In the high Atlas, the scale of what we were attempting soon became apparent. The Sport was on standard road tyres which appeared to have little hope of finding grip on the deep snow and sheet ice. Forlorn assemblies of cars, vans, buses and trucks strewed the road sides, frozen like grotesque ice statues where their final, hopeless slide had been terminated only by the deep drifts that line the roads. But by selecting the snow setting on the Sport’s Terrain Response dial, we kept going, apparently impervious to the conditions. Coming gingerly down the other side we encountered a bus broadside across the road. I stopped, stepped out of the car and soon realised the only way to stay upright was to cling to the door. Yet the Range Rover felt utterly assured. I understand something about the coefficient of adhesion, and this scarcely made sense. But there we were.
Almost as soon as we were clear, I was stopped for doing a fairly implausible speed by police. But instead of clapping me in irons and throwing me into the depths of a rat-infested Moroccan jail, they first apologised for the inconvenience and then withdrew their demand to see my driving licence when I told them it was in the Sport’s capacious boot. We were still in the foothills of the mountains, it had started to snow, and they didn’t want me getting cold.