“Listen!” said Yamaan, our guide. “All you can hear is silence.” Just silence. And my heartbeat thudding inside my head. We’d climbed 700 metres and my temples were throbbing. But what a view. Dusty valleys spread before us, a panorama of pockmarked crags interspersed with sudden slabs of black volcanic rock. Somewhere behind that range was Petra - our lost city. But for now I was looking at my feet; we were about to start the long, knee-clattering stumble down into the next valley.

The problem with lost cities is invariably everyone else is there too. Even the Inca Trail is so full they now limit the numbers. If only you could take the other tourists away and discover a centuries-old civilisation for yourself. Until a few months ago, Petra, Jordan’s ancient rose-city with its temples hewn from the rock face, could only be reached by air-con coach. But now you can walk across desert and over mountain passes and arrive dust-spattered on the far side of the complex with hardly another soul around. You feel like Indiana Jones himself.

Our setting out point was Jordan’s Royal Society for the Conservation of Nature’s eco-lodge at Wadi Feynan. Its comfortable mud-plaster rooms have solar-powered showers - luxury with an eco-friendly edge. From here on though it would be sleeping in the desert and washing with a bucket. Yamaan introduced us to Farhan and various brothers and cousins who would form our support team. Each day they drove ahead with rucksacks, food and tent to set up camp. Stepping out in my new walking boots, four litres of water sloshing in my rucksack, face plastered in sun cream, I wondered whether I was up to the challenge of the Jordanian desert.

That first day was a rough trek across rocks and scrub, lizards darting away in front of our toes and I’d had enough of stumbling by the time we reached camp. Farhan and the team had already pitched our long Bedouin tent, home for the next three nights. I was footsore and covered in dust. God, what I’d have given for a hot shower. I settled for dousing my face and head in water. Farhan and the gang had a fire crackling and tea on the go. Dinner was magloobeh, a stock-rich mix of rice and chicken, perfect for hungry hikers.

Next morning we were up at six. I gulped sweet mint tea and crammed down flat bread and zahtar, a tangy powder of crushed wild herbs which you mix with olive oil. We zigzagged up slopes of scree. As we climbed, the desert spread out behind us, and further back, the Dead Sea was brought sparkling to life by the morning sun. Lunch, several hours later, was in the shade of a small oasis - a sudden flurry of green on all levels. I was fantasising about a dip in a river, but this was a mere stream so I sat in the shade and dozed to the polyphonic humming of the insects. We camped that night on a plateau, the valley laid out below. I’d had enough of grit and grime and, equipped with a jug of water showered behind a boulder. It was spectacularly good, liberating. The fire crackled, the odours from the pot were sweet. Our Bedouin team sang evening prayers, their voices echoing around the valley. Maybe camping wasn’t so bad.

Each day we tramped on. The rock became redder, swirls of different shades bleeding through it. Yamaan showed me how to make fire. Dry rattan palm needles catch in a moment. I’d taken to sniffing every shrub that crossed my path. Their pungency was amazing. Spearmint, wild sage, wild thyme; any of them shoved inside Yamaan’s blackened tea pot with a handful of tea and a dollop of sugar produced the most life-enhancing brew.

On the morning of day four we said goodbye to Farhan and his team. He’s been walking this area 40 years. I expected him to find it odd that foreigners pay to come and sleep in a goat hair tent, but instead he said, "Surely this is the most beautiful scenery a man can see. He would walk a lifetime to find it," a smile beaming across his dark, lined face.

And so to our final day and our ancient city. We chanced upon Petra without realising it, scrambling around a clump of rocks. There it was, The Monastery, Petra’s largest temple rising vast from the rock face. The early sunlight provided the perfect aura, making the temple resonate gentle gold. After five days and 50 kilometres we’d reached our goal. There were just three other tourists there. I felt a definite sense of moral superiority. No coaches and donkeys for us, we’d tramped through the desert to reach this place - we had the blisters to prove it.

A Walk on the Wild Side

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Jeremy Head tramps through the Jordan desert to find the lost city of Petra