Our bags are strapped to a string of mules as we make our final push up a stony track towards the Berber hamlet of Tamatert. A flaming sun is sinking behind snowy, 1,130m (3,700ft) Jbel Toubkal, the highest mountain in North Africa. “Yup, it’s a hovel!” announces Toby, our 14-year-old son, as he catches sight of Kasbah Samra, the straw and mud-brick guesthouse where we will stay for the next three nights. “I can’t believe we are actually staying here,” mutters Iona, 16.

My wife Hennie and I exchange resigned glances. Why are our teenage children not in the thrall of this place, as we are? Isn’t there something spine-tinglingly exciting about sleeping in a remote Berber village high in the Atlas mountains, an hour by mule from the nearest drivable road?

Anyway, some “hovel”. Sure, the bedrooms are reached by ladder; the shower and loo are behind a curtain; the hot water, fired by a wood stove, is a trickle that runs warm for barely a minute; and there is no electricity, save a single power line to the fridge where bottles of Moroccan rosé are kept chilled. But as dusk falls, old Ibrahim, in his hooded djelaba, comes around with a rush wick to light the hundreds of candles in hanging lanterns and niches in the whitewashed walls. There is a touch of Arabian Nights about the bejewelled cushions and low tables where dark-eyed Rachida pours cool water over our hands from a pewter ewer, before serving a supper of angel-hair pasta with strips of spicy chicken.

Another ladder leads to a rooftop terrace, where, in the absence of cloud, moon or artificial light, we stand under an astonishing profusion of stars: tiny grains of light so fine they look like luminous vapour; beaming planets; and the silky veil of the Milky Way. Even the teenagers are awed. Sebastian, their 12-year-old brother, counts seven meteor streaks within half an hour.

Our two-part Moroccan family adventure had begun in Marrakesh, where the city’s sense-assaulting allure created a more immediate impact. We immersed ourselves in the frenzy of Jemaa el Fna square, among the flutes and drums of the buskers, acrobats and storytellers. Plumes of white smoke rose from lamb brochettes sizzling on open fires. Iona found herself having her arm patterned with henna by a woman hidden under a burka, while a pair of groggy snakes were draped around her neck — the idea being that I should pay to photograph the spectacle. (I do.)

From the Jemaa el Fna, the legendary souks of Marrakesh pour through the medina, or old town, in torrents of humanity, everyone bargaining among the whining mopeds and handcarts piled high with firewood or satellite dishes. Wafts of musk mingle with donkey dung, and every now and again the soaring wail of an amplified muezzin does battle with a number by the bizarrely ubiquitous James Blunt. “Well, all the songs are from his Back to Bedlam album, which is appropriate,” observes Iona.

We swirl through one vortex of salesmanship after another, from the carpet souk through the jewellery souk to the souks of slippers, spices and silks. The boys become intrigued by the subtleties of haggling, and quickly get the hang of it. “Eighty dirhams for that belt? You must be mad!” grins Toby, turning on his heel, before being summoned back to close the deal at 55.

A single morning leaves us laden with lanterns, leather bags, saffron and spangly slippers as we retreat by horse-drawn caleche (“the best way in the world to travel,” agree Hennie and Iona), to the fabulous, history-packed Hotel la Mamounia, a palace of marble halls and serene courtyards. We had decided to splash out on a couple of nights here, above all for the hotel’s exquisite gardens and oceanic pool.

After mornings of sensory overload, the children swim and play tennis through the heat of the afternoon before returning to the melée of the medina. Meanwhile, I reflect on one aspect of Marrakesh that has changed since my previous visit a decade ago: the relentless hassling of tourists by local youths has been outlawed and hugely reduced. The change is as welcome for genuine tourist guides and traders as it is for the visitors.

Our third-floor room is on the same corridor as the Churchill Suite, from which Sir Winston, a frequent guest at Mamounia, described the view of the city and the pink, snow-capped peaks of the High Atlas as “paintaceous”.

The journey to these mountains takes just 90 minutes by minibus. First we cross a hot, dusty plain of parched earth and palm trees, then twist through a harrowing gorge to Imlil village, which huddles on a rocky slope at the head of Oued Rhirhaia valley. Here we meet our mountain guide, Mohammed, and his mules. In the brooding presence of Jbel Toubkal, we follow them up to Kasbah Samra, and arrange treks for the following two days.

The first starts with a steep, zig-zagging track through groves of juniper and walnut trees, then bare, reddish scree, up to the high Tamatert Pass. It is an exhausting climb as we leave behind one false summit after another. But the rewards are awesome views in the rarefied sunlight of high altitude, over austere jagged peaks and the green valley far below where we are heading.

Mules carry our picnic lunch and spare clothing in big comfy saddlebags, and also offer the option to any of us feeling wimpish or merely wanting a change of pace, to hop on. Hennie and I reminisce along the way about trekking in Nepal 20 years ago.

Next day we take an even longer, more precipitous, hike up the Mizane Valley and round the base of Toubkal. This time we follow the banks of a series of streams and cascades that have been diverted to irrigate the barley fields and orchards dotted along the valley. We exchange the universal Muslim greeting of “Salaam” with local men, women and children, some of whom have brown skins and frizzy hair while others are fair with red hair or blue eyes. All the inhabitants of the valley are Berbers, a race with distant origins in Europe but which has gathered numerous other influences over centuries.

Then we leave the land of plenty on a narrow mule track up into the arid upper reaches of the Atlas where the green fecundity of the valley peters out. Yet even here, we round a corner every now and then to find a lonesome hut, with a plot of vegetables or a patch of grazing pasture as green as an English croquet lawn.

Satisfyingly for Hennie and me, the teenagers quickly take to the life of backpacks and breathless mountain passes. And, back at Kasbah Samra, both trekking and overnighting in hovels get a credibility fillip when Iona discovers that our fellow young house guests are Laura Parker Bowles (Camilla’s daughter) and her boyfriend, Harry. The glitterati, she is amazed to discover, are unfazed by the spartan conditions.

As the candles gutter, we all sink into big, sequined cushions and Laura regales Iona with tales of backpacking in the Andes and gap-year hi-jinks. I suspect that were it not for the presence of us parents, this place would be in danger of being considered seriously cool

NEED TO KNOW

Getting there: Martin Symington and family travelled with Simpson Travel (0845 8116505, www.simpsontravel.com), which offers bespoke itineraries. A one-week trip, including return flights from Gatwick to Marrakesh, four nights’ B&B at a riad (townhouse) in the medina, three nights’ half board at Kasbah Samra, two-day guided treks with mules
with picnic lunch, and all transport, costs £695pp. Or stay in La Mamounia hotel for an extra £242. EasyJet (0905 8210905; calls cost 65p a minute, www.easyjet.com) starts flights from Gatwick to Marrakesh on July 4. Fares from £62, one way.

When to go: March to June, and after September, are the best months for trekking in the Atlas. It can be cold, though often spectacularly clear, in
winter. Marrakesh is generally warm and sunny through winter.

Reading: Morocco (Rough Guides, £13.99); Marrakesh (Footprint, £6.99).

Further information: Moroccan National Tourist Office (020-7437 0073, www.visitmorocco.com).