Best to be prepared.

Having reached Barcelona, we boarded a 29 hour GNV ferry to Tangier. The sea was like a sheet of glass, the ship was empty and spacious, we had a cabin, there was a choice of restaurants. All very good omens. 

Luckily there was a police station with Moroccan immigration and customs on board, unluckily we had left the vehicle ownership documents in the car, which was off limits whilst sailing. Undeterred, Monty befriended a couple of the immigration officers, speaking Arabic that he learned whilst travelling in Egypt. A few choice words, some positive gesturing, and upon disembarkation we were ushered to the front of the queue, our documents, car importation and immigration paperwork were processed in a matter of minutes. Alhamdulillah.

We were on the road. We were in Africa. We were on our way to Senegal in a VW Golf.

The roads were surprisingly good and surprisingly empty, we made good time as a result. I had pre-booked the Ibis in Casablanca through TF, and before long we were wandering through the alleyways of the Old Medina, happily feeling a million miles from home. We went for a street kebab before, um, going to watch Ireland beat South Africa in the Rugby World Cup in an, um, Irish pub. And what a game it was. But there would be no more of this, it would be our farewell to the West. 

In 1984 the Belgian artist Jean Verame went into the strangely named Anti Atlas Mountains, not to paint the town red, but to paint the graphite blue. He also painted it yellow and pink. It was something we wanted to see, albeit a long way from the road to Dakar. We passed Marrakesh and headed up into the mountains, entering the land of the hairpin, vertiginous terror. Fears subsided as the roads went higher and on we went in serious temperatures for the first time, but the Golf was a magnificent car for these roads. It was slow progress, an 8 hour drive, but finally we descended into a high-altitude valley and arrived in Tafraoute.

We had arrived in a slow town with fast, driving brains and it was difficult to slow down, even with the heat. There were few hotels, but people had travelled here before, even if there were no tourists or Belgian artists around. We found a hotel that was more like a Gothic church, stained glass windows surrounding its perimeter.

We left for the painted rocks an hour before dusk, sashaying the Golf through the sand, nearly getting beached once, but managing to JUST get out of it. There was nobody there, like climbing Uluru at dawn. The painted rocks stood out, lurid as the pink graphite changed colour in the sunset. It was almost a religious experience; one I hadn't had for a very long time.

What an amazing place, offered as a traveller's gift.

We slept well, and the following morning we had breakfast as Air Pod teenagers trooped past our hotel to school. There were no raised voices, they made their way whilst the adults slept. The people of Tafraoute are happy, content, calm, without stress. As if the weight of the world has been lifted from their shoulders. The anti-Atlas Mountains.

We drove down from Tafraoute on a new road, the going was good as we descended, but it was frustrating with speed cameras and police stops everywhere. We had an early evening stop at a nondescript port and 'border town' of Tarfaya, deciding to stay at a basic hotel there and get a dawn start to avoid the hotter parts of the day when crossing the desert. The French writer Antoine de Saint-Expeury lived in Tarfaya while writing his book “The Little Prince”. I have no idea why. We were up and out of Tarfaya by 6.15am and crossed into Western Sahara without knowing it.

The state is disputed territory after Morocco and Mauritania carved it up between them when colonial Spain moved out. It was previously known as the Spanish Sahara and is the only African state not to have obtained independence. There was a certain trepidation about what could happen, nervous miles. This fear was crystallised when we reached Layounne, the so-called capital, a garrison town, a statement town. Military everywhere, huge administrative buildings, checkpoints galore, guns and questions.

Thankfully the desert road was a healer. There was little traffic as we drove into the afternoon, and we drove faster, heading to Dakhla, a pleasant peninsular and a Mecca for kite-surfers. We sought it out and found it in the shape of hotel Oasis212. Rather like a kibbutz, with a beautifully designed central area and surrounding cabins, it was based on hedonism and the joy of using wind and water to move, a hotel resort for the cool kids. We deserved it, a decent meal, a nice room, and a bed without lumps. 

A great place to prepare for the next stretch and the Mauritanian border - what could be a difficult entry with the car to the least-visited country on the planet. The temperature was rising in more ways than one.

To the border. We were expecting a long delay and we got one. Chaos. Arriving late morning, we queued for an hour with the trucks and finally got into the compound before the border was shut for prayers. Then the games began. So-called fixers, clearly working in cahoots with officials, called the shots, but we denied them, handing around boiled sour cherry sweets and ingratiating ourselves with the Epaulette Boys.

It was hot, at least 40° and rising. No alcohol is allowed in Mauritania, and we were asked whether we were carrying beer, answering truthfully that we were not, the bottle we had safely hidden was NOT beer. Five hours and five checkpoints later, our visas approved, we were in Mauritania. It felt a significant milestone, even if the car broke down now, we had got this far. The border and heat had drained us, so we found a good hotel in Nouadhibou, the second city, rather than continuing to the capital Nouakchott. 

This was a world away from Morocco, this was not Arabia or Europe, this was Africa. It felt great.

Now, this was a day. What a day.

We left Nouadhibou early, picked up a hitchhiking soldier, spoke French, and we were waived through the numerous security and police checkpoints as a result. We dropped him off at the junction to the Western Sahara border and girded our travelling loins.

