"When a heavy sea fog rests on these uncouth and rugged surfaces... a place fitter to represent the infernal regions could scarcely, in searching the world around, be found. A shudder, amounting almost to fear, came over me when its frightful desolation first suddenly broke upon my view. Death, I exclaimed, would be preferable to banishment in such a country" – Charles J Andersson, 19th-century explorer

The accounts of early explorers on Namibia’s Skeleton Coast dwelt more on its extraordinary bleakness than on its undeniable beauty. This is understandable, as in places it resembles the surface of the moon. Over the centuries, this coastline’s dangerous crosscurrents and impenetrable fogs have combined with treacherous sandbanks, shoals and reefs to create a graveyard for ships.

Some early visitors never left; after scrambling ashore, shipwreck survivors found their relief at reaching dry land short-lived, and many had cause to wish they had drowned at sea rather than face the horrors of a long-drawn-out death from thirst on the loneliest coast in the world.

“Here for nothing in the world is there even the smallest gain for our masters... there is only sand, rock and storm,” wrote the captain of a passing Dutch ship, the Bode. In this he was mistaken: Namibia is now one of the world’s largest producers of diamonds. Sailors shipwrecked on the Skeleton Coast often stumbled across alluvial diamonds lying at their feet; then they died of thirst, carrying unimaginable wealth in their pockets.

On Namibia's Skeleton Coast

On a mission to cross Africa on foot, Fran Sandham chose Namibia's Skeleton Coast, graveyard of explorers

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Of all the cruel deaths on this coast, one episode strikes me as particularly poignant. In 1943, a slate was found buried in the sand beside 12 headless adult skeletons and that of a young child.

Scratched on the slate was the date 1860 and the following message: “I am proceeding to a river 60 miles north, and should anyone find this and follow me, God will help him.” I suspect he was trying to reach the Ugab River; if he ever got that far, he would almost certainly have found the riverbed completely dry.

But with a name like the “Skeleton Coast”, how could I not start my own journey across Africa there?

My friend Hagen gives me a lift up the coast to the point where I start the big trek. As he drives away, heading back towards Swakopmund, I think of all the reasons why I should be accompanying him and of all the unpleasant things that might happen to me if I don’t. It’s like a mental video fast-forwarding to all the really nasty bits.

For a few moments, I consider chasing after his car; in the soft sand I could catch up with him before he picks up speed, then pretend I’ve forgotten something important back in town. But as soon as he’s gone, I become more philosophical. Here I am and here I’ll stay, unless I do something about it. I set out alone into the Namib Desert.

I see no one for the rest of the first day on the coast. I follow a dry riverbed down to the ocean, where I take off my boots and cool my feet in the Atlantic. The water is remarkably cold considering it’s lapping against hot desert sand. I start south down the coast towards Swakopmund, the best part of a week’s trek away if all goes well – the equivalent of walking from London to Bristol.

A couple of hours of hard work bring a huge surge of relief. I can actually do this. Until now, I didn’t know if I could get along at all, hour after hour, carrying this weight across a soft and sloping beach. But it’s possible, even if lugging a bloody great rucksack across crumbling sand is a far cry from carrying the shopping home from Sainsbury’s.

I’m grateful I invested in some trekking poles – after less than an hour of using them on the Namibian coast they become indispensable for the rest of the entire walk across Africa, and I feel almost naked on the few occasions I try walking without them.

I take things fairly easy for the first day. I couldn’t go fast even if I wanted to; this mode of travel doesn’t lend itself to sudden bursts of speed. At the same time, I can’t drag my heels, as my water supply won’t last much beyond two days in the desert.

And if I break an ankle, I’m in serious trouble. But at least I’m unlikely to get lost, with the ocean right next to me. Two jackals appear, less than a hundred metres away. They look friendly enough, gambolling like lambs and obviously the best of pals.

The black-backed jackals on the Namib coast are timid creatures, feeding mainly on insects. I see the first of many snakes on the trip; unlike the more animated varieties I later encounter inland, this small fellow is as dead and dry as biltong, and even the jackals have turned up their snouts at it.

