The surprising mountainous cycling routes that sit just outside Dubai

Dubai? Never been. Even though I’ve just got back, I’ve still not been. It seemed no matter where I went, I wasn’t actually there. Partly this was intentional; we were heading straight to the Hatta Mountains, about a 90-minute drive from the airport.

Shiny and new is Dubai’s raison d’être. Bright lights and bling; you know what to expect. Only Hatta, practically on the border with Oman, is more old than gold. And I rather liked it.

The Hatta Fort Hotel is positively ancient by local standards, dating back to (AD) 1975. Low slung and low key, it is the sort of place one could imagine Leonard Rossiter spilling a Martini over Joan Collins. The Seventies vibe – all clean white walls and dark wood panelling – couldn’t provide more of a contrast with Dubai’s thrusting modernity, forever forging ahead with its priapic skyscrapers and technological gewgaws.

The Hatta Fort’s retro chic may not be entirely intentional but, happily, it works. Equally, the staff are wholly lovely, perhaps surprised anyone has made it out this far into the desert. Either way, they cannot do enough for you, not least Laksmi, the diminutive doorman, who has been with the property for 40 years.

You can sense a but coming on, can’t you?

Mountain biking was our mission, and while there are mountains here and bikes on which to ride them, not all are created equal. A motley selection of steeds greet us in the early morning sun: fairly basic affairs with only rudimentary front suspension, one even sporting rim brakes instead of the now standard disc set-up.

On the plus side, the riding is very close to the hotel, and surprisingly extensive. A large wooden map marks the trail, setting out the green, blue, red and black graded routes. It’s something of a first for the Emirates: around 30 miles (48km) of signposted trails, free to ride all year round.

Starting with a beginner-friendly blue, we quickly establish that, at 10am, we have already set out too late – it is pushing 104F (40C). Still; mad dogs and Englishmen.

In glossy cycling magazines, and on the endless videos populating YouTube, mountain bikers shred trails and rail corners as if there were on, well, rails. Deftly they fly over obstacles and pick their way down steep chutes littered with rocks – baby heads, in the grisly parlance of seasoned riders.

This was less like that. There are moments of speed; satisfying seconds of sheer adrenalin-stoked fury. And when I finally get to grips with my sketchy bike, there are sections of trail that come together with a semblance of flow; that magical feeling all riders seek. But it takes some effort.

After a full morning, a blister appears between my thumb and right forefinger – the telltale mark of a death grip over the brake – born of a fear something might give way beneath me. But I go back for more the next day. Not on some masochistic urge, but because I want to. I have ridden big mountains in the past; fully fledged Alps, no less. Endless trails through the woods at home, too. But never under the pounding sun in the heat and scrub of the desert. It does feel genuinely like an adventure.

Setting out slightly earlier, my confidence grows, as does that elusive sense of flow. Finally rolling with commitment over an undulating ribbon of rock, fingers off the brakes with dust kicking up in my wake, I disturb a wild horse with a young foal. They run alongside, spooked, and for a few seconds it feels as though we are the only creatures in the world. We stop, and look, and wait, and they skitter back into the shade. As if on cue, the call to prayer sounds from a mosque in the valley.

I glance at my watch: wild horses and an Englishman, quite literally out in the midday sun.

Only in the back of beyond do these moments of clarity rear up from nowhere. Had I misjudged Dubai? There was only one way to find out. Having purposely turned our backs on the bling, we head back towards the city, with its wall-to-wall shopping malls and exotic traffic.

Again, it’s not quite as expected. There are fancy cars – though American muscle is apparently in higher demand than European flair. A veritable herd of Ford Mustangs gallops along the Sheikh Zayed Road, leaving more rarefied Ferraris and Lamborghinis languishing in their showrooms.

Still on the outskirts, the Jebel Ali Palm Tree Court yields another unexpected treat: a beach. For a country built on sand, Dubai’s beaches don’t enjoy the same reputation as, say, those in the Caribbean or the south of France. But here is a lovely white strip of sand, dotted with sun loungers and a surf shack. Ladies in tiny bikinis sip on enormous cocktails, simultaneously snapping two Emirati myths – that drinking is frowned on and modest dress is enforced. The sun also seems as though it will shine forever.

In the spirit of adventure, a new sporting experience seems appropriate. Why not waterskiing? It looks so graceful from the shore. A chap is plying the millpond of the gulf; up and down he goes, ploughing an aquatic furrow. At one point he even takes a hand off and waves.

When my turn comes, I conclude he must have done it before. Quite often. Five times I steadied myself on those nefarious planks. And five times I face-planted directly into the sea, at such a humiliatingly low speed only my ego could get bruised.

After dark, Dubai begins to shine, and shows off why most visitors enjoy it so. There are clubs that would not look out of place in New York or LA, already going off at 8pm. Dinner, however, pleases more than just the party crowd. An influx of both foreign-born chefs and expats gives Dubai’s restaurants an enviably worldly influence. From the Levant to Asia via India and elsewhere, menus crackle with spice and satisfying, smoky flavour.

There is local (ish) beer – from Beirut – and (expensive) wine. Vegetarians are not left out: the Asian-Arabic mix caters admirably for everyone; far more so than the gastronomic heartlands of Europe. Make no mistake, dining in Dubai is a feast for the senses.

Afterwards we gravitate, as do many others, towards the shops. Name a brand – from adidas to Zara – and it will be present at the expansive Dubai Mall, where the celebrated fountain show spouts nightly. Locals, expats, tourists and anyone else will be enjoying a stroll in air-conditioned splendour.

The Dubai Fountains – the largest choreographed show of its kind in the world – are undoubtedly impressive, but it did feel a lot like Las Vegas; crowds included.

But here, no doubt, was the real Dubai. Take me back to the mountains, I thought. I’ll waterski there if I have to. And the food is just as good.

Getting there

Return flights with Emirates cost from £420 this February; emirates.com/uk/english/

Staying there

Double rooms at JA Resorts’ Hatta Fort Hotel (telegraph.co.uk/tt-hatta-fort) start at £200 per night; a room at the JA Palm Tree Court (telegraph.co.uk/tt-ja-palm-tree-court) costs from £127

More information visitdubai.com/en-uk; trailforks.com (search for Hatta Trail)