Morocco 2023

Into Africa: Sometimes Things Don’t Go To Plan

Very often there is something special about a port town, a feeling of frontier, of moving on, of adventure. Despite the fact that a large percentage of those passing through spend at most a single night in the town, there is a certain excitement about such places and we’ve regularly found them to be lively, vibrant towns with an air unique to their situation. And then there’s Algeciras.

Gateway in and out of Europe it might be, but make no mistake, Algeciras is as scruffy and ugly as it gets. No wonder everyone passes through quickly; I am reminded of Bill Bryson’s comments about Dover. A quick ride on Seville’s new tram network followed by three hours on the bus has moved us from the pristine majesty of Seville to a town where dogshit-dodging is par for the course and every palm tree smells like a public toilet. It’s Spain’s forgotten corner. Even here though, after rounding a few dodgy corners and avoiding eye contact with several undesirables, we find a decent tapas bar for one last dive into Spanish cuisine. We end our last night in Spain smiling again, good food and wine can always cheer things up.

And so the change of continent begins. This will be a significant shift of culture for such a short distance – for a start, we are not expecting to see any alcohol at all for the next three and a half weeks, but then, as Michaela said the other day, after all this time in Spain, our livers need to go on holiday now.

We leave Spain behind with dark storms over the mountains and the Rock of Gibraltar wearing a shawl of cloud drawn around her shoulders. Unusually for us we’ve put some tight time constraints on our journey from Algeciras to our first Moroccan base of Chefchaouen – we need everything to go like clockwork to ensure there’s no complications. It’s a morning ferry to Tanger Med, after which we will need to get a shuttle bus and train to Tangier and then pick up a rental car at Tangier Ville station at 1pm, then drive over two hours to Chefchaouen. It all needs to go right.

It soon starts to go wrong. On the bus from Seville to Algeciras, we receive a text informing us that our ferry is cancelled. We are offered an alternative which we have to accept, but it’s half an hour later. Time is getting tighter, but supposedly we have a 2-hour window in which to collect the car: we email them just in case, to tell them we may be late.

Next, the replacement ferry finally pulls out of Algeciras thirty minutes late, now we know for sure that there is no way we will make 1pm. Docking at Tanger Med, we are shepherded on to a shuttle bus to the train station: there is no train to Tangier for another hour. No chance. A few other people can’t wait that long either, so we team up with Andrea from Alicante and her obedient dog and share a taxi. We reach the appointed meeting place for the car at just after 2.30pm. Our instruction for rendezvous at Tangier Ville station is “meeting place TBA”, unfortunately there’s not been an A, and there’s no sign of an office.

I call the hire company. All lines are busy. After several attempts I get through, and the conversation goes something like this, all in Franglais…

Hi. Nous avons une reservation but cannot find you. Reservation where? Gare de Tangier Ville. Mister Philip? Oui, oui, oui. You are late. I know, I message you ce matin. Notre bateau was late. I get no message. I have no information. So what about the car? It’s gone. You are late. But I need a car. Ce n’est pas possible. I don’t have one now. Sorry. Goodbye.

Ah. OK. Time to take a breath, let go of the panic button, grab a coffee and work out how to get out of this little fix. Hello Starbucks, rarely have I been so pleased to see you. Chefchaouen is a 2-hour drive away. It’s about 3.30pm now. We basically have two choices – book a room in Tangier and try and get a hire car from tomorrow (pricey last minute hire plus pay two hotels for the same night) or swallow the cost of a 2-hour taxi (and get to Chefchaouen sans rental car). Michaela hits the internet for hotel prices and then we go find Monsieur Taxi Boss to discuss rates. The taxi is cheaper than a Tangier hotel, and Boss Man has a willing driver…

So we arrive in the mountain town of Chefchaouen just before 6pm, knowing that we’re now stuck here for five days without the car which was going to be our way of exploring the region. But at least nothing else can go wrong now, not with how good the reviews are on the little family guest house we’re staying in here.

“You can check in” says Mehdi, “but we have small problem with your room. The lock is broken”.

By “broken”, Mehdi means there’s a bloody great hole in the door where the lock is meant to be, and the door doesn’t even shut, let alone lock.

Welcome to Morocco, guys. Sometimes you just have to laugh.

“The man is coming”, says Mehdi, “coming to mend the door”. But he doesn’t come before mealtime, so we have to hide our important stuff in a room with no privacy and head down into Chefchaouen for a street-food style reacquaintance with Moroccan food. Eventually, and well after the muezzin’s last call to prayer, Mehdi and somebody who could well be his brother set to work and get the door, and the lock, repaired. We can now sleep without a barricade after all.

Cool mountain air fills the room, there are blankets on the bed. We won’t be needing AC here, it soon cools down after sundown. Chefchaouen looks odd in the dark, a huge shift in culture, a Muslim stronghold where tradition rules, so very different from evenings in Spain. 

We drift off to sleep as the occasional grinding lorry hauls itself up the steep road outside and mountain folk chatter in the darkness. The barking of dogs echoes from unseen walls. If I dare to move, my bed makes almost as much noise as one of those struggling trucks, groaning and creaking under the tiniest pressure. One subject dominates our thoughts: without a rental car we will need to get our planning heads on in the morning in order to fill our four remaining days here.

Mehdi and his family are so friendly and helpful, and so apologetic about the door. They also serve us a carb-packed breakfast which is so big that I doubt we even get half way through it before we have to admit defeat, after which we head out into the morning sunshine, rugged mountains looking down on the town, Chefchaouen going about its Saturday morning business.

The claim to fame of this mountain town is its blue houses, Chefchaouen is known as “Morocco’s blue pearl”. Everything looks so much more appealing this morning, so quaint, so….blue. We amble through the streets of the medina, emerging into small squares beneath lofty minarets. If last night we had an attack of first night struggles with culture shock, they are banished within minutes as Chefchaouen’s charm preens itself in the morning sun. What yesterday appeared unfamiliar today feels like a warm welcome.

Our next post will no doubt show Chefchaouen in all its undoubted glory, but here’s a little taster of what will be included…..

Chefchaouen, The Blue Pearl Of Morocco 

It’s funny how habits change when alcohol is taken out of the equation. With no bars to explore or beers to imbibe, our evenings come to an earlier end, and, as a consequence of bedtime creeping forward, morning comes round more quickly too. 

