Garmsir, Helmand province, June 30, 2008

Peering through the narrow slit of an army observation post may not be the best way to decide what on earth the British are doing in Afghanistan - but it is a start.

Grand statements about reclaiming democracy and rebuilding the national economy are forgotten as we peer round a little arc of ground, with a wadi at the far end, and the Taleban almost certainly beyond it.

Four weeks earlier, Major Neil Den-McKay and his company of Argylls had cleared the ditches with rifles and fixed bayonets, driving the Taleban out. As we look out over the ground gained, I see no sign of the enemy. But how far have they gone? What exactly has been achieved? And when will they be back?

In essence, that is the Afghan challenge; and, for better or worse, it is one that we are landed with for years to come. How long does it take to transform a divided country from warzone to democracy? Can it be done at all? The estimates I hear during my ten-day trip vary from five to ten to thirty years - and, in one case, never. In his book A Million Bullets, James Fergusson reports that Taleban fighters believe that their place in Paradise will be determined by their resistance to the infidel invader. How can you build peace in the face of such ferocity of purpose?

You do it, the Americans say, by spending huge amounts on schools and clinics, on proper tarred roads, on rebuilding ruined infrastructure - by buying loyalty. US military units come armed not just with guns but with hundreds of thousands of dollars, to be spent right away on local projects. I watch a small group of village elders in Garmsir listen to the promises, their eyes expressionless. They seem interested only in security - relief from war, the breathing space to open up their markets again.

The British approach relies less on money and more on talk. Louise Perrotta, the “stabilisation adviser” in Garmsir, thinks it important to get “inside the heads” of villagers, and to try to understand things from their point of view. Their thought processes do not always conform to Western concepts - they are more “elliptical”. They want to know how long they will be protected from the Taleban, and whether their borders are secure. Since the Marines are pulling out of Garmsir in September, it is a valid question.

Forward Operational Base Edinburgh, North Helmand, July 3

We are now in the north of the task force's territory, with Scots troops of the Argylls and Highlanders. Their daily task is to patrol tracks regularly mined by IEDs (roadside bombs) and to venture into villages that may or may not be Taleban-controlled. It is incredibly dangerous work, carried out with astonishing good humour and courage. Several of the Jocks I talk to have been in Warrior or Mastiff armoured vehicles when bombs went off; all survived, but it was touch and go.

Winning hearts and minds from inside a Warrior - one of the most threatening-looking pieces of armoury I have laid eyes on - is uphill work. So the soldiers park them outside the villages, and walk in. They know almost immediately if they are welcome or not; the looks in the eyes of villagers tell them whether the Taleban are in the area or not. The soldiers hand out army biscuits, which the children like, but this is peace-building of the most rudimentary kind.

What is needed is a proper civilian structure, manned by trained experts, not soldiers. So far, however, it has proved too dangerous for non-military staff. A burly corporal from Glasgow tells me that the work is “the most worthwhile thing I have done in my life”. But he has no idea how long troops will need to be here before the area is secure enough for the civil process to begin. We talk in years rather than months.

Musa Qala, North Helmand, July 6

This, as Anthony Loyd has been reporting for The Times, is where the battle for the Afghan soul will be won or lost. For the first time, I begin to get some sense of how it might be done. Justin Holt, a former lieutenant-colonel in the Marines, and now stabilisation adviser to the governor of Musa Qala, has a clear view of his role. He aims to introduce workable systems, such as a structure for wages, a proper legal process, adult literacy courses, accountability through the local shura or council, respect for the Afghan national police - all within a society which he describes as “like 13th-century England with mobile phones.”

This means working with men such as the governor, Mullah Salaam, who is widely distrusted, both by British officers and local people. It means accepting - for the time being - the opium money that funds the local economy. It means dispensing a primitive form of justice that would be incomprehensible in Britain. It means, in effect, going native while crawling towards democracy - the beard that Holt has grown to gain respect in the shura is the visible symbol of his determination to work with the grain of local tradition, not against it.

Holt recognises that this is a slow and frustrating process. “You have to remember this is is quite a feudal society,” he says. “You have to move your own clock back, rather than drag theirs forward too fast.”

But he is prepared to challenge the governor to his face when he thinks corruption is getting out of hand - recently he even arrested the governor's favourite son - and thinks that things are improving.

No one could claim that Musa Qala is safe or stable enough yet to count as a positive gain for the coalition forces. If that is ever achieved, it will be done not by force of arms but by the dull, unsexy but vital symbols of a civil society at work - accounts, spreadsheets and the competent use of public money. If that sounds familiar, well it is the way that we once built an empire.

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