The Gates of Hell, at four in the morning

In the middle of the Karakum desert, a wide crater in the ground has been on fire for decades. They call it the Gates of Hell, and driving to it is most of the experience: there are no signs, no markers, and eventually no road.

We turned off into the sand in the dark, following somebody else's tyre tracks because that was all we had, and drove on the one rule that matters out there, which is that stopping means getting stuck. We reached it at a quarter to four in the morning.

There was no fence. No ticket, no barrier, nobody telling you where to stand. You simply walk to the lip of a burning pit and look in, and it is hot on your face from metres away, bright enough to light the whole desert around you, and roaring quietly.

We had it entirely to ourselves. We walked its edge, drove the car up close for a photograph and immediately retreated because of the heat, and stood there far too long. If the trip had ended right there, it would already have been worth every kilometre.

We put the tents up behind some dunes at five and were awake again at half past six for the sunrise. The crater still burning, the sun coming up over the sand, my friends all asleep, and not another soul anywhere. That hour is one of the best of my travelling life.

Getting out was less romantic. We buried the car in sand, dug and pushed it free, and then crawled back to the road at walking pace on a surface that had barely been a road for years.

No fence. No crowds. Just fire.