I wake around 5:15 on our second morning in Chefchaouen, darkness still edging its battle with dawn. A distant call to prayer drifts up from the town below, within minutes joined by many others, muezzins at different tones, discordant yet haunting, mournful yet evocative, echoing off walls and off the mountains themselves, growing in number until it’s impossible to work out whether I am listening to five of them or fifty. It’s a sound which never fails to stimulate the travel bug, one which always speaks of distance from home.

I try to wake Michaela, she too loves this sound, but she’s not able to surface, sleep still too deep. The calls slowly quieten until the last one is gone, only the cockerels break the peace of first light now. Towering over the town, the Rif Mountains gradually take shape as darkness recedes and the first rays of sun creep around the rocky peaks.

When we were first told about Chefchaouen – by a dental receptionist in Ramsgate, as it happens – only a few weeks before this journey began, our interest was piqued, and just the smallest amount of research placed it firmly on our to-do list. Getting here means a bit of doubling back later in the Morocco journey, but even on day two it’s already clear that it’s well worth the effort. 

Known as “Morocco’s blue pearl”, Chefchaouen creates quite a beautiful sight, its blue and white houses draped down the foothills of the Rif Mountains alongside the fresh waters cascading from the springs high above. It’s a stirring sight from many angles, but none better than when we take a hike past the Spanish Mosque and up into the mountains beyond. Part way up, we lean on a wall for a while just gazing at the amazing view.

The hiking trail is through rugged, boulder-strewn country, hardy plants clinging to the dusty ground on land which looks broken, or maybe unfinished. Mountain views upwards are rivalled for splendour by the views of Chefchaouen below. High on the mountain a group of children play in the dust beside their home; their father calls us in and makes “mountain tea” for us just as we’re thinking we may run short of water, its tannin-rich dryness tempered by mint and thyme.

Down in town, the centre of Chefchaouen is huddled around the impossibly gorgeous medina, tiny alleys twisting around tight corners and up and down steep cobbled slopes. The colour blue absolutely dominates, creating just the most picturesque alleys imaginable, the greens of potted plants and the rainbow of multi-coloured textiles playing beautifully with the azure backgrounds. There the scent of leather goods, here snatches of steaming tagines or the sharp sweet spike of mint tea, occasionally the enveloping aroma of freshly baked bread. Everywhere the sound of choppy Arabic chatter, the lively sound of deals being done.

But this is a million miles from the tourist traps of the likes of Marrakech. Not one shopkeeper tries to snare us in, not one person trots out the “come in, only for today looking is free” or “very good price” lines heard so many times before. Nobody thrusts tacky key fobs our way, no one tries to make henna patterns on Michaela’s hands. This is that rarest of places: a calm and reserved medina.

There is though no escaping Chefchaouen’s biggest allure, its blue painted architecture – this place is so incredibly photogenic that Michaela tends to move roughly four feet at a time before stopping for another unmissable shot. I can’t say I blame her, you could fill a hundred albums with the scenes here. Oh, and there are cats literally everywhere, from fluffy young kittens to pleading-eyed charmers to big bruisers who know far too much about scavenging. This town is such a veritable feline colony that we wonder if TS Eliot once passed this way.

It’s a long way down the hill from our home at Casa Familia to the heart of Chefchaouen, and the harshest of climbs back up. “Don’t walk up”, Mehdi had said when we arrived, “get a taxi. Don’t ask the driver how much, just give him 10 dirham and say goodnight”. He’s right, too – it works every time, each driver is happy with that single coin. To give perspective, it’s roughly 13 dirham to the £. Nobody’s going to climb hills when taxis are as cheap as that. Well Michaela certainly isn’t, anyway.

With such tiny fares, taxi etiquette is a little different. For one, don’t be afraid to hail a cab with a passenger already in it, the cab drivers are happy to double up on paying customers, but, by the same token, don’t be surprised if someone else climbs into your taxi half way home. Such a low grade economy also evidently means that most taxi drivers put off repairs for as long as possible – we ride in some, shall we say, “fun” vehicles which give every impression that if they do actually make it up the next hill, it’ll be the last one before they disappear into the taxi graveyard.

Chefchaouen has a number of places where people meet but we’re learning that the best place to be at night is the square next to the kasbah. It’s a convivial place with several restaurants, a lively atmosphere and the occasional group of musicians and performers of traditional dance. The real challenge of going to this square is finding it in the first place. So bewildering are the labyrinthine alley ways of the medina that any sensible approach to navigation is impossible, we just have to keep turning corners until eventually we’re there. We haven’t taken the same route twice yet.

Of course we are by no means the only tourists enjoying evenings by the kasbah, but it’s very noticeable that Muslim dress far outweighs any other style, it seems these locals are a gregarious bunch, heading out to meet for tagines, sip tea or just sit and chat. This camaraderie is, of course, all without alcohol. Michaela is coping comfortably with that particular culture change, in fact she’s more than happy to be taking a break. My metabolism is adjusting more slowly, and when we return to town from our mountain hike, I have to pretend, just for a moment, that the mint tea is a foaming pint of golden throat charmer. It doesn’t work.

Mehdi’s brother says he has a friend who will rent us a car for a day. Deprived by circumstances of our own set of wheels, we head down to the friend’s office, ready to make a delayed start on Morocco’s mountain roads….

Moroccan Roll Lifestyle

Mehdi’s brother’s friend with the rental car office is waiting for us, car clean if a little battle scarred, he even has paperwork and insurance documents ready – often when we’ve done this kind of “local” hire before, the only paperwork which changes hands is cash. “Gendarmerie” he explains, with a wave of his hand.

Our destination for our only day on the road in the Rif Mountains is the tiny village of Akchour, gateway to a renowned spectacular waterfall hike. Actually, it’s not just the hike that’s spectacular, the drive from Chefchaouen to Akchour is pretty amazing too. The huge, sweeping mountain terrain is so scenic, so dramatic. Regularly punctuated by steep climbs, hairpins and Scalextric-like stretches laid out ahead, the road wriggles its way between colossal peaks, somehow finding a route through unforgiving landscapes.

Smoke billows from small rounded brick structures at the roadside, each one a mini bakery where women create the discus shaped loaves so loved by everyone in Morocco. Sheltered from the sun by multiple layers of traditional clothing, these bakers are such an archetypical sight of Morocco, a scene which has played out unchanged probably across centuries.

