Usually, there is nothing more pleasing that returning to a place where you have endured hardship.

As a travel writer I've specialized in gritty, fearful destinations, the kind of places that make a reader's hair stick on end.

The backstreet cafe in Casablanca was for me a place of mystery, a place with a soul, a place with danger. There was a sense that the safety nets had been cut away, that each citizen walked upon the high wire of this, the real world. I longed not merely to travel through it, but to live in such a city.

Lured by the wilderness, and by the chance of spotting rare desert elephants, a few intrepid tourists make their way to the Skeleton Coast each year. It's just about as remote as any tourist destination on earth, but one that pays fabulous dividends.

The desert was bad, but nothing could compare with the horrors of a tropical rain forest.

For me, a journey to Damascus is an amazing hunt from beginning to end, a slice through layers of history in search of treasure.

The forest did not tolerate frailty of body or mind. Show your weakness, and it would consume you without hesitation.