Blown south by a northerly wind, we ate up the miles but lost time when we needed an ATM and petrol in Nouakchott. The road south was closed, and we had to drive around, through the markets and shacks to get out.

It was really, really, poor and the only modern building was an ostentatious US embassy that was nearly as big as its London address in Nine Elms. Changing our minds, we continued to drive, to get as close to the Senegalese border as we could, at whatever cost. We had decided to cross the Senegal river over the Diama dam, rather than take the main road to Rocco and cross by boat. It was said to be a much easier border, so we would risk the last 50km on corrugated and pockmarked roads. Unfortunately, we were running out of light, there are only passing dusks the closer to the equator you get. 

The roads were terrible, 4-by-4s were having trouble and in the Golf every kilometre lasted an age. We played quiz games to divert the brain and it worked. Name a capital city beginning with A, B, C…. countries beginning with A, B, C…. and so on. We were utterly in tune, nobody complaining, total focus. We felt like rally drivers, I felt like Colin McRae. 

But then warthogs in the adjacent forest charged onto the road directly into our path, and their tusks look very, very frightening in the dark. But we were soon away, sorry to have frightened them. A guard at a Police Stop demanded headache tablets, and a fiche of our documentation, but eventually let us through to Diawling National Park, where we could possibly find somewhere to spend the night. It was 9pm and pitch black, but we found a lodge. No lights were on, it looked locked-up. 

But then came the beauty. As we turned off the engine, all we could hear were birds. The terror of the drive and the jacked-up air conditioning meant we hadn't heard. Like a choir, a sound from childhood of an exciting and avian beauty. We later learned this was the first, and best, port of call for migratory European birds. We had come through the hardest hours. Exhausted we retired early, to dream of birds rather than warthogs. But those tusks, those tusks.

Tomorrow we will eat in Senegal, fingers-firmly crossed. Nearly there. Eyes on the prize.

We awoke to birdsong and goats on two legs eating leaves. Time for the final push.

The last 15km to the Senegalese border were on the same tough roads as the previous night, this time without warthogs. But it was worth it, the border at Diama was quiet and friendly. We inched past each Mauritanian exit protocol, giving a fixer ten Euros and a Chelsea football shirt to make it to the front of the queues, and within the hour we had crossed into no-man's land, driving over the dam to the Senegalese border.

We had everything we needed, we passed through the first 3 checks, hiring another fixer with a Sadio Mane Bayern Munich shirt, then, just at the last minute, we were stymied.

The road to Dakar is filled with sold and abandoned cars, and officialdom was now wise to it. Any car more than eight years old had to have a certificate of roadworthiness, the trusted Golf was twice that age and frustratingly this was something I had overlooked.

We tried our best to find a way past, but even the offer of a Mohammed Salah Liverpool kit, complete with shorts, socks and shinpads, did not work. But This Is Africa. The policeman was reasonable, he did not want to turn us away and he had a solution, a friend that could help. The cost was 250 Euros, which we cobbled together, then waited three hours before the man came with the documentation, the Senegalese MOT we required. He did not look at the car. 

With jubilant travellers' blood we made it through, to Senegal in a VW Golf.

We drove for another hour to Saint Louis, which was perfect, it was another special place. It is the oldest colonial city on the West African coast and was once the administrative capital of French West Africa. In 2000 it was designated a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Why had I never heard of it? With overhanging balconies and French colonial architecture, it brought back memories of New Orleans. Bars with live jazz bands, art galleries and museums. There was happiness here and we felt an instant connection. We found an amazing hotel in the former residence of Battling Siki, a Senegalese Muhammed Ali from the 1920s. We decided it was time to rest, we made some local friends, and stayed 2 days. I even got to play my guitar with a local reggae artist, Rastafall.

We drove the final five hours to Dakar on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Dakar was very different to Saint Louis, a faster pace, a multicultural city of 3.5 million people, a city with fine hotels, fine restaurants and beautiful beaches, attributes that we had not expected. We had reached our destination, a fantastic destination, and we enjoyed ourselves.

I had booked us flights back from Dakar to London via Madrid on Iberia, with our plan of donating the car to charity. This was the end of the road, the end of our journey. 

Alas there was something else we had overlooked. Along with the requirement for the MOT upon entry, you are not permitted to import a car without paying large import duties, even if giving it to charity. Officialdom was wise to that as well and Monty’s passport and entry visa had the car registration detailed; he could not leave Senegal without it. 

I took the Iberia flight home from Dakar to London; Monty decided to drive the 3,500 miles home from Dakar to Brighton alone. But that is another story.

This was a voyage of discovery. To seek out new civilisations. To boldly go where no man (or woman) has gone before (in a 16-year-old VW Golf). 

These are memories that will stay with me forever, indelible memories. You don’t need to drive to Senegal to make your own memories, you don’t even need a VW Golf. Whether it be a tour through Vietnam and Cambodia, a train to Machu Picchu in Peru, or a cruise via the Inside Passage to Alaska, the world is full of adventures.

So, take your own, your own voyage of discovery. Boldly go. My colleagues at Trailfinders will help find you the perfect one.