Now and again a patch of almost lurid green forms an oasis in the rocky, barren ground – these are the well known cannabis farms of the Rif Mountains. In Morocco, cannabis use is legal for medicinal purposes, illegal for any other use, so by necessity all of this crop ends up in the medical profession. Of course it doesn’t. Farmers in this otherwise deprived area make more money from this than any other trade, and no medical trade supply line is ever going to be as lucrative as the “other one”. Blind eyes are turned, no doubt somewhere money changes hands, the trade goes on despite official clampdowns and Morocco remains one of the world’s largest producers of hash. 

The road ends at Akchour, the terrain too difficult now to take construction any further. Akchour is a particular type of village, one of those remote places which has latched on to a reason to become a destination, and made the very most of it. In Akchour’s case, the reasons are two spectacular natural features: lengthy cascading waterfalls and a remarkable rock formation known as God’s Bridge. 

We opt to take the hike to God’s Bridge, but in fact end up doing it two ways, once by climbing high on to the ridge and looking down on the “bridge” from above, the other by following the waterside trail in the bottom of the canyon, meaning occasional diversions into the water. The “bridge” is in reality an eroded and collapsed archway where the remaining rock bridge spans the canyon a whole 100 metres above the water. Both of our views, from above and below, are pretty amazing.

The canyon itself is beautiful, fast crystal clear waters cascading down a series of waterfalls and foaming over boulders, glinting in the sunlight beneath the verdant canopy above. Akchour’s enterprising locals have set up cafes along the route, tables either next to or actually in the water, tagines boiling away on coals to tempt in hungry hikers on their return. Or hungry travellers, even – it works, and these hungry travellers submit to temptation.

By the time we hand the car keys back to Mehdi’s brother’s buddy, the sun is disappearing behind the Rif Mountains and the streets are falling into shade. Up here in the mountain air of Chefchaouen, the nights are growing noticeably colder, djellebas and other outer robes are starting to appear and the blankets in our room are being given employment.

We’ve managed to make the best of our time here despite the absence of the rental car we had planned to have, though there has been a bit of spare time which would otherwise have been filled with other excursions. While Michaela fills one such time with housekeeping matters and forward research, I put the music on shuffle and the headphones on my ears. Uncannily, my ipod randomly selects “Rock The Casbah” just a few tracks in.

Mehdi’s repair to the door lock held firm for the rest of our stay. However the door to our outside space fell off its hinges. Breakfast remained steadfastly identical despite the fact we never once managed to eat even half of it. Hot water was predictably unpredictable. My bed frame became detached from the footboard, collapsed and hit the floor with a loud bang which must have had anyone in the room below wondering what the hell had happened.

Moroccan roll baby.

Back Across The North: Chefchaouen-Tetouan-Tangier

When your driver introduces himself by saying “you can relax, I am good driver”, it’s a fair chance you’re going to be in for a buttock-clenching white-knuckle ride for the next chunk of your life, which is just how it is for our journey from Chefchaouen to Tetouan. With no rental car and no public transport between the two towns we have no option but to negotiate a fee with a “grand taxi” driver. Michaela can’t even bear to look forwards at times, this guy has what you might call an interesting overtaking technique, one which involves passing within half an inch of the vehicle he’s rounding, at great speed.

“I am good driver, yes?”, he says as I hand over the cash. I can’t bring myself to answer.

Guide books and travel websites all seem to say the same thing about Tetouan: that it’s a shame that most travellers simply pass through on their way to somewhere else, as the city has much to offer. Enough of a description to persuade us to give it a go. Even as we take our first look around, there’s something a little different here, this is a mosque-filled Muslim city with the streets and plazas of a Spanish town. 

It’s pure coincidence that brings us to a city which is nicknamed “Granada’s daughter” when we’ve only just been to Granada itself. The same revolution which forced the Muslims and Arabs out of southern Spain as the Catholic church swept through Andalusia was responsible for the establishment of Tetouan as a major city in the 15th century. Many of the returning Muslims and persecuted Moriscos and Jews fled to here when banished from Spain, finding a safe haven between the Mediterranean and the Rif mountains.

But the real Spanish influence to current day Tetouan arrived in the 20th century. From 1913 until Morocco’s independence in 1956, Tetouan was the capital of the Spanish protectorate of Morocco, a period during which the Spanish considerably extended the city, basing the developments on the layout of Spain’s cities of the same era. It’s all plain to see: wide palm lined streets, open plazas, grand houses.

The connections remain strong, there is clear affection for Spain here, and, a little surprisingly, the Spanish language is ever present. It’s actually quite confusing – Arabic, French and Spanish are all merged into conversation, you just don’t know what’s coming next. “Hola” is the ubiquitous greeting yet “thank you” is always “shukran”. Coffee is served the Spanish way with hot milk yet is listed on menus as “cafe au lait”. People switch languages in mid sentence. There’s even a cafe named “Salon du Thé Ocho Rios”, work that one out!

Of course, Spain is only a very short distance away across the Med, and the Spanish enclave of Ceuta is literally just down the road. (As an aside, for football fans, the club in Tetouan is unique, being the only African team ever to have played in a top European league, enjoying several seasons in La Liga).

Our home here is a beautiful old riad right in the heart of the medina. If we thought Chefchaouen medina was a maze, this place takes the biscuit. Our hosts at the riad don’t even bother giving directions to guests – we are told to get to a certain point in town and then message the owner, who will send someone out to meet us and walk us through the labyrinth. It’s unbelievably confusing, finding our way out is as difficult as finding our way home. It sometimes feels like we’ll be in here forever – except there’s always someone on hand to help when they see we’re confused. They do seem to be very decent people here: for a start, they give us guidance and don’t ask for money.

Just like the guide books say, there aren’t too many travellers here: the medina really is still a market where the locals shop, hunks of meat hanging next door to the jeweller, barbers cutting hair within earshot of the clucking chickens waiting to be chosen by a shopper and duly slaughtered. Just when the smell of leather threatens to become overpowering, we turn a corner and find ourselves in the spice market where we can suck in more exciting odours.

Morocco’s King has a palace here, just outside the medina. We have no idea of the man’s whereabouts, but there is a sizeable armed guard presence in town just now and every route to the palace environs is protected by machine guns, rifles and even ceremonial swords, causing us to wonder if the King is just the other side of those walls. If so, surely he would have come outdoors if he’d known the hungry travellers were here. Wouldn’t he?

