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Blink and you could miss Khasab, the main town on the Musandam peninsula, a remote enclave of the Sultanate of Oman where sheer moutains tower over narrow inlets and blissful, deserted coves. Roads are a recent phenomenon here; access used to be by sea only so, not surprisingly, fishing is big. Although desperately short of hotels, Khasab is increasingly popular with Emiratis, expats and tourists from Dubai and Abu Dhabi as a peaceful weekend getaway (weekend being Friday and Saturday in these parts). It is therefore not surprising that the first ever Evason Hideaway in the Middle East has chosen to open its doors in mid-2007 on this very peninsula, on the east coast at Zighy Bay. This will doubtless be followed by others.

Mountain jeep-trips, diving, snorkelling, cruising through the spectacular ‘fjords’ on converted dhows: this is what people drive from Dubai to enjoy. If you look at a map, getting to the Musandam peninsula by road looks tough. In reality, it is an easy three-hour drive with a few serpentine twists before you curl round the stark limestone cliffs into Khasab itself. Otherwise, the main links with the outside world are one unexpected internet café and satellite TV, as the airstrip only sees twice-weekly flights to and from Muscat. Military planes are plentiful though as we are overlooking the Strait of Hormuz through which much of the world’s oil-supply is shipped. And across the water lies Iran.

Although the peninsula is bizarrely wedged by history between two Emirates, such isolation from the mother country was, for once, not a colonial sleight of hand. Rather it was a voluntary choice by the Shihuh, the local Bedouins. For centuries no one cared much about them, their goats and their fish, but once oil-wells mushroomed round the corner, clarification became urgent. They chose Oman rather than the U.A.E.

Since then, things have looked up massively and Khasab today, though insuperably dozy, displays a kind of understated prosperity. Keralan Indians run most shops while pristinely attired Shihuh cruise round in four-wheel drives with their heavily masked wives or amble to one of the charming, whitewashed mosques. There is absolutely zero sense of urgency other than an Indian worker peddling furiously to the harbour on a bike.

Khasab’s straggle of low, off-white buildings is barely visible from the sea as it visually melts into the rocky curtain behind. Somehow, Iranian smugglers manage not to miss it in the dawn light after a 40-mile speedboat trip across the Strait. I am told that, on arrival, they unload top quality goats to be sold locally. By dusk, piled high with televisions, satellite dishes, mobile phones and computers ordered from Dubai, the boats roar back home to double their profits. It is obviously a win-win business, more so even when I learn that their imports are less goats, more drugs. But nobody talks about that.

Ironically, moored right next to them in front of the 400-year old Portuguese fort, is a small fleet of dhows used purely as pleasure boats. For tourists, a 10-mile trip up the Khor Shamm, a giant fjord, is equally win-win. It might seem a cliché, but the setting is hard to beat for drama, majesty and ever-changing tones. Beneath the waves schools of dolphins duck and dive and vividly coloured angelfish flit through the shadows; above, cormorants cluster on rocks while eagles and falcons soar high above. A snorkel in the calm water, a sunbathe and a bountiful Omani lunch are all thrown in. My hopes to enjoy a snorkel round a tiny island called Telegraph are however thwarted by it being a military base. You cannot even photograph it, though its barren rock and tent-like structures are not exactly photogenic. But it is the source of a seductive story. Allegedly this is where the expression ‘go round the bend’ originated back in the 1860s when British telegraph officers stationed in seering heat on the remote outcrop became desperate to get back to civilisation.

Back on terra firma round the bend, I embark on Khasab’s other big draw, the ‘mountain safari’. From the harbour, fort and laid-back souk, one main road follows a broad wadi (riverbed) south into the mountains. A straggle of houses, mosques. the petrol station, then nothing but rocky slopes and jagged peaks. Our speedy driver Yusuf, in white dishdasha and huge shades at the wheel of a brand new Hummer, swings us higher and higher past near invisible Bedouin houses nestling in the mountainsides, goats, donkeys, acacias and even a heli-pad. This, apparently, is a kind of Bedouin Flying Doctor service. Suddenly we career round yet another sharp bend to a mirage, a vast green plateau with grazing donkeys. In a trice it is gone and as the air cools noticeably, we are close to the summit of Musandam’s highest peak, Jebel Harim, at just under 7,000 ft. “Very old” says Yusuf in his limited English, pointing to fossilised fish in a roadside rock in front of another achingly beautiful vertiginous view. “Very incredible” say I.

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