It was 2003 and I was still a novice. My editor at the time, a man I respected very much and still do, called me into his office and said: “Do you want to go to Libya?” I remember replying: “Not really, what’s up?” The editor told me that it was a landmark press trip, President Guido de Marco was going to visit Muammar Gaddafi, the first official international visit since sanctions were lifted. He told me it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity (how right he was) and that I should consider it.

I shrugged and told him that I would. His only words were: “Behave”.

I remember flying into Tripoli’s airport and the thing that struck me immediately was the number of broken-up aircraft around the runways and apron. Air Malta was the only airline aside from Libyan Arab Airlines to fly to Libya at the time. We touched down and we were immediately greeted by some lackey from the Gaddafi regime. President de Marco was whisked away and the same lackey asked us for our passports so we could be rushed through immigration.

I refused. I would not hand over my passport in a country where I knew human rights violations had been committed for years. As the others from the press contingent cajoled and swore at me, I stuck to my guns and cleared immigration on my lonesome. I was chastised by the Maltese Presidential delegation on exiting passport control for refusing Libyan hospitality. I didn’t give a damn. I was not going to hand over my passport to anyone.

As soon as we got out, we were told that our itinerary had been changed. We were to be driven to the desert town of Sirte`, halfway between Tripoli and Benghazi; that is where President de Marco was to meet Gaddafi. It was a nightmare journey.

We were packed into two SUVs and we raced off into the night for a four-hour journey. I will never forget hurtling along at 100mph through the desert. I will equally not forget our being stopped at Army checkpoints, with our driver being terrified when we were stopped on each occasion. You could hear him praying every time a soldier pulled us over and demanded to see his credentials. As a young 20-something-year-old, I will never forget the face of the black Africans in red berets demanding for us to put the windows down. Automatic weapons dangled in our faces as they looked us up and down and round again. I do not mind saying it, I was terrified.

The next morning we awoke in Sirte`. The two female journalists in our group were given a taste of Gaddafi hospitality when they were told they were to share a room. The men got one to themselves. Eventually, after intervention by the President’s delegation, the women were given their own room. The next day was spent coming and going. The Libyan security services mobilised us and stood us down time and time again, as we were told that we were heading off to see the “Beloved brother leader”. Eventually we were whisked off into the desert to a huge tent in the middle of nowhere. We were really in Gaddafi territory now. There was guard upon guard in army fatigues and the distinctive red beret of the sycophant Islamic Guards. It was November and it was the first time I had seen camels in the wild. I was with another respected journalist and I remember hearing an automatic rifle being cocked as we approached some camels to pet them. The guard uncocked when we spoke in broken Maltese-Arabic, saying that we wanted to take a photo with the camels. Sweat ran cold down the nape of my neck. We were eventually admitted to Gaddafi’s tent. We were told that Gaddafi would meet us and field questions.

The Maltese Presidential advisor joined us and specifically told us not to raise the Lockerbie issue, “as it was sensitive and could harm relations between Malta and Libya”. Stupidly, I agreed.

Gaddafi emerged and the sight of him will stay with me for the rest of my days. In his tribal garb, he still cut an impressive figure. But I can never forget the straggly dyed hair and the makeup.

I have alluded to this in a leading article, and being impetuous and overtaken by the arrogance of youth, I decided to slip in a tough question. Gaddafi received his education at Sandhurst Military College in the UK and has a good command of English. Yet he still used his interpreter in order to give himself time to think. I will never forget the look in his eyes as I asked him how he felt about being welcomed back into the fold given his human rights record. His eyes blazed with sheer hatred as I asked the question, even as his interpreter scrambled to translate what I had said. The answer is lost to me now, but I knew there and then that in other circumstances, I would have been a goner.

The next night Prof de Marco was the guest of honour at a tribal gathering. Fists were pumped into the air as Malta decorated Muammar Gaddafi. I asked the advisor why in hell we were decorating this man. He simply said: “It’s protocol”. I pressed further and was told, in no uncertain terms, to “shut up”.

Much chest beating and fist pumping went on, and, to be frank, I found it rather amusing. I remember a smirk creasing across my face. I was nudged by the same advisor. I remember his words well. We had a good relationship and I knew he was being honest. He said: “They are looking at you. If you want to get out of here, wipe that smirk off your face.”

That same night, Gaddafi, his wife and his daughter Aisha paid a visit to our hotel to have tea with Prof de Marco. We were not invited, but I remember catching a glimpse of a tall woman in a headscarf with the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. While Gaddafi had tea with Prof de Marco, his wife and daughter had tea with Mrs de Marco.

The next morning, Gaddafi ordered that we were to be flown out of Tripoli on one of his jets, an ageing twin-engine jet with gold-plated toilets and sinks with plush leather armchairs and whisky on tap. We touched down in Tripoli and boarded the Air Malta flight. I remember breathing a sigh of relief and ordering a beer as soon as the stewardess came round. She said we looked tired. Little did she know. This is why, when the Libyan ambassador offered a trip to Libya this week, I immediately refused and recommended that none of our staff take up the offer. No thank you, not on your life.