Just as we think we’ve got the puzzle of the medina sussed, it throws one last curved ball as we head out for the last time, loaded with backpacks, turn what we think is the correct corner only to find ourselves in a little courtyard which we’ve never even seen before. Luck is on our side heading on to Tangier though – there’s a “grand taxi” waiting for the two last passengers for its quota of six just as we bowl up at the rank, which means we get to complete the 1-hour journey for just 70 dirhams, just over £5 in total for us and our luggage. 

At first sight Tangier looks delightful, a wide promenade which sweeps around the huge bay where the high rise buildings give the city a very definite European look. There’s something instantly appealing here and we are eager to explore and learn more. What we don’t know at this point us just how much we are going to come to fall for Tangier, but more of that in our next post. 

We’re eight days into the alcohol-free part of this journey and feel properly in the swing of it now. Just at the point where we know our resolve is good, after an afternoon exploring Tangier’s seafront, we take a look around our rambling hotel, only to find….a fully stocked bar with terrific views of the bay. Despite all our good intentions to give our livers a holiday, you can probably guess what happens next.

Tangier: A City With A Mission

The famous faces stare down at us from the walls. Film stars, movie directors, statesmen and politicians, from Winston Churchill to John Hurt, from Jean-Claude van Damme to Yves Saint Laurent, Aristotle Onassis to Tom Hiddleston. Apparently there’s been some important previous guests in our hotel. This is all by accident, we had no idea we were checking in to a hotel steeped in both history and majestic colonial style, we just thought we’d got a bargain at a decent place. And by the way, it is a serious bargain, the tariff sheet on the door of our room puts the usual price at almost FOUR TIMES the rate we’ve paid.

It’s a beautiful building though, somewhere very fitting of receiving such revered guests (them, not us!), sumptuously fitted throughout and showing modern splendour without sacrificing one ounce of the character and charm of its proud history.

Tangier is turning out to be a wonderful surprise and a terrific city, we really had no idea what a great place it is and in fact until recently we weren’t even including it on our agenda, what a mistake it would have been to have left it out. This north west tip of the African continent is a beautiful place, instantly recognisable to Europeans as a city yet with a strong dash of the exotic. Or maybe it’s an exotic city with a dash of the familiar.

One thing which Tangier – or Tanger, there’s no “i” in the local spelling – definitely is, is a city with an ambition. Changes over the last decade and work currently in progress all show a very definite journey towards building a beautiful destination resort city. Large hotels sweep around the massive golden sand beach, boats glisten in the marina, swanky apartment blocks with magical sea views are springing up. The seafront roadway and adjacent promenade amble proudly along the contours of the coastline.

Moving the industrial port operation to its newly built location at Tanger Med was a master stroke, creating 120,000 direct and indirect jobs while freeing up the city waterfront to pave the way for the classy, impressive improvements we see today. Tangier is already beautiful, soon it will look something like Morocco’s answer to Acapulco, Nice or Da Nang, with the obvious cultural differences.

And yet, you know, the real Morocco is still here and not too hard to find, lurking just around a street corner where fruit stalls and fishmongers sell produce to locals clad in thawbs and djellebas, in the mosques where muezzins call and shoes wait outside, in quiet streets where cats and dogs hang around for scraps outside the butcher’s.

Tangier’s medina is not like any other we’ve seen, more like a citadel or old town than the usual cramped confines of these places. With wider “streets” and open skies, this medina is filled with shops, cafes, restaurants and squares, and as a result has a delightfully town-like feel rather than the claustrophobia of most souks or bazaars. It feels much more like a quaint old town than any of those.

This unusual centre sits within giant and well preserved city walls and ramparts, cannons still mounted at strategic defence points, offering just the most sumptuous views across the beautiful sweeping bay and marina and across to the coast of Spain. We came to Tangier knowing little about the city, we will be leaving having fallen for the place, wishing we could stay longer, and thinking that one day we may be back for more. It dawns on us in fact that Tangier would be a great introduction to Morocco for a first time visitor, you can for all intents and purposes step in and out of Morocco at will without leaving the city. Taste the exotic, relax in the familiar.

Dwelling on such thoughts, we make our way out to Cafe Hafa, a Tangier institution dating back to 1921 where locals have sipped mint tea and gazed out on the ocean for over a hundred years. Still run by the original family, Cafe Hafa sits on several levels on the headland, where from the stepped terracing we soak in those incredible views – and they are truly incredible. This is the very point where the Atlantic meets the Mediterranean; Spain just a short distance across the water, and maybe those are the shores of Portugal just visible in the haze.

Cafe Hafa has in its time been a destination for painters, poets and philosophers, diplomats, intelligentsia and bourgeoisie. They’re all gone now, but the tourists who have replaced them can still enjoy the bohemian and casual feel of Hafa – and there’s definitely something odd about such a carefree, no-airs-and-graces cafe in this most wonderful and dramatic of settings.

In our short time here it’s fair to say that Tangier delights all five senses, including taste. In truth, the food of both Chefchaouen and Tetouan was a little dull, quite bland in flavour and lacking those wonderful spicy flavours we all associate with Moroccan food. We arrive in Tangier and the whole thing explodes, herbs, spices and seasoning bringing every dish alive, sending eyeballs upwards and tastebuds into orbit. We have those anticipated delights at last!

Returning to the medina in the afternoon sun, the wind off the Atlantic somehow finding its way into every single tight street, the feel of old town is possibly even stronger as cafes tidy up from the lunchtime rush and prepare for evening custom. Outside of the medina the modern face of Tangier looks out to sea while the more recognisably Arab/North African city moves quietly towards dusk and devoutly towards prayer time.

Chefchaouen, Tetouan and Tangier have already shown us such different faces of Morocco, such a marriage of cultures, such diversity in three places which really aren’t that far apart geographically. Now for a different Morocco again: from here we head deeper and deeper into this absorbing country as our journey takes us inexorably south and east towards the desert.

Meknes & Volubilis: Ancient Sights And Building Sites

According to the screen at the end of the carriage, we’ve just hit 313 kilometres per hour, a whacking 194mph, as we speed southwards through the changing terrain. Morocco’s new high speed railway, the first of its kind on the African continent, is comfortable, efficient and very impressive, and we arrive at our change point at Kenitra in the blink of an eye. From Kenitra to Meknes it’s much older rolling stock, the compartment-and-corridor combo reminding me of British Rail circa 1970.

