There are few areas in China as alluring and interesting as this fabled trade route where silk, spices and incense went west and perfumes and horses went east. But I honestly wouldn’t suggest a bike for anything other than a short excursions.

From around 300BC to 600AD, the Silk Road stretched westwards from Xian in central China through the wilds of Gansu Province and beyond to Xinjiang, then still further into the Central Asian republics. Three thousand plus miles of mostly harsh and inhospitable country. Buses and trains now allow the modern traveller access to some of the most remarkable sights in China.

At the town of Jiayuguan I seized a bike for a six kilometer pedal to the fort, a Han Chinese outpost that marked the end of the Great Wall and the limits of Chinese control. There has been a frontier post here for at least 2000 years though the present fort is about 600 years old. Beyond the outpost lay the lands of barbarians, an attitude still held true by many Chinese today.

But I was greeted at the gates with a smile and waved through a succession of portals and tunnels under thick ramparts. Seven hundred metres of perimeter walls and battlements surround turrets and pavilioned watchtowers, all seemingly marooned on the fringes of the Gobi Desert.

It’s a compelling place and was a beacon of hope for caravans returning east and one of despair for those heading west towards harsh deserts and bandits.

Some old ways die hard as I found out heading west on the bus to Dunhuang. Rogues had duped a smart Shanghai journalist into gambling on cards. A knife was drawn and the conmen leapt off into the bleak wasteland with all the victim’s money. All the journalist could do was stare out the window in mute rage as the bandit ran off cheering and laughing.

Cultured Chinese are still angry with Victorian-era explorers and archaeologists who removed — or plundered — relics from the Silk Road oases. Amongst the most spectacular relics are those at the Mogao “Thousand Buddha” Caves, the best preserved examples of Buddhist cave art in China.

Hundreds of caves pockmark a 1500m cliff face and contain thousands of stucco figures and images of Buddha, his disciples and other decorative motifs. While some of these shrines are badly damaged, others are stunning with their colours almost as fresh and vibrant as the day they were painted. The site’s isolation, obscurity and the dry desert heat have preserved this record of Buddhist influence and culture that spread along the caravan routes from the Indian sub-continent.

As a town, Dunhuang is an interesting enough place to wander round. Crescent Moon Lake is a popular excursion with its dramatic setting at the foot of enormous sand dunes known as the Singing Sand Mountains. Legend has it that two rival armies were buried beneath these sands overnight to the roll of their war drums.

I moved on to Turpan which, situated in the Turpan Basin, is one of the hottest places in China (“Land of Fire” was an early name) and is near Aydingkol Salt Lake, the second lowest (154m below sea level) point in the world. Not particularly appealing statistics, I agree, but Turpan feels like the end of the world and few visitors are disappointed.

Here in Xinjiang Province, one is firmly in the land of the Moslem Uigur people who speak a Turkic language and have distinct facial features to match. It has long been a troubled region and, even now, relations with the Chinese are uneasy. But for a foreigner, probably the riskiest act in Turpan is to pick grapes — there is a fine — from the trellises that arc over the pavements of its long straight streets.

One of the town’s most striking buildings is the Emin Minaret and Mosque, a 200-year old chunk of sun-dried patterned bricks of Afghan design. Most of the other sights lie outside town and, typically, tours use a hired taxi or minibus to visit two abandoned and ruined cities, graves, irrigation channels and a “flaming mountain”. The mountain, a long range that runs parallel to the road, adopts a marvellous golden-pink hue at dawn and dusk. Gouged with gullies and ravines, it is said to resemble fire.

The “Karez”, or wells, are a remarkable series of covered irrigation channels and wells that cover 1600km to extract underground water from mountains north of Turpan.
Considering it almost never rains here, they are still vital to the town’s survival. Extensive orchards of peaches, apricots and plums, vineyards producing exquisite seedless grapes and raisins, and crops of wheat and melons testify to their efficiency.

I drove on to the Bezeklik Caves, lesser cousins to those at Dunhuang. But the picturesque setting, in cliffs above a river bank sprinkled with gardens, is all the more unexpected after bumping through the vast yellow desert and stark bare hills.

It was here I overheard a local guide venting his disapproval at Western explorers who excavated — some would say pillaged —these shrines barely a century ago. He was right, of course, but so are those who point to Moslem desecration — faces scratched out, statues beheaded, that might have ruined what was saved. It’s a no-win argument but I feel the Chinese might just have the moral high ground since tonnes of booty were carted off for fame and glory as much as scholarship.

The Astana Graves, part of a burial ground, may not smell so bad, but two of our party still covered their mouths and noses. A flight of steps descends to small chambers, one of which contains mummified corpses, funerary objects and relics.

Of more interest to me were the ruined cities. At Gaochang lie the remains of the Uigur capital in the ninth century and seven kilometers of high walls encircle a wilderness of mudbrick remains where you can wander at will.

The prize for atmosphere and setting, though, goes to Jiaohe — “river confluence” — an eight kilometer bicycle ride west of Turpan. An island plateau with sheer cliffs and topped with ruins stands just where the river forks into a pair of canyons. These remains are less vague than Gaochang’s, with the layout of streets and buildings clearly seen rather than imagined. It’s a place where ghosts of the past seem to lurk in every nook and cranny, particularly in the fading light of dusk.

Urumqi, now the provincial capital, was never an important stop on the Silk Road. Wimps, or those pressed for time, can fly from here to Kashgar, China’s most westerly town. Devoted travellers catch the bus from either here or Turpan, a three day extravaganza — with night stops — skirting the edge of the mighty Taklamakan Desert to the south and the Tian Shan, a snow-capped range to the north. It’s empty, bleak, sometimes stunning and the best way to appreciate the region’s isolation.

Kashgar has managed to cling to its romantic, almost mythical, reputation, even if the reality of a “modern” drab concrete district is less satisfying. An ancient hotbed of Anglo-Russian intrigue at the turn of the century, and now launch pad for the Karakoram Highway into Pakistan, it seems to be of another world and time.

Kashgar’s largest mosque, the Id Kah, can squeeze in 10,000 people and, with its twin minarets aside a classic arched facade, Han China seems irrelevant. At Abakh Hoja’s tomb, women come to pray for a child and knot strips of cloth to a carved lattice window, different colours for boys or girls.

The best place to linger is the old town with its narrow lanes, mudbrick walls and houses, outdoor cut-throat barbers, wooden chest-makers, smokey teashops and men stringing noodles and churning ice-cream. The famous Sunday market is still a genuine hustle and bustle of traders and food stalls with wizened old men inspecting fat-tailed sheep and camels, timber, carpets, skins and matting. Though donkey carts have now been banned, the rhythms and pulse of old ways are still strong.

For the moment at least, modern foreign devils are welcome to graze on the venerable culture and wild scenery of the Chinese Silk Road.