Sitting quietly between the turquoise water and the clear blue sky, the fishing village of Ayega glistens in its fairy­tale splendour while traditional sailing boats rock listlessly on the rippled current. Set below a barren ridge amongst tall palm trees, the white buildings with their arched windows reflect everything magical imagined of a traditional Arabian Peninsula fishing village. I rest in the shade of a columned rotunda on the waterfront of the small town of Sur and savour the scene. Sitting almost on the horn of the Arabian Peninsula, Sur was once a bustling port, playing a major role in trade with India and East Africa. Below me, lined up on the beach, fishing boats are encumbered with shrouded outboard motors. Beyond them, a small boat rides a foaming bow wave as it cruises past on its way out to sea. I cross the river mouth from Sur to Ayega in the ferry and wander the meandering narrow lanes between decorative homes, some with pink­framed windows, others pastel blue. A teenager on a bicycle rides by. The bike is built up with an elaborate cardboard housing painted black that holds speakers for the ghetto blaster strapped to the handlebars. Soon I arrive at the lighthouse tower, disturbing some goats eating cardboard that bleat with annoyance at my arrival.

Back across the river I stroll along the beach to the boat yards. Sur is the centre of traditional boat building in Oman. Among the seven new boats being built, numerous old dhows are beached, drawn up on the sand awaiting repairs and much­needed maintenance. These weather­worn crippled giants sheltering their untold stories seem abandoned and forsaken. The teak and shesham timber used for building the dhows comes from the forests of Malaysia and India. The graceful ribs of the boat抯 frame are shaped from curved logs, using band saws and adzes, then the planking is curved and fi tted from the keel up. Once the hull is finished it is coated with sticky fish oil, the smell of which permeates the yard. Despite the cool response from the Omani foreman, the Indian workers urge me to climb the scaffold of one of the new dhows to sit on the stern where I marvel at the beauty of their craft. The craftsmen from Kerala on India抯 west coast, take about four months to build a 20 metre dhow that can cost around 25,000 Omani rials, about US $70,000. Owned by wealthy merchants, the dhows are still used for trading down the African coast, across to India and throughout the waters of the Persian Gulf. The next morning before sunrise I walk through a maze of empty lanes, past doors decorated with ornately carved patterns, to arrive at the beach to view the arrival of the fishing boats. As each boat crunches on the sand, willing helpers heave it beyond the lapping tide then assist with unloading the catch that includes tuna, kingfish, hammerhead shark and marlin, the latter each worth a small fortune at the fish market. On the beach I chat with Saif bin Said, a researcher based at the Sultan Qaboos University in Muscat who is monitoring the catch and measuring and weighing all the big fi sh. He tells me his research is to ensure that the current fishing levels are sustainable for the future and that he is happy that, over the last fi ve years, there has been no drop in the catch levels.

All around, men are chatting and socialising, shaking hands as money is exchanged. Gazing past Saif I watch as two grey­bearded men greet each other with the pressing of noses. This is obviously a male domain for no women are in sight. A line of small trucks with various sized box compartments have backed onto the beach. Once purchased, the fish are thrown into the trucks onto beds of broken ice. As the trucks drive off, the boats are drawn up beyond the tide then the fishermen head for home, leaving the beach deserted. In the early afternoon I share a taxi to Nizwa, a town nearly three hours away. Even with the windows down the air is stifl ing. At Nizwa I set off to explore the town抯 huge mud­brick castle. The town was once the capital of Oman and the fort a symbol of the seat of government. Built in the 17th century, the fort features a massive round tower. I reach the top of the watchtower, sweating and weary from the climb, and look out over the old town, past the blue­domed mosque and across to the market. Next morning the air is cool as I make my way to the goat souq. The market is held every Thursday and Friday and is a great place to see the locals, including the women, often wear colourful cloaks and the distinctive hawk­like black leather facemasks that cover their nose and mouth. In the souq the men parade around a central terrace, carrying young kids under each arm or towing reluctant goats on a leash. Potential buyers call out to the sellers asking questions or beckoning them closer to poke and feel the ribs and legs of the animals. Bidding gets loud and frenetic as buyers jostle to make their purchases. Then all of a sudden the bustle is over and the marketplace empties. Over the next few days I visit the great forts of Jabrin, Al­Hazm and Nakhal. For centuries, the lucrative trade routes that passed through Oman needed the protection of the forts from hostile tribes that raided the merchant抯 caravans. Some of the 500 forts in Oman are just small lookout towers and others are huge, complex and elaborate castles. At Jabrin Fort I meet the Omand family from Iski, a nearby town. As I chat with Yousef, his five daughters, dressed in colourful silks, listen to every word. Too shy to speak, they partially cover their faces with their shawls. We wander together through cool elegant rooms, with high, painted ceilings supported by adzed beams, which were once part of the emir抯 palace. I eventually farewell the affable family and make my way to the bus station where I watch a group of men playing howalis, a game played with stones using hollows scooped into the earth. It抯 a centuries­old game but not as old as Oman抯 remarkable history that can be traced back over 12,000 years. On the bus I refl ect on the caravans of camels loaded with frankincense and myrrh that once crossed the land on ancient trading routes and the dhows that sailed to Mombassa and Dar es Salaam in East Africa, bringing back cargos of cloves from the spice island of Zanzibar. Today, oil and gas fuel the economy in this hot desert land where friendly people abound and the crenellated battlements of castles serrate the sky.