We have high hopes for Meknes, high hopes which are all but dashed before we’ve even settled in. Virtually everything we were intending to visit is closed for renovation; ancient sites are hidden behind scaffolding and hoarding, the market stalls of Place Lahdim are squeezed into side streets while the square is resurfaced; what is described in guide books as a “mini Jemaa-el-Fna” looks more like an empty car park. Meknes is one big building site. Even Bab Mansour, Meknes’ most famous and ornate gateway, is lurking behind a picture of itself draped over the scaffolding monster.

Somebody in Meknes has bought an awful lot of block paving. They seem to be replacing every single walkway throughout the old part of town – even the tight alleys of the medina and the grand pavements en route to the Royal Palace are being dug up and relaid. On the evidence of the bits they’ve completed, they bought tons and tons of paving blocks but nobody thought to buy a spirit level.

So with opportunities in Meknes a bit limited, we galvanise ourselves for what turns out to be a pretty good alternative, a trip out to the village of Moulay Idriss and the Roman ruin of the city of Volubilis. Getting out from Meknes to these places necessitates using the Moroccan taxi system, which in itself is a bit of a learning curve. For those who may use them on a future trip, this is how it works….

Every town and city has two types of taxi: the “petit taxi” and the “grand taxi”. Petit taxis only operate around town and don’t go outside of the central area: they are plentiful, well used and very cheap, you can usually get anywhere around town for less than £1. Because they don’t go anywhere else, they won’t try and talk you into any other destination, or take you somewhere you don’t want to go. They will though sometimes pick up another passenger who is going in the same direction as you.

“Grand taxis” are like collectivos in Mexico or the dolmus in Turkey, a shared taxi with set routes but no set timetable, they just leave when full, and of course don’t take you door to door. In Morocco they usually carry six passengers, though some are bigger, and you may also hear the French word “collective” used as well as “grand taxi”. These taxis go from town to town, covering greater distances than the “petit taxis”, and are highly useful, but these guys will often try to talk you into going alone rather than sharing with other passengers. There’s no need to be tempted: the “collective” rate is pre-set and is very cheap: get talked into a private transport and you may unwittingly pay up to TEN times the set fee per person, just for two of you. Of course, if your required journey doesn’t match the set route, they will be happy to take you where you want to go, but you’ll have to pay the inflated fee. If you do this, make sure you haggle, they always try it on.

Volubilis is the extensive hilltop remains of the Roman city which is believed to have been the capital of the Kingdom of Mauretania and a city of great prosperity. A triumphal arch is amongst the best preserved sections of the city, though lurking between the walls are some mightily impressive floor mosaics, surprisingly well preserved given both the age and the exposure to excessive sunlight.

Surrounded by fertile land and an abundant water supply, Volubilis prospered, evidenced by the remains of grand town houses, some of which housed that fine mosaic flooring, but was always vulnerable to invasion given its location on the very edge of the Roman Empire. In time, long after the Romans had gone, much of the population was to move from Volubilis to the new location of Moulay Idriss, heavily looting the former for building materials for the latter.

Moulay Idriss, originally called Oualili, is itself an attractive and interesting little town, taking its new name from the direct descendant of the Prophet Muhammad who is credited with bringing Islam to this part of Morocco. His tomb – he is nowadays known as Idris I – is here in the town, making this humble corner one of Morocco’s most holy places and a pilgrimage destination for many thousands of Muslims. It is in fact said that, for those who are not able to make it to Mecca, five pilgrimages to Moulay Idriss is the equivalent of one Haj pilgrimage.

Back to Meknes. We are a little unlucky with our timing here, given the extensive building and renovation works, though Jaime at our lodgings tells us the works are taking an awfully long time and rolls his eyes when the question of who is paying what to whom crops up. We’re sure we catch the word “corruption” in his hissed assessment of it all.

And so we feel a little bit disappointed as we leave, feeling that Meknes may on another occasion have been a much more appealing city. With different timing we may well have been enchanted. But there’s more to come, as we haul our backpacks up on to the train ready to make our way to our next destination.

Next stop Fes. The slideshow below shows some of the delightful sights of Meknes unaffected by the current renovations…..and just how enchanting it would be in less frenetic times.

The True Face Of Fes

It’s hot again now. Gone is the mountain air of Chefchaouen, gone is the Atlantic breeze of Tangier, replaced by daily afternoon highs of around 36C, but it’s a bone-pleasing, perfectly dry heat with none of the humidity of Asia. Local guys tell us we’re “lucky”, just recently Fes experienced a prolonged spell during which temperatures were another 10 degrees higher than this every day.

Fes is not always blessed with good press. “It’s too big, a massive city”…”you will be pestered by guides and touts every second”…”it’s too touristy, it’s not real any more”…”for hassling it’s worse than Marrakech” were among the things we were told, or had read, before we arrived here. We categorically disagree with all of them: Fes is good and don’t let anyone tell you different! Well, actually, it is a big city when we see the full sprawl, but for our time here we confine ourselves to the compact old part of town which doesn’t feel one bit like a big city.

In fact the older part of the city is as authentically Moroccan as anywhere we’ve seen, ancient crumbling buildings crammed together in tight spaces, apertures in rendered walls from which faces have looked down on the medina for centuries. It’s almost Middle Eastern – indeed, almost biblical – in appearance. Across town, the Jewish quarter is even more atmospheric, even more cramped and tight. This area, Mellah, has given its name to all Jewish quarters throughout Morocco, all are known as “the mellah”. 

Yet again the medina is a maze, and is this time a maze on a grand scale with, we’re told, 4,100 streets, but somehow the atmosphere is relaxed and it’s a pleasure to wander amongst not only the souks but also the workshops where experts busy themselves in time honoured crafts. We’d heard so much about pestering, aggressive selling and theft, yet there’s not a hint.

“I can tell you why”, says the guy showing us around the tannery, “there are five hundred policemen working in the medina now. Nobody is allowed to treat tourists badly, or they lose their shop or maybe go to prison. Nobody wants that”.

