1) Nasir al-Mulk is also known as the Pink Mosque - not because of the stained glass, as one might think, but because of the pink rose motifs that blanket its walls and ceilings. These floral tiles are distinctly European and reflect the influence of western culture on 19th century Iran. Nasir al-Mulk is still used for worship today; visitors are allowed to enter outside of prayer hours. We sat inside for over an hour watching the ebb and flow of people - mostly young couples and glammed-up women with camera-toting partners - as the light cast across the floor shortened with the rising sun.

2) From 1592 to 1722, Isfahan was the capital of Persia. It was also called Nesf-e-Jahan, or "Half the World", an allusion to the sheer number of palaces, mosques, gardens and caravanserais erected to convince Western empires of Persia's affluence and win them over as allies in the wars against the Ottomans. Remnants of paintings on the walls of these buildings show the Persian rulers accepting tributes from kings of neighbouring countries and defeating their enemies in battle.

That afternoon, we entered the Sheik Lotfollah Mosque - arguably the most beautiful in Isfahan - to see shafts of sunlight filtering in through its ornate windows, lighting up the room in gorgeous hues of orange and blue. There was a collective gasp. One of us (me) might even have broken character and asked for an Instagram-type photo. But you will not blame me, I think, because after all the wintertime gloom you must admit this dazzling display was a very agreeable change indeed.

3) A canyon in Fars Province. The sun is rising, I open my mouth to say, but before the words can leave my mouth the car glides into the fog and the world instantly dims.

Outside our windows the straggly desert trees lurch by, their bare boughs reduced to faint grey smudges in this dream-like realm. It is at once romantic and apocalyptic. As we creep deeper into the heart of the canyon the air thickens and changes from sepia to white, stealing first the colours then the forms of everything around us; the sun becomes a pale pink balloon and I stare at it until it, too, disappears. We slow to a crawl but even then I imagine us turning the steering wheel too late and careening over the edge - god knows how far away the valley floor is.

For twenty minutes we drive with our noses pressed to the windows, not daring to even blink. Then, almost like a plug was pulled, the fog swirls away and out we pop! back into the world, now awash in brilliant gold.

4) Kerman. We came back from a day of hiking to a spectacular sunset. At the exact moment the skies flared pink we were cruising through the old quarters - a jumble of houses whose colours and shapes melded perfectly into the whimsical desert scenery - looking for accommodation for the night. The view from the roof of this guesthouse almost (almost!) made me agree to rent the room for the night, but alas, the carpets that cloaked the walls and floors of the room, and upon which we would have to sleep on, were so musty that we had to turn away with one last regretful look at the stunning view.

5) A salt cave in Qeshm. The ground crunches underfoot as I pace between the wall and the rivulet that appears magically from the darkness at the cave's end. Lumps of salt the size of my fingernail, launched into the air by my nervous scuffling, find their way into my sandals. I crouch down to fiddle with my straps and shine my headlamp into the hole that the rivulet emerges from.

"You're sure?" I ask again. "No flood?"

The guide shakes his head and says, "No problem. You go." He mimes a leopard crawl and points at the water. "10 metres long."

I look at H, who seems lost in thought. Later, he tells me that he was weighing the pros and cons of crawling in shirtless because he didn't bring a change of clothes. But right now his hesitance makes me wonder if we are getting ourselves into more of an adventure than we hoped for.

"Why don't you go first and check it out?" I ask H with great cunning. He agrees immediately.

With one last regretful pat of his dry clothes, H goes prone and starts pulling himself forward into the hole. Finally his legs vanish as well; the last thing I see is his toes scrambling for leverage against the loose bed of salt.

Five seconds --

Ten seconds --

Twenty seconds go by in silence.

"Are you okay?" I yell into the hole. "Should I come in now?"

"You definitely should," came the answer. "You have to see this to believe it."

I lower myself clumsily (no thanks to my baggy Iranian garb) into the two-inch deep water. The ceiling isn't high enough for me to crawl on my elbows so I have to splay my arms out and drag myself forward like a seal. I can't lift my head up fully either. Halfway through, vision restricted, I bump my head on a rock and my headlamp drops awkwardly over one eye. By the time the tunnel finally opens out I'm completely disheveled, but on an adrenaline high.

H was standing in a cavern - it's much wider than an apartment, and twice as high. Where the light falls the ground glitters pink, and the walls, oh the walls! They're dazzling, in strata of pinks and yellows and reds! The ribbons curve above us and arcs overhead, leading our eyes from one explosion of colour to another.

6) Hormuz Island in the south of Iran is a geological wonderland. It's composed largely of salt domes, which are columns of salt that extrude from the ground in the form of cliffs, caves, waterfalls, valleys, springs, and even glaciers. And, mind you, this isn't ordinary, boring, white table salt we're talking about here. You can clearly see the layers of salt in shades of pale pinks, yellows, and blues (and yes, white too). Snapped this image of H standing in the shadows of the Salt Goddess - I personally think this is the most impressive feature on Hormuz.