Grand tours: Where angels come down to earth at night

Writers' adventures in literature: Fergus Fleming follows Charles de Foucauld's 19th-century exploration of Morocco

Charles de Foucauld (1858-1916), aristocratic bon viveur turned ascetic hermit, is one of France's most renowned explorers. An adventurer, womaniser and sensualist, he finally found his spiritual home living as a monk in the Sahara. At the close of the 19th century the Sahara represented one of the world's last uncharted areas. Along with his military cohort, Henri Laperrine, Foucauld played a key role in France's efforts to conquer the Sahara, exploits that have been brought to life by Fergus Fleming in his latest book 'The Sword and the Cross', from which this extract is taken.

From the Rif his route took him south through the sterner valleys of the High Atlas and thence into the semi-arid regions bordering the Sahara. "[Here] one steps into a New World," he wrote. He was beguiled by the oases which, with their forests of palm trees, their irrigation canals and their neat, square fields, struck him as positively Arcadian: "I am in a new climate; there is no winter ... the air is never cold; above my head the sky is blue." They were, he said, "made for none but the happy". That the oases seemed to him magical was due partly to their novelty: hitherto he had travelled through landscapes that were not so very different from those of southern Europe; here, on the other hand, was something alien and exotic. What truly impressed him, however, was the waterless desert that gave the oases meaning and which he viewed now for the first time in his life. Foucauld's journal of his trip is a dry, and at times tedious affair, concerned mainly with facts and figures. It is a record intended for geographers and the military, containing none of the romantic elaborations that were then fashionable. Any other adventurer would have turned it into high drama. Foucauld simply described what he saw and what he did, his aim being to impress an official rather than a popular readership. Sometimes, however, a guarded sense of excitement creeps into his account. One such moment comes when he first sees the desert. Looking south from the oasis of Tisint, he described "an immense plain, now white, now brown, with its stony solitudes stretching far away out of sight; an azure streak limits it on the horizon and separates it from the sky ...". Barren in the scorching sun, the desert assumed a different character under the stars. "In this profound calm, in the midst of this fairy-tale country, I had my first real taste of the Sahara," Foucauld wrote. "In the contemplation of these nights one understands the belief of the Arabs in a mysterious night, leila el qedr, when the heavens open, when angels come down to earth, when the waters of the sea become sweet and when every inanimate thing in nature bows down to worship its Creator."

What he saw was not the Sahara proper, merely its outer fringe. But it was enough both to intrigue him as to what lay beyond and to assure him that he had reached the limit of his travels. To go further would have meant a voyage into uncharted lawlessness. He had already been concerned by the state of the Atlas – "a country in which the authority of the Sultan is nil" – and the desert seemed even more dangerous. He had set himself the task of exploring Morocco and, having reached a geographical boundary, he felt his task was complete. At Tisint, therefore, he turned west and headed for Mogador [now Essaouira], where the Sultan's authority did prevail. He had no intention of stopping there: he still planned to make the return trek overland to Algeria; but in order to do so he needed to replenish his funds. Accordingly, leaving Mardochee in Tisint, he departed for the coast on 9 January 1884 and by the 28th had nearly reached his destination. It took him three and a half hours to negotiate a "vast forest overshadowing immense grazing fields", and then he was in Mogador. He went straight to the consulate and announced himself. "I should like to see the French Consul, to cash a cheque on the Bank of England," he said. "I am the Vicomte de Foucauld, officer of the French Cavalry."

The Consul's secretary did not believe him. "Go and sit outside with your back to the wall," he said. "You can't see him dressed like that." So Foucauld sat against the wall. After a while he asked to be shown a place where he could wash and change his clothes. The secretary directed him to a small hut then, prompted by a sudden curiosity, peered through a crack in the door. As Foucauld undressed there fell from his pockets instrument after instrument – sextant, hygrometer, compass. This, the secretary realised, was no ordinary tramp. Minutes later he was ushered into the Consul's office.

While waiting for the money to come through Foucauld busied himself with his journal and with correspondence. "From the geographical point of view, my journey goes on very well," he wrote to his sister. "My instruments are in good condition; none of them got out of order; I have visited new countries, and bring back, I believe, some useful information." On reviewing the experience, however, he admitted to a terrible sense of solitude, one that extended not just to the past eight months but his whole life. "From a moral point of view, it is very sad; always alone, never a friend, never a Christian to speak to... If you knew how much I am thinking of you, of our happy days in the past with grandfather... It is, above all, Christmas and New Year's Day which seemed to me so sad." He distracted himself with work: "I am up to my neck in my longitudes. I work from morning to night. This is a hundred times more thrilling than the journey itself, for therein lies the result." He also found diversions of a less technical nature, one of which could be found at the home of the Anglican missionary. "At present a very handsome young English lady is there who speaks French perfectly," he noted. "I find it very pleasant to go from time to time and spend the evening in this house." But even here, as he listened politely to the piano recitals and songs (in French) that were laid on for his entertainment, he was overcome by loss. "[They] remind me of very happy time, but it is already far away."

'The Sword and the Cross' by Fergus Fleming (Granta Books, hardback rrp £20). Readers of 'The Independent on Sunday' can buy the book for £17.50, including postage and packing (within the UK). To order a copy call Granta on 0500 004033 and quote 'Independent on Sunday'. Offer ends 22 April.

Follow in the footsteps

Surf's up

Essaouira is 175km north-west of Marrakesh on the Atlantic coast. A lucrative trading post for centuries, its medina is a spectacular example of 18th-century fortifications and has hardly changed since de Foucauld visited. It now attracts a more boho crowd – Jimi Hendrix penned "Castles Made of Sand" on the beach – and it is a popular surfing spot. Visit the arts and craft souk or ride on a horse and cart to the Junk Yard and tuck into charcoal-grilled spider crab.

Getting there

Royal Air Maroc (020-7439 8854; www.royalairmaroc.com) offers return flights from London Heathrow to Essaouira via Casablanca from around £335. Alternatively, British Airways (0845 773 377; www.ba.com) offers flights from London Gatwick to Marrakesh from around £338 return. From there you can travel the two-hour journey by taxi for around £41 one way or by bus for around £3. Stay at the traditional Hotel Dar El Qdima (00 212 44 47 38 58; www.darqdima.com) 4, Rue Malek Ben Rahal Av l'Istiqlal. Prices start from md450, (£30) per room per night including breakfast served on the roof terrace.

For further information contact The Moroccan National Tourist Office on 020-7437 0073 or visit www.visitmorocco.com.