When we comment that we haven’t seen a single policeman, he replies…

“Of course you haven’t. They are dressed like me, in plain clothes. That’s how it works”. How interesting. Well, Fes is definitely not the hotbed of hostility some sites would have you believe, regardless of whether or not the Law’s initiative is responsible. It’s also definitely not fake, as some would suggest: yes it’s on the tourist trail to a degree, but the medina, the cafes and restaurants, the streets….all have large numbers of locals going about their daily lives, including buying from the souks and the workshops.

One of the oldest cities in all of Morocco, Fes is home to craftsmanship and specialist trades dating back centuries, many of which pride themselves on still following traditional methods handed down through generations of skilled tradesmen and women. Among the most revered are mosaic and tile work, pottery, metal work, jewellery and shoemaking, and the renowned leatherwork of the Fes tannery.

Getting the chance to study these craftsmen at work, absorbed in their trade and blissfully unaware of being watched, is fascinating beyond words; it’s easy to lose ourselves in a world of skill as we become mesmerised by the different types of intricate work. We watch couscous pans being moulded by a man who also makes boilers, see ornate Moroccan lamps taking shape before our eyes, a man with giant hands delicately sculpting miniature stonework, pottery being hand painted in minuscule detail.

But probably the most impressive of all, and maybe one of Fes’s greatest claims to fame, is the Chouwara tannery. Reputed to be Morocco’s oldest tannery and placed by some historians as being here as early as the 12th century, Chouwara is claimed by locals to be the very origin of the World’s tanning industry. It’s fascinating to stand on a terrace above, watching the various stages of the process, the hides of four different mammals making their way into clothing, footwear, baggage and furniture.

Vats of different coloured dyes await the cleaned and protected hide, men standing knee deep in the vivid pools, treading the hides into the colouring then leaving them to soak. The well known putrid stench of a tannery is caused by the cleaning and preservation process rather than by the hides themselves, not too surprising given that the source of ammonia for this purpose is a heady mix of water and huge quantities of pigeon shit. By the way, there’s a supply chain, a lucrative business in housing pigeons and scooping up the crap for sale to the tannery. Anyone fancy a new business opportunity? Thought not.

Cash is still king in Morocco and for the next leg of the trip this presents some new challenges. From Meknes onwards, it seems that even accommodation will need to be paid in cash, and many of the places we are heading to either have no ATM or a single one which is not always in service, so we leave Fes with, stashed in various corners of our backpacks, more cash than we’ve carried for years, and a small fortune by Morocco’s standards. We hope it’s safe. We hope it’s enough, too.

Improbably, there seems to be even more cats in Fes than in previous towns. So many cats. Everywhere. I’m losing hours every day tickling, stroking, cuddling and working out if there’s any way I can fit this one – just this one – this adorable fluffy kitten with pleading eyes – in to my backpack.

The food has, sadly, dived back into the mundane after the spike of Tangier. Where are all the spices we associate with Moroccan food? Where do all the fresh fruits, vegetables and spices go from the market stalls, because they sure as hell don’t end up on the menus. Couscous dishes have a giant pyramid of the stuff in every dish, the tagines are a tad more enjoyable though no more tasty. The tastiest and spiciest thing on the menu seems to be harira, the Moroccan soup, but otherwise, we’re in danger of suffering tagine overload. The tagine genie? Maybe.

These inconveniences are small matters compared to the thrill of experiencing towns such as these: there’s no doubting how much we have enjoyed Fes. It’s an absorbing and engaging city dominated by traditional crafts which take real skill, skills passed on from generation to generation. Far from being unpleasant, Fes is a place which has restored our faith that not everywhere are traditions and customs being lost; not everywhere has submitted to the demands of instant gratification. 

We could have bought a truckload of stuff for our home back in England here in Fes. A tagine pot is not on that list just now.

Desert Road Trip: From Fes To The Sahara

This is such an amazing, auspicious feeling, as we drive away from Fes and head off towards a little bit of the unknown, the hired Dacia Duster our companion for the next seven days, one of the most exciting parts of this entire Mediterranean journey opening up ahead of us. Also ahead of us are the Middle Atlas Mountains, looming in the haze like Earth-shackled storm clouds, goading us to take them on and make it to the desert beyond.

We are soon into the scrub style of desert where grey rock meets red earth, where nomadic shepherds tend sheep and goats beside their temporary tented villages, where dust devils spin across the road in mini tornadoes. Now and again the bright green of fruit plantations or an oasis of date palms splash a vivid colour, but all other hues are modest, subdued. This land is too big and bold to be colourful.

A few miles on, higher up in the mountains, a surprising and incongruous sight: here under the beating sun, in this dust-blown, harshly arid environment, are some red and white barriers, open today but closed….when the snow comes. Yes, these are snow barriers, these high mountain desert roads, so hot and dry today, get closed for snow in winter. We can only wonder at the harsh lives of those who survive such extremes as a matter of course.

The town of Errachidia sits just outside the gorge of the Ziz river, almost but not quite dry at this time of year, the giant, muscle-bound sides of the canyon a spectacular sight as we near our refuge for the night. With nearly eight hours’ driving between Fes and Merzouga, we opt to break the journey with an overnight stay here in Errachidia, an unmistakably Berber town on the N13 highway where the market is in full swing, the buzz of the stalls mingling with the call to prayer as it casts its haunting sound through the descending twilight. Flowing robes and sandals dominate; inquisitive stares greet these two, odd-looking travellers, though those stares are easily outnumbered by friendly smiles and cries of “welcome”.

Djelleba- and thawb-clad Berbers wander the streets, smoke starts to billow from street side grills, and as we sit at the plastic table by the main street eating chicken straight from the rotisserie and a salad sprinkled with cumin, darkness falling, the unfamiliar sounds and smells of the Berber town all around us, we know for sure that the real adventure of this trip has begun.

Our one night stand in Errachidia has a shower with no hot water and an AC unit which clanks like dockyard derricks and howls like a hurricane, and, in a country where anything other than local music is a rarity, the elevator, bizarrely, plays canned reggae. It’s comfortable enough but we’re eager to get back on the desert road and head further out into the Sahara.

Beyond Errachidia the landscape changes quickly, the soaring grey hulks of the mountains traded for the flat pale expanse of desert sand, long stretches of road as straight as plumb lines forming a dark ribbon through the dust and scrub. Suddenly a bend to the right and we’re back alongside the valley of the Ziz, the dramatic canyon carving unexpected depths into the flat terrain.

