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We had been driving through the scrub-tufted desert for over an hour before we turned onto the dirt track that led to Chek Chek. Our driver pointed at the high brown hills that surrounded us and, in an attempt to explain the origins of our destination, launched into a classical Persian tale of 6th century Arab persecution, fleeing women, magically opening mountains, mystic dreams and the founding of a fire temple. And there before us rose the mountain from the story.

A path edged with lamps snaked up the slope to houses carved into the rocks. Above the buildings, a burst of greenery - berry bushes, fig and pomegranate trees. The plants should not have been a surprise: Chek Chek means ‘drip drops’ in Farsi - and the mountain stream that has named the most significant Zoroastrian pilgrimage site in Iran is still busy dripping down the rocks.

Zoroastrianism is the ancient religion of Iran, revealed by the prophet Zoroaster some time between the 15th and 6th centuries BC. Combining his own doctrine with existing beliefs in an omnipotent deity and incorporating the fire-worship that fostered ancient community, Zoroaster devised a religion which has influenced many since. It was one of the world’s first monotheistic religions, teaching that life is an eternal struggle between the sire of truth, Ahura Mazda, and the agent of falsehood, Ahriman. Beyond its army of heavenly beings, its creation myths and visions of the afterlife (which have heavily influenced Christianity), the religion rests on three central commands: good works, good thoughts and good deeds. This simplicity of creed is probably responsible for the religion’s longevity.

Zoroastrianism became the official religion of the ancient Persian Empire, adopted by Kourosh (Cyrus) the Great. As he extended Persian’s borders, eventually bounded by the Oxus to the north, the Hellespont to the west and India’s Sind river to the east, Persian subjects continued to worship Ahura Mazda and house the holy fire in special temples. It was a fortunate meeting in history: The birth of an empire allied to the birth of a religion. Zoroastrianism runs deep in the Persian psyche, almost as deep as the unshakable Persian pride in the past glories of their country.

The Empire - and its religion - survived until the crescent moon of Islam scythed across the region in the 7th century AD. The Arab conquest has scarred Persian minds ever since, the spread of Islam was swift and irrevocable. But in the desert town of Yazd, Zoroastrianism survived.

Yazd springs up from the desert like a dream of walled gardens, mud ramparts and turquoise domes. It is one of the oldest towns in the world, dating back to Sassanian times (224-637AD) at least, its name thought to derive from yazdesh, which means ‘to feast and to worship’ in the ancient Persian of the time. Under Arab rule it was an important town on the silk route, exporting silk, carpets and textiles throughout the world. It flourished in the 14th and 15th centuries, when it was spared destruction by the armies of Genghis Khan and Tamerlane, who razed other Iranian towns to the ground.

Today, Yazd has the best-preserved old quarter of any Iranian city and the largest population of Zoroastrians: some 30,000 of the world’s Zoroastrians - who spread from Bombay to West Hampstead - live here. Splendidly-tiled mosques tower over the clay-coloured town, while sprawling old caravanserai now harbour garages and carpet workshops. Away from the centre of town stands a neo-classical building in a walled garden, a pool of water reflecting its six white columns and the curious half-bird half-man symbol that tops its flat roof. This symbol is Farvadrin, the representation of the god Ahura Mazda, half-man, half-eagle, standing over this ateshkadeh (fire temple) which houses a sacred fire said to have been burning since the 4th century AD.

The hirbod (priest) who looks after the fire told us that there were no rituals carried out here. He spoke of an annual pilgrimage which lasts for 10 days each June. “Not here,” he replied to my enquiry. “At a place in the desert called Chek Chek.”

Chek Chek is unpopulated. The buildings we saw from the road house pilgrims at the annual festival. We clambered up to these khayleh, our surroundings greener with each step. Below us I saw a vulture perched on a rock, and felt that this was a good omen

Vultures played, until recently, a crucial part in the death ceremonies of Zoroastrians. Since they believe in maintaining the purity of the elements, Zoroastrians cannot bury their dead (it pollutes the earth) nor can they cremate them (it pollutes both fire and air). So they would leave the corpses on towers built on mountain-tops. To let them be picked clean by vultures. These Towers of Silence were amazingly efficient: the bodies would be clean within hours. The Towers crossing the world from India to London stand empty now: modern Zoroastrians bury their dead in cement-lined graves, to prevent contamination of the earth. There are two such towers outside Yazd, where the odd fragment of human bone may still be found.

We climbed to the top of Chek Chek, through brightly blossoming pomegranate trees. At the entrance to the temple, its doors the colour of gold and carved with the giant winged figure of Farvardin, a man appeared: he was the keeper of the temple, living alone in Chek Chek to guard the fire. He told us that as Muslims we could go no further. But a soft voice behind us entreated: Oh please, you’re more than welcome. Please do come up. The voice belonged to a young woman dressed in bright red, a white scarf around her head, a bowl of water in her hands. She mounted the steps behind us, a sign of respect, and at the top we were greeted by a clean-shave man wearing a skullcap.

We removed our shoes and entered the temple. It was little more than a cave. The stream dripped through its roof to be caught unceremoniously in a bucket. The floor was wet and in the wall was set an altar with three small flames. In the centre of the room, the sacred flame was burning above a flower-shaped table full of ash and offerings. A group of pilgrims from Tehran placed apples and pomegranates on the central altar and threw incense onto the flame, stoking it up with their offerings and prayers, the chick smoke billowing up and out into the sun.

An old woman came up to us, her hands full of aromatic herbs which she sprinkled over each of our shoulders in turn. May your prayers be accepted she said, while a small child offered us delicate pastries and sweets made of honey, rosewater and almonds. The lady in the red started to sing, her beautiful voice ringing out. She is praying, explained the clean-shaven man, first in Farsi and then in our language. In Tehran, she is the one who teaches the faith to our children, teaches our language, our customs. Their language dates back to ancient Persia, from the days before the Arabs came and gave the Iranians their alphabet and holy book, burning the Iranian texts and obliterating the wisdom of the writers. It is within the Zoroastrian faith that the strongest link with the ancient world of Iran exists, that some of these writings were preserved. Still now the main festival in Iran, No Ruz (New Year), has changed little from Zoroastrian times. A celebration of the vernal equinox, the whole ritual is gloriously un-Islamic, despite a Koran being placed on the traditionally laid table. The Wednesday before the New Year, adults and children gather to leap over small bonfires, chanting to let in the pure energy of the fire and cleanse themselves of the old year. The festival of No Ruz has a special place in Iranian hearts, being, unlike many Muslim festivals, a time for laughter and celebration of life and its renewal.

Zoroastrianism is a joyous faith, the priestess told up, explaining that the mass mournings that so characterise Shia Islam do not exist in her religion. The most important thing is to live in the present and look to the future, not always back at the past. And with this she invited us to join them for tea outside.

We sat cross-legged on the carpets they had spread outside under the canopy of trees. The pilgrims chatted over sweet black tea and pastries. Their faces were lit with the fulfillment of their journey. As we left, they pulled out a daf (a giant tambourine). The sound of their beautiful voices singing their joyous prayers, telling the story of Chek Chek and reiterating their simple creeds, followed us on our descent.

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