Look up there!” said Hilary, my wife, pointing to the crest of a monumental dune somewhere in the desert wastes of Oman’s Wahiba Sands. “Some maniac has driven down it.” Sure enough, the tracks of a vehicle ran straight down the dune’s steeply angled face, like those of a suicidal skier taking the shortest route down a black run.

“That,” said Abdul, our taciturn driver, with a faint smile, “is where we are going.” He accelerated the Toyota LandCruiser across the treacherous, soft sand towards the looming hill.

You take a very tight hold of any available hand-grip the first time you “dune bash.” Sitting inside a couple of tons of metal on the lip of a vertiginous dune, a hundred or more feet high, feels distinctly uncomfortable. But the descent – as long as you are in a four-wheel drive with a driver who knows the desert – is remarkably serene. The sand slows the vehicle’s descent to a silken slide.

Driving through the austere, elemental beauty of the Wahiba Sands – and sleeping out in the dunes, under a star-encrusted sky – is one of many experiences that make Oman a particularly romantic travel destination, and a sharp contrast to neighbouring Dubai.

Dubai is a 21st-century Hong Kong, an ostentatious, ambitious trading phenomenon of high-rise offices and apartments, vast building sites, severe traffic problems and giant shopping malls.

Oman could not be more different. Having only emerged from decades of political isolation in the past quarter century, it is far less developed than its northern neighbour, and physically far more beautiful, with jagged mountain ranges, lush wadis (deeply carved valleys) and mile upon mile of deserted seashore – in addition to the endless desert.

The pace of life is relaxed, the traffic modest. The architecture is resolutely low rise – thanks to careful planning regulations – and of a pleasing piece: buildings are generally painted white and are often crenellated, mirroring the design of the many forts and watchtowers that dot the country. Even the white plastic water tanks on the flat roofs are crenellated.

The Omanis themselves remain gracious, friendly and hospitable in a way that more popular tourist destinations are generally not. There cannot be many countries where an immigration official, in turban and flowing white robes, will stop in mid-passport inspection to play with a visitor’s infant child.

But while not at the cutting edge of modernity, Oman’s oil wealth means it is far from poor. It has developed an excellent, modern network of highways and the quality of housing is high. Muscat, the capital, boasts a handful of grand resort hotels, though accommodation is limited outside the main centres.

Much of the credit for this civilised modernisation lies with the popular ruler, Sultan Qaboos bin Said, who came to the throne in a bloodless coup in 1970, when the country had virtually no schools and a mere 10km of tarred roads. Oman had once been a great seaborne trading (and slaving) empire, with outposts down the coast of Africa, a history that remains reflected in the country’s diverse ethnic mix and strong links with Zanzibar, which Oman once ruled. But the country had become a conservative economic backwater, riven by rivalry between the coast and interior, under the sultan’s father.

These seafaring traditions are still reflected in Muscat which is strung out in a long crescent along the Gulf of Oman, hemmed in by the jagged Hajar Mountains immediately behind. Old Muscat, the site of the natural concealed harbour that gave the settlement its early nautical edge, is now curiously anodyne, notable mainly as the site of the sultan’s palace residence.

For atmosphere, head instead to Mutrah, a more modern harbour just along the coast, where the corniche gives views of a fort and watchtower (from a period of Portuguese rule in the 16th century) and provides the main entrance to the souk, where you can buy curved daggers, frankincense (a speciality), gold and jewellery.

But many of Oman’s attractions lie in the vast desert hinterland the other side of the Hajar mountains. We booked with one of the many local companies offering personal or group tours along a fairly well-defined route.

The first stop was Nizwa, the main city of the interior, once ruled over by such ferociously conservative religious leaders that Wilfred Thesiger, the British explorer who travelled through the deserts of Oman and Saudi Arabia after the second world war, gave it a wide berth. The attractions include a large and well-preserved fort, with panoramic views of the surrounding mountains and date plantations, and the Friday cattle market, where farmers in traditional robes parade their livestock in front of the intent, appraising eyes of potential buyers – all oblivious to any tourists who may be present.

Next on the itinerary was the Wahiba Sands, now often known as the Sharqiya Sands, a vast expanse of rolling dunes inhabited only by nomadic Bedouin, who may sell you handicrafts or help dig your vehicle out of a hole. We stayed in one of several camps that dot the northern periphery of the Sands and are a base for drives deeper into the desert. The silence, the severity of the landscape, the endless shifting of the dunes and the immensity of the night sky make you feel profoundly insignificant. It is a healthy antidote to everyday concerns.

With a good guide it is possible to drive across the Sands, and head south to Dhofar province and its capital, Salalah, with its remarkable micro-climate: the Indian monsoon just clips this corner of Arabia, so from June to September the area is covered with such lush vegetation that it is a tourist destination for other desert countries.

But we headed to the north-east coast, with its beautiful wadis (alas, severely damaged by a recent cyclone) and the town of Sur, famous as a boat-building centre, where traditional sailing dhows are still built in a yard which, unfortunately, had recently been ravaged by fire.

Not far from Sur, and near the furthest tip of Arabia, lies the best known of several Omani turtle beaches. At night, endangered green turtles lumber from the ocean on to the very beach where they were hatched to lay their eggs and cover them with sand against predators.

Watching this infinitely ancient phenomenon is surprisingly moving. These are, after all, creatures that may have travelled to Australia before somehow finding their way back home. And the effort seems to show. As we watched a turtle laboriously using its flippers to cover its eggs, a process that takes hours, it let out a profound and almost human sigh between each burst of shovelling. The sound seemed as old as motherhood itself.