We pull in where there’s a viewpoint and cafe, and look down on the most wonderful sight: the oasis village of Zouala nestled way below among the date palms, houses raised above the level of the river of winter. The braying of donkeys drifts up from the valley: life is going on down there, villagers living their oh so different daily lives. As we sip our cafe au lait on the top of the ridge, a tour bus pulls in, its passengers take photographs to fill their permitted time slot, then get recalled to the bus. We can’t help but see the parallel with the nomadic Berbers, the tour guide is now the shepherd, the passengers are the livestock, and the bus driver, we guess, the sheepdog.

When the road parts company with the Ziz, the Sahara takes control. The sand is noticeably more fine, more ochre, then darker again, while in the background, lofty dunes shine as if wrapped in gold leaf, reflecting the sunshine with a glory which is hard for the eye to comprehend.

And then there’s another police checkpoint, a hazard of driving here which is so commonplace that a 300-kilometre drive will inevitably involve negotiating a dozen or so of these heavy handed interruptions. Yesterday, somewhere just short of Errachidia, one such block hit me with an on-the-spot fine for speeding – unfortunately, my second such offence on this trip as I got “done” by radar in France as well. These offences are hardly Formula 1 territory, both times my speed is a gnat’s whisker above the limit and it’s disconcerting to think that such minor offending has probably put my name on Interpol’s watch list.

So today I take greater care to be obedient, especially when approaching yet another checkpoint, so imagine my dismay when I get pulled over again and hit with another potential fine. This time, I know for a fact that I did not transgress, and so I steel myself for a battle and argue with the law. He at first insists I have “made a violation” as he puts it, but I stand my ground and tell him I definitely did no such thing. He consults the cop with the speed gun, comes back over and says, “you are right, it was a different car. You can go”.

OK, I think we now know what we’re dealing with here.

Drama behind us and wondering how many more such encounters lay ahead over the next week, the houses of Merzouga eventually drift into view like ghosts, so identical is their colour to the sand beyond. We’re off the N13 on to a desert track, guided by blue painted trackside rocks, following tyre marks through the sand to the rather elaborate gate of our riad.

We are here. Merzouga. A proper, proper desert village, one of those places where any sound – the grunt of a camel, a shout in Arabic, the throb of a quad bike – only serves to accentuate the silence. Our riad is unbelievably lovely, Mohammed and his team smiling and helpful. Merzouga shields itself from the sunshine, shutters down over its handful of shops, mint tea sending sweet odours into the street. Men sit beneath awnings, a solitary 4×4 kicks up dust as it grates through. Cats catch the shade behind pillars. Maybe not a one-horse town, more likely a ten-camel town.

This distant little village is a gateway to a number of Sahara activities; from here you can quad bike, buggy or camel ride your way across the sands, you can hike up mountainous sand dunes, and, if you wish, sand board your way back down the slopes. Rise early to watch sunrise, climb high for sunset, lay back after dark and watch the stars punctuate the blackness. Listen to the Sahara silence. The proper, proper dead silence of night.

Merzouga is going to be so very special.

Merzouga: Three Days In The Desert Sun

Sometimes it’s when you look back at a particular time or place that you realise just how good it was. And then sometimes, now and again, when you get really lucky, it’s as the time itself is unfolding that you know something very special is happening, your senses are alive and you are absolutely living in the moment, knowing that this is a time you will never forget. Such was our three days in Merzouga….

As we eat brochettes by the roadside on our first night in the desert town we don’t really want to have to sleep, we’re willing it to be morning, so eager are we to experience what lays ahead of us in our time out here in the Sahara. We chatter like excited school kids, full of anticipation about what the next few days may bring, every experience which we may enjoy.

Next morning we’re up before dawn, climbing on to the roof of our riad to watch the sunrise. The changing colours of the sky are usually what make sunrises and sunsets special, but as we watch in awe, it’s the changing colours of the land around us, rather than the sky, which is the real joy of a desert sunrise. The beautiful undulating dunes pass through multiple shades before, during and after the sun’s journey over the horizon; a thousand shades of gold, orange and ochre, reflecting the moving sun in a way that no other land can. It’s magical.

The massive dunes surrounding Merzouga are genuinely and stunningly beautiful, this is nature’s artwork at its very best, sculptures formed by the wind and crafted by something unstoppably powerful, the creeping movement of the sands. Pyramids, rolling hills, deep gullies, dune-top ridges with a perfect pinpoint peak running for hundreds of yards, like a giant crease in pressed clothing. These “erg” dunes are mesmerising, we could stare at them for hours, fascinated by the fact that despite being giant, mountainous forms, they are slowly, unstoppably on the move.

High up on the dunes the golden sand is so fine that, when disturbed, it flows downhill more like liquid than grain; lower down beneath the towering heights the sand is pale to the eye, yet when we collect some in our hands or inside our shoes, it takes on a hue somewhere between brick dust and paprika. When we sit high on a ridge, it’s possible to see the sand moving in the wind in small flurries, the movement which slowly over centuries moves the dunes across the land, the shape of the dunes ever changing. The lighter colours of the sand being blown across the darker depths is a startling illusion, akin to the movement of spotlighting at a stage show.

The sun is up, the Sahara has assumed its morning colours and Ali is outside in a 4×4 ready to take us on our next adventure. We cross the “dry lake”, a lake which can in certain seasons be a vast expanse of shallow water populated by flamingos, but now there is not a drop, the area just a barren mix of sand and volcanic rock. Ali tells us there has been no significant rain here now for three whole years. 

Our tour with Ali takes in a collection of small plantations, something like allotments back in England, one plot for each Merzouga family, though more than half are dry and empty, so sparing must water usage be after three dry years. Intriguingly, the generation of electricity and the channelling of irrigation, and the imposition of systems which restricted the use of both, were taught to the locals, and to some degree paid for, by a wealthy American lady who holidayed here and witnessed first hand the harsh realities of desert life. That lady’s name was Hillary Clinton.

Ali takes us to one of the temporary tented villages housing the nomadic Berber shepherd families – these people are still genuine nomads, moving on every three months or so in search of vegetation. There certainly isn’t much here so we guess they’ll be gone soon. Peeking inside the tents is fascinating. Each group of around six tents is actually one home for a single family; the next group may be a hundred yards or so away. Each tent is an individual room: here a sleeping tent, here the kitchen, then the water storage tent.

