THE end of the second week and we have reached Sousa in eastern Libya having ridden 1,600 miles with several long days mainly on B-roads from Batna in Algeria, via Tunis and Tripoli.

Constant overtaking, constant vigilance for the unexpected. The Channel Tunnel seems a life time away.

We have settled into a cohesive team, each with our responsibilities and riding order, but when it comes to options, no one plays the Indian, making the decision as to which route to take from Batna to Tunis a drawn out debate.

Our delightful guide was beside himself as each of us in turn took him aside to discuss the alternatives. What a difference crossing into Tunisia.

Algeria is very beautiful in parts but gone was the dirt and those thin plastic bags snagged to every branch, fence and blade of grass and in their place were orderly rows of olive trees, neat fields, clean loos and a degree of road sense.

An hour from Tunis is Carthage, the iconic birth place of Hannibal, now a rather chic suburb but in its Phoenician zenith it covered a huge area and time was not on our side.

Our short burst of sightseeing took in one of the highlights, the baths of Antonin, and then the blue and white hilltop village of Sidi Bou Said, overrun with cheap package tours from every country buying mass produced junk from innumerable stalls. In contrast back in Tunis, the Bardo museum, which holds the finest collection of Roman mosaics in the world, was empty.

The ride from Tunis was as close to perfection as one can get on a bike. Wide open dual carriage way, little traffic, sun shining, I-pod playing and despite two goats, one dog and half a tree in the outside lane it was the best day so far.

The cultivated fields to left and right slowly giving way to scrub and then to desert as we headed south. We detoured at El Jem and wandered around the magnificent coliseum coming out into the arena from the dark confines, eyes blinded by sunlight. How disorientating it must have been for the thousands who met their fate.

The Libyan border took several hours not helped by the immigration official painstakingly writing everything in longhand with one eye on an Arabic soap blasting out of an old television.

We bought insurance (UK version not acceptable), we bought a carnet (UK version not acceptable), we bought battered Libyan number plates (UK version not acceptable) and we were let through into the mêlée of Libyan drivers who make The Italian Job look like a Sunday afternoon drive.

The flip side is that petrol sells for 17p per litre and the average dinner costs us £10/head. Back to seventies Britain. Short of Tripoli, we stopped at Sabratha, which, along with Oya (Tripoli) and Leptis Magna, were the three cities that made up Roman Tripolitania. The imposing theatre dominates the site, but in reality it is a total fake, reconstructed by the Italians for Mussolini to address his troops, but the rest of the site was worth the detour.

Tripoli has changed dramatically since my last visit. The old town has come to life, a few old merchant houses have been transformed into chic hotels, street stalls now flourish, good lighting and always a welcoming smile.

The whole of the following day was spent at Leptis Magna. It is an immense site, difficult to fully comprehend and full of buildings which brought gasps of astonishment from the team. We walked under 16m high arches which formed the vaulted ceilings of the baths, into the forum and then the basilica each with their original walls towering above us.

The amphitheatre, dug into the ground on the site of an old quarry rather than being built up, is by far the largest so far found and largely intact. Outstanding.

Saturday was always going to be a long day, 460 miles from western Libya to Ajdabiya in the east. The flat featureless desert road stretched interminably ahead.

Lorries and buses thundered past in both directions, cars slowed and came perilously close trying to take photographs with telephones while the monotony of the road was relieved by stray camels, goats, sheep and several deviations down into sandy wadis.

Then on Sunday a howling sandstorm enveloped us for the first two hours. Visibility down to 30m and speed down to 30mph, swirling sand blurring the edges of the road making it difficult to navigate. Overtaking cars briefly acted as guiding beacons until they were swallowed up by the dust cloud.

Eyes and mouth full of grit, couldn’t open the visor to relieve sore eyes, nowhere to stop and no shelter. Then, quite suddenly, it was over and we exited into welcoming rain which dampened the ground.

Nick Laing is the founder and Chairman of Steppes Travel. More details on the trip and information on donating to the Prince George Galitzine Memorial Fund can be found on the expedition website at www.marenostrum.me.uk