Get lost in oman

A dramatic combination of sea and mountains is usually the setting for rugged adventure, a signal for bursts of aerobic activity. But there are some places that demand you slow down. Even though the terrain is apparently calling out for crampons and scuba gear, sometimes it's better to put your feet up and learn to drift.

My idle gene was delighted to discover that the Musandam peninsula is one such place. It took little time for me to fall into the unhurried local rhythm on this remote rocky outcrop jutting into the Strait of Hormuz, which divides the Gulf of Oman from the Arabian Gulf. Maybe the fact that this dislocated finger of Omani territory is marooned by water on one side and a 70km stretch of UAE territory on the other has something to do with its other-worldly quality.

View from the window

The options for getting to this backwater are limited. Driving from Oman involves crossing borders and buying a series of visas at each of them.

A ferry from Muscat — my choice — promised to be a slothful way of arriving, except it conked out on my visit. Fortunately I got a flight, the last option. Bag a window on the right-hand side of the aircraft. The views of the mountains and fjords as you come into land are astonishing.

I quickly came to appreciate that inaccessibility is one of the keys to understanding this place. Roads weren't built until 10 years ago, so moving around was traditionally either by dhow or on foot over perilous passes.

Ocean lifeline

The ocean is still a vital means of transport; boats regularly ply between Khasab Musandam's tiny capital and the surrounding villages. What better mode for a little sightseeing?

A small dhow furnished with colourful oriental rugs and cushions took me and a dozen fellow tourists to an adjacent fjord called Khor Ash Sham; our journey was besieged by show-offy dolphins that easily outran the boat. As we entered the fjord, vast walls of concrete-coloured rock stretched thousands of feet above us and morphed into warmer, rosier shades, depending on where the sun was. The effect was awesome.

This sense of overpowering nature was magnified ten-fold when we docked at Telegraph Island. I swam off by myself on still, warm waters for a couple of hundred metres and communed briefly and silently with a higher plane.

Silence matters

Somehow the surrounding mountains demand silence. But I dragged myself away from aquatic solitude and joined in the snorkelling.

Back on board, it was easy to fall under the dhow's spell of creaks and splashes and lazily doze as we sailed around the ragged inlets. We spotted some villages but going ashore en masse is discouraged in an effort to preserve what's left of the traditional way of life.

My hotel, the Golden Tulip, was also still under a spell of sorts: a 1970s time-warp of piped muzak so bad that it's good. Its restaurant has invoked the spirit of that culinary infidel of the 1970s, Fanny Craddock, and used tinned tuna in the salad nioise. It's a crime because the ocean pops with fish.

Rock art

The next day my guide drove me to the small village of Qadah. There has been a lot of new building in the neighbourhood as traditional houses are replaced by bigger, more comfortable properties. The layers of rock appeared to be daubed with drying cow dung; strange because there aren't any cows. I discovered the effect was a geological phenomenon.

On our way back, we stopped at the harbour. It was mid-morning and I was astonished to find it seething with Iranian traders.

Enormous bundles of shoes, cloth and other articles were being packed into testosterone-charged speedboats ready to head into Iran. Deals were done, the boats reloaded and, later in the day, sped back across the Strait of Hormuz to Iran.

"Everyone makes a good living from this," said one man to me. Perhaps that is why subsistence farmers were pulling down their old houses and erecting oriental Barrat homes.

The new souq has a surprisingly large number of restaurants. But no one comes to Musandam for the cuisine — this is a place for those who have an eye for natural beauty.

And before my afternoon date with the mountains, it was over my curried lunch that I frittered a couple of lazy hours in the charming company of an Iraqi who has set up home here.

Geological stunner

Jebel Harim is Musandam's highest peak at 2,087 metres. A twisting road affords stunning views for those not averse to heights.

Unimaginable forces of nature have formed magnificent precipices and the winter rains have created walls of lacy erosion that make the mountains look like termite nests. Boulders the size of double-deckers are seemingly suspended thousands of feet above the valley floor by little more than mud.

The views were mesmerising and a huge rock covered with ancient pictograms, including a man on horseback, was an evocative reminder of early settlers.

The mountain excursion was also something of a tease, even for a laggard like me. Walks can be arranged, but you need to avoid the summer heat, which will frazzle you in no time.

You also need a first-class guide and the right kit; a wrong footing can easily send an avalanche — or you — into the valleys below.

The harbour became the focus of my trip and next morning I was back, scrabbling into a white skiff. The skipper, Malallah, greeted me with a welcoming shrug and winning smile. Musandam born and bred, he did a master class in being laid-back.

Town-bound

We steered back into Khor Ash Sham and zoomed past Qanaha village. Malallah said the local population had collapsed in recent years — Qanaha has shrunk by 75 per cent — as residents leave for Khasab and the everyday conveniences of a bigger town. We dropped anchor at a place deserted but for a few goats. I jumped off the boat in the stony shallows and walked around what might have been the ruins of an Iron-age settlement.

I asked Malallah if he thought tourism has had a negative impact; he said no. But I sense that much is changing on these shores. Now is the time to visit before this area catches up with the 21st century.