Marrakesh steps up a gear after dark. Shoppers swarm around the souks; pavements are packed; and the roads are like racetracks filled with bumper cars. Frequent scrapes, prangs and collisions attract crowds of rubberneckers, who gather around the feuding protagonists to help decide who should compensate whom. Only a fool would attempt to drive in Morocco.

The next morning at the car rental office I study the vehicle insurance small print as if my life depends on it - which it does. I sign up for enhanced cover (desert mishap indemnity, camel damage waiver) and sneak out of the city before the world's wackiest rush hour starts.

Rural Moroccan roads are often little more than potholed tracks but my Romanian-built Dacia Sandero handles the unforgiving terrain without complaint. Soon we're negotiating a succession of sharp hairpins and fording streams of snowmelt.

Imlil is a wonderful antidote to the madness of Marrakesh. Nestled in the folds of the mighty Atlas Mountains, the lofty village is a popular trekking centre. Men in flowing robes with pointy hoods share café terraces with brightly clad hikers who squint in the harsh African sunshine. Spring arrives early in Morocco and meadows of wildflowers carpet the lower slopes. Higher still, amid green parcels of farmland, terraces of walnut, cherry and apple trees lead up towards snow-dusted peaks.

The sweeping vistas and a mouth-watering tagine, a slow-cooked clay pot casserole brimming with fall-off-the-bone chicken, encourage me to pause longer than planned. So does a sense of unease about what lies ahead.

The mountainside is studded with precariously balanced boulders and every so often there are delays while mechanical diggers clear mounds of fresh rubble. Signs warn drivers about falling rocks yet numerous villages lie beneath the very same overhanging cliffs.

Gradually the environment changes. The almond blossom-scented settlements of the High Atlas give way to dry, brittle air on the Saharan side of the massif. Villages smell of dust and donkey dung and dwellings have the blistered, scabby texture of eczema.

After a dizzying series of switchbacks, I tumble into Tafraout, an oasis town discovered by a trickle of travellers half a century ago. Hippies always seemed to beat mainstream tourists to all the best places. In the case of Tafraout, however, the availability of cheap marijuana, rather than the stupendous scenery, may have been the incentive.

Guidebooks recommend hiking or biking through the astonishingly beautiful Ameln Valley. Craggy red rocks rise steeply above mud and straw villages and the scrubby fields are flecked with toiling figures. Minarets pierce the skyline like exclamation marks and old women lugging heavy loads of fodder and firewood offer to carry me as well - if I cross their palms with dirhams.

As I'm contemplating the timeless landscape, a trio of luridly attired Dutchmen drag me back to the future. They've just finished a five-day mountain trek, relying on smartphone GPS and camping equipment developed by Nasa. Each wears the kind of self-satisfied smile of accomplishment that only hikers from a country as flat as Holland are allowed. Inspired, I search my own smartphone but only for an alarm clock.

A spot of pre-dawn rock clambering affords a murky monochrome view of Aguerd Oudad village, an hour's walk from Tafraout. Soon though, the sun arcs upwards, bringing warmth and infusing the lifeless grey panorama with the rich pinks and reds of the desert.

On a street of big houses and small windows, an elderly Berber, his face as weathered as the surrounding hills, addresses me in great glottal gulps of Arabic. Seeing my incomprehension, he holds up a gnarled index finger in a "wait there" gesture. A minute later he reappears with a glass of mint tea and some figs. If I didn't have to be on a movie set that afternoon, I would have stayed for days.

Tour guides in the fortified village of Ait Benhaddou begin their spiel by reeling off the names of all the Hollywood epics filmed within the crumbling kasbah. It's an impressive list that includes , , and, more recently, television series .

For centuries before its Tinseltown makeover, the photogenic oasis was an overnight halt for camel caravans transporting slaves, spices and gold on the trans-Sahara trade route to Marrakesh. Today only eight families live within the compound walls, eking out a living from farming and selling souvenirs.

I set the sat-nav for Marrakesh and prepare for the return journey.

I'm now familiar with the idiosyncrasies of Moroccan motorists but it doesn't help when I reach the city. Locals weave between lanes, sounding their horns at pedestrians and suicidal sheep. Somehow the Dacia and I come through unscathed.

The man at the car rental office looks over the vehicle and seems surprised at the absence of damage.

"You obviously didn't go to Casablanca," he says. "Drivers up there are really crazy."

Cathay Pacific and Alitalia fly from Hong Kong to Marrakesh, via Rome, in Italy.

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