I continue down the beach for the rest of the afternoon, the coastline desolate and the ocean dazzling with reflected sunlight. I stop and gaze out into the Atlantic. There’s something almost scary about watching the sea like this when you’re in a desert and the only person for miles around. While some people insist canned music has no place out in nature, I’m already glad I brought a Walkman, and won’t lose any sleep if it is one of the more overt trappings of civilisation.

Some explorers took a musical instrument with them, even if they couldn’t play it, and one or two even took wind-up phonographs. I listen to Eleanor Rigby by the Beatles, just the strings arrangement, cold and unsettling, and watch the sea as though hypnotised.

There is no land for thousands of miles; the Benguela Current races inland, cold and urgent, all the way from South Georgia. If I searched for months, I could find no music more suited to this moment and this empty place, not even Fingal’s Cave.

Evening approaches with surprising suddenness. The ocean is very beautiful as the sun dies, the current sweeping ashore like molten silver. In the twilight it’s easy to picture shipwrecked sailors struggling ashore, clutching at sludgy wet sand, retching salt water, convinced they’re almost safe – then leaving their bones to bleach for ever under the burning desert sun.

There seems little point in pitching my tent: the evening is mild and I can’t be bothered. Although tired, I feel fine, physically and mentally, and tonight I could sleep on the proverbial clothesline. I unroll my sleeping mat and hide my boots inside my rucksack, in case hyenas mistake them for food.

The clouds inland look almost English, straight out of HE Bates; those out to sea are more spectacular, the kind favoured by artists depicting momentous biblical events or illustrating the covers of Wilbur Smith books. The clouds only a few miles inland have travelled right across Africa to get here, all the way from the Indian Ocean, which seems like an omen – I am, after all, heading in that general direction. Thousands of miles and long, exhausting months away, if I ever get that far.

Then true darkness falls. The horizon far inland leaps closer as lightning flickers across the desert sky; the heavens plunge into blackness again, and the night stirs with the low growl of thunder. This could form the perfect setting for a western, the scene where the cattle start thinking along the lines of a good stampede.

There’s something delightful about the sound of a distant electrical storm when you know it won’t reach you. After all, people in Swakopmund assured me it hardly ever rains on the coast. Even so, this thunder is loud, considering it’s many miles away.

I wake in the middle of the night to find myself getting splattered by big drops of water falling from the sky. This bears every resemblance to rain. If technically it’s not rain, then it’s near enough to make no difference – I’m English, for God’s sake, I should know.

Whatever it is, after being drenched for half an hour, I’ve had enough and start to pack my gear; I may as well carry on walking in the dark rather than sit here miserable. As soon as I’ve crammed all my soggy gear back in my rucksack, this ersatz rain stops abruptly, as though some invisible hand has turned off a giant water sprinkler in the sky directly above my head. Sceptical, I go back to sleep.

Later, back in Swakopmund, people still insist this phenomenon is not rain, but condensed spray from the sea. I’m not entirely convinced; a month later it does rain briefly in Walvis Bay, real rain, universally acknowledged as such. So why not here as well?

In the morning I find myself surrounded by hyena prints. Surely they were here when I stopped last night in the dark? The hyenas along Namibia’s coastline are known as the strandwolf (“beach wolf ”). Smaller than their East African counterparts, their thick coats actually make them look bigger; shy and rarely aggressive, they still possess immensely powerful jaws capable of crunching large bones like Japanese rice crackers. They don’t normally hunt big animals, preferring to feast on insects and birds and the occasional putrid seal.

But at least my boots are still present and correct, with no obvious teeth marks...

Extracted from Traversa: A Solo Walk across Africa, from the Skeleton Coast to the Indian Ocean, by Fran Sandham, published by Duckworth at £16.99. To buy it for the reduced price of £15.29, with free p&p in the UK, call The Sunday Times BooksFirst on 0870 165 8585

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