YEARS ago a dear friend and I passed a week in Paris, a first time in the French capital for us both.

We did exactly what you might expect two young women on a premiere fois a Paris to do: we climbed the Eiffel Tower and went to Ladurée for macarons. We went to the Louvre, boating on the Seine, and to the Moulin Rouge, where ladies spun nipple tassels at us in what was a rather diverting surprise.

We went to Rodin’s house, where everything was beautiful and we ate un peu de la glace.

At the end of the week, on the return home, I asked my friend what her take away from Paris was. “The food is nice,” she summarised, “But it could have been better signposted.”

I think of this sentence sometimes, all the marvel of Paris summed up so, and have a right old chortle.

But I’ve just passed a week in Jordan and find my impression to be the same: similarly a beautiful experience and similarly suffering from a complete lack of adequate signposting.

That is my excuse for what happened and I stick to it.

The ancient city of Petra was built by the Nabateans, a nomadic Bedouin tribe, some 2400 years ago. God knows what possessed them – it looked hellish hard work – but they carved more than 800 towering buildings and monuments from soft sandstone the hue of peaches and pink conch.

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The natural colour variations in the stone add breathtaking texture to the innards of these looming structures. You look up and gasp as you enter.

If you’re fortunate enough to find them.

Should you wish to peruse Petra, one of your options is to take a shuttle bus away from the main entrance in the town of Wadi Musa to a place called Little Petra then walk 8km back to the heart of the ancient city.

We started early. The receptionist at our hotel told us to get down for the shuttle bus by 7am. It didn’t leave for Little Petra until 7.30am but he presented us a sense of urgency, explaining we might miss out on a seat if we weren’t punctual.

November is the off season and 7am, it turns out, is overly early for all but the most dedicated sightseer. And so it was that we had the bus almost to ourselves with the driver waiting an extra 10 minutes in the hope some more might turn up to fill the vehicle and make the journey worthwhile.

This meant that when we arrived at Little Petra there was no one around, other than the souvenir sellers and a chap squatting at an open fire making tea.

There was one obvious path ahead and we took it, confidently. After a while alone, we weren't the only people padding through sand and panting up rock faces but it did, from time to time, occur to me that everyone else was going in the other direction. On we pushed. Petra must appear from the metaphorical mists soon, right? Right?

The day before we had traversed Amman on the lookout for the citadel. That is, we could see the citadel. The blasted thing stands high on a hill. We just couldn't, despite weaving this way and that on steeply inclining streets, find it. By the time we'd crested and descended the hill – the needle on my internal jukebox interminably stuck on Grand Old Duke of York – I was beat and we took a taxi back to the hotel.

Surely, surely we were not coming to Petra only to wander the desert for a bit before heading home with eyes still unblessed by the sight of it? This was torturous.

All around the rocks turned from grey to a heatless orange as the sun arched her face overhead, the better to see and laugh at us. By now the path was long gone. A sound of voices we'd heard earlier had quietened. Yup. We were lost.

But then, oh but then, round the mountain came hikers. Dozens of them. They had trekking poles and sturdy boots, backpacks and a singular look of purpose. "Excuse me," I said towards the stream as it approached. "Where are we?"

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A kind woman pointed us towards the trek leader. He invited us to join his group, having the good grace to joke about having set off with two hikers and the other 33 people similarly tagging along. We joined the group. What relief.

A chap approached my friend and said to him with a look of wonder, "Now, tell me how you managed to get lost?" We had no explanation, only blustered excuses.

Finally we re-approached Little Petra – back the way we came, two hours lost retracing our steps – and I could see other tourists double-taking at this mass of people decked in legitimate walking kit with me in M&S skinny jeans and a handbag.

As we shuffled off, I glanced over my shoulder to see 35 hands waving us a friendly farewell. Mortified, we broke into a jog.

The group was trekking with a company called Charity Challenge and I promised to make a donation to Cancer Research UK by way of thanks for looking after us. This is confirmation of that donation – and a thank you again.

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