It was November but there was a sticky heat. I stepped from the taxi in the streets surrounding the bulbous, earth coloured fortress. Its organic shapes were visible through carefully planted parks of palm trees, picnic tables, swanky boutiques and tasteful souvenir shops. About ten in the morning, there seemed a great many people for a normal weekday.

A little like Windsor, I thought, with its clusters of swarming tourists about to enter the castle walls. Having grown up about forty minutes away, our parents had carted every overseas visitor there on countless excursions taking us children with them. The Round Tower, the Queen’s Doll’s House and what struck my young teenage self as chamber after dismal chamber of robing rooms: with the weary insouciance of a fourteen-year-old Buckinghamshire boy, I sported a bored, ‘done-that’, metaphorical T-shirt when it came to the Royal residence. If I met my fourteen-year-old self today, I’d hit him.

On my one free morning in Riyadh, I was determined to escape the Crowne Plaza’s comforts and explore. Posters back in London on the Underground had presented Diriyah as a go-to destination. Although I knew little about it, I decided to go. A quick Google in my hotel room revealed the district had been on the map since 627AD. Wikipedia confirmed that, from 1727 to 1818, Diriyah was the capital. The Al-Turaif Palace, with its earthy, mud-brick bulges I could make out through the trees, was the traditional home of the House of Saud for hundreds of years. The whole site had enjoyed UNESCO World Heritage status from 2010.

And turned out to be closed on the day I arrived in November 2023.

Without street taxis or Uber available in Riyadh, I’d dutifully downloaded the Careem App to book a car that sped me the 25 minutes to Diriyah. The driver left as I gathered my bearings. Blissfully unaware of what was about to unfold, I wandered through the manicured, outlying necklace of buildings, among crowds of youthful Saudis. Smartly dressed, they were moving towards the various entrance gates. After buying and downing a bottle of water, paying with a colourful Riyal banknote, I went to join them.

Not unkindly, a man in military fatigues and a red beret saw me in the queue and approached.

“I am sorry, sir,” he began in faultless Englsih, “But today is a private event. A special day for the young.” He gestured to the crowds around me. In plain sight, I noticed for the first time that they were all holding the same tickets or identical lanyards. “Students…,” he added. “The palace will not be open to tourists.” With a shock, it dawned on me that all those present were about a third my age. Without exception.

Ah. Well. Er. Yes. Unassuming Englishness sent me reeling backwards to the other side of the road. I sat on a wall and let the pennies drop. My sortie had become an epic fail. Slipping off my jacket, I felt sweatily foolish. Reaching to organise a taxi back the sixteen or so miles to the hotel on my phone, I was met with a further thud. There was no signal. Not a jot. The phone was, to all intents and purposes, dead. Throughout my stay, I’d been plumbed into dedicated hotel wi-fi. . My UK ‘service provider’ didn’t function in Diriyah.

I wandered over to one of the many door keepers, an immaculate brigade of young men in bright white, ankle-length Tholes and brilliant red and white Shemagh headdresses. With no Arabic, I spoke in querulous English.

“Excuse me,” I warbled, “Is there a taxi rank near here?” The young man explained the only way to order a taxi was via an App. To which I shrugged and retreated again. Moments later I returned. “How about where cars are dropping off people for the event today? Can I ask one of them to take me back?”

He looked doubtful. “You could try,” he replied uncertainly, his dark brown eyes apologetic. I went back to wilting on my wall again but the only arrivals were private cars, some driven, I noticed, openly and obviously by women. And then, after another half an hour, suddenly there were no cars at all, simply the last pedestrian attendees filing into the complex and the glaringly empty approach road the size of a motorway. The minutes ticked by. I walked over to my man again.

He listened patiently. I was a lucky guest of the first ever Athar Festival, a week-long celebration of Saudi Arabia’s commercial communications industries. I was there to run copywriting workshops for a group of young professionals. My next session was in the early afternoon. It was now after midday. I had to get back.

The young man’s dark brown eyes conveyed regret. “Please sir, there is now a curfew. The Crown Princess is coming to attend today’s festival. No vehicles are allowed within two-and-a-half kilometres until later this afternoon.”

Like a beached goldfish, I mouthed panicky nothings at him for a few seconds. “Um,” I managed, “So, er, what could I do..?”

He looked at me carefully, before walking me to a slatted, wooden bench in the shade. Two minutes later, he was back with a bottle of water. I drank it gratefully. Five minutes after that, he returned again.

“Please sir,” he said. “I have arranged a taxi for you. Unfortunately, you will have to walk along that road.” He gestured towards the broad, empty dual carriageway leading up and away from us. “After fifteen to twenty minutes, you will see a street on the left. Fifty metres along that road will be a driver waiting for you. His name is Irfan. He will take you to your hotel.”

We talked for a moment or two longer. I discovered my rescuer’s name was Zaid and he was a volunteer, as were all the other door keepers, there to support the youth festival within the ancient palace. I took his phone number and thanked him profusely. At the same time, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. Would there really be a driver and car? Might this be a ruse to get me away and stop being a nuisance?

I walked steadily up the hill. Clammily hot, it was perhaps in the middle thirties centigrade. Oozing anxiety, I plodded on without trying to walk too fast. Industrial looking buildings dotted the horizon, before I reached a suburban enclave of what looked freshly built, dun coloured houses. At the first left turn, I swivelled, heart thumping, trying not to think what would happen if the whole set-up proved false. I was desperately anxious about letting down my group of one male and nine female copywriters who would be waiting for me in just over an hour.

A man stepped out of a pale Mercedes and simply said, “Mr Will?” It was the driver, Irfan, that Zaid had promised. I got in and was driven swiftly along Riyadh’s broad highways back to the Crowne Plaza. All the panic I’d built up over my strange, two hours adrift, ebbed soothingly away. As we arrived back, I reached for my wallet and the Riyal banknotes. Irfan looked at me.

“Oh no, sir. It is already paid.”

“By who?” I asked, perplexed.

“By Zaid,” he replied. “Goodbye sir, and good luck with the seminar you are running.”

I walked weakly back into the echoing expanse of the huge hotel. Around 1500 people were attending the Athar week and I rejoined the throng with a stab of relief. Pummelling my phone as it came back into action with the Crowne Plaza Wi-Fi, I texted a heartfelt message to the young man who had made my return possible. I still have his reply.

“This is the least I can offer you, Mr. Will, and this is our duty as Saudis. I am very happy to meet you and I hope you visit us again. Thank you.”