We bid farewell to Ali, then later, we take ourselves away for a walk across and over the dunes to watch the desert sunset, ending the day in parallel to how we began, watching the ball of fire cast ever changing colours across the sand. And then, a magical moment as we head back to the riad: large numbers of light coloured bats fly out of the wells dug in search of water, and swoop around us as they seek out their evening feast, passing literally within inches of our faces. They are as silent as the night itself, not even a wing beat to narrate their darting flight. 

Darkness falls heavily out here in the desert and we sleep soundly. Morning comes with the sound of cockerels instead of muezzins – we are, unusually, too far from the nearest mosque to hear the call. 

We witness sunset at the end of our second day in altogether different circumstances from the first. If the land around us changing colour as the sun moves through the sky is one way we know we are a long way from home, then knowing our next bed is a 90-minute camel ride away has to be another. Leaving our backpacks in the Duster and taking minimal possessions, we head off on our camels for our third Sahara night, this time in the peace of a desert camp in the area of giant dunes known as Erg Chebbi.

The camel ride is serene, pacing slowly across the splendid dunes, pausing to watch the colours of another sweeping sunset and arriving at the camp just after dark. Our obedient camels settle down on the cool sands for the night as we make our way into the surprisingly comfortable and welcoming camp, being plied with a decent tagine before our Berber hosts play traditional music around the campfire. Behind them the darkness is complete; without them the silence is everything. Out here there are no animal calls, no mysterious sounds, only the whisper of breezes to break the spell.

As the music draws to a close, one of the younger Berber boys sidles up to us – and only us – to ask quietly if we want to wander away from the camp, away from the light, to view the night sky. Do we ever! Sand which was too hot to walk on just a few hours ago is now soothingly cool as the three of us lay down and gaze at the star-filled sky in wonder: it’s yet another beautiful feature of the Sahara. Stars fill the sky, the Milky Way strung across the darkness, the silence and stillness of the desert night adding to the sense of timelessness. There’s even a couple of shooting stars to complete the scene. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the view changes as a silver moon peeps above the horizon, adding a spectacular moonrise to our catalogue of wonderful sights here. This is just incredible.

We return to Riad Ali, by camel again, after breakfast the following morning, the day’s temperature gauge rising palpably as we make our way serenely back through the dunes. Whilst the tranquility of a camel ride perfectly matches the desert tones, there are several other modes of transport here which are anything but as serene as a camel, one of which has captured our imagination from the moment we arrived, tempting us into one more adventure before we leave Merzouga behind: the dune buggy.

Oh, my God, how much fun is driving a dune buggy, belting up and down the dunes, sliding sideways, twisting around sharp turns, speeding through different depths of sand, accelerating up the steep slopes and hurtling down the opposite side. We take it in turns: I drive out to the vantage point for tonight’s sunset, then Michaela drives back as the orange shards splash the sky. It’s without doubt one of the most thrilling, fun packed drives we’ve ever had and I’m still buzzing with excitement several hours after it’s over.

Riad Ali, our home in Merzouga, has been a wonderful place to stay; a peaceful oasis in the heart of the desert, with a small but lovely pool to dive into when the heat gets just a bit too intense. The guys here have been great company, the food delicious, the atmosphere calm and friendly yet convivial. Our time in the riad, and in the desert, has been the best few days of our time in Morocco, and one of the major highlights of this entire trip. Truly, honestly magical.

Riad Ali, Merzouga

On our last night in Merzouga, after our last meal in Riad Ali, Mohammed joins us at our table, teaches us useful Arabic phrases by writing them in Arabic text and then, alongside, the same words but in our “English” alphabet, then next gets us to write down the English translation. He laughs as we struggle with some of the Arabic words. We chat for ages about so many things, from life in the desert, to how adventure tourism has changed life in Merzouga, to the type of people who manage to find Riad Ali.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, we also discuss the fact that we wish we didn’t have to leave. Merzouga has been wonderful, the Sahara beautiful, the guys at the riad among the most welcoming hosts we have experienced on any of our travels. These three days have been very special. Great memories to treasure for the rest of our lives.

Back North To Fes, Then West To Casablanca 

Our farewells with Mohammed and the other guys at Merzouga are heartfelt; we feel like we’re leaving friends behind while Mohammed says they will miss us and implores us to return some day. We say we may do, but of course inside we know it’s not going to happen, there’s still a whole world out there.

The need to take the Duster back to Fes means retracing our steps through the Ziz valley, past and over the Middle Atlas mountains, but with an overnight call in a different town – not Errachidia this time, but the unassuming town of Midelt. This is basically a dormitory stop for food and sleep, yet somehow we stumble on a great restaurant where the tagine (yeah, another one) goes straight into the top five and the hilarious and slightly crazy owner Sharif keeps us, everyone else, and himself, entertained with his multilingual banter.

Over the course of the two days driving back from the desert to Fes, we keep a count of the police road blocks – we pass through no less than EIGHTEEN. This time we avoid fines, avoid even having to argue our case, but at every one of those eighteen there is somebody handing over cash while the smug cop scribbles the driver’s details down on a form.

And so we’re back in Fes, the Duster is back with its rightful owner, and we are on our fifth one-night stay in the last eight nights. It will be good to settle down, even if just for a few nights, in our next destination, especially as that destination has a rather exotic ring….Casablanca. It’s four hours on the train from Fes to Casablanca, then straight on to a modern and efficient tramway which takes us to within a hundred yards or so of our next base. Time to explore this exotic sounding city.

However, in reality the romance is in the name rather than the city itself. As the largest conurbation in Morocco and the financial and commercial hub of the country as a whole, Casablanca is a contemporary city, mostly built in recent times and without the charm and history of the other places we’ve visited on this tour. Even the reason for the romantic connotation is false: not one minute of the eponymous movie was actually filmed here.

If we start our exploration of Casablanca with a romantic notion of the exotic, then this very ordinary and largely unattractive city soon chisels it away. Walking its grid-style streets takes us from concrete hulk to concrete hulk, past shopping malls filled with all too recognisable retailers, and along streets which are familiar enough to be dull and dull enough to be familiar.

Of course, like all cities, Casablanca has its moments and it has its sights, but it has to be said that they are few and, just as important, far between – this is definitely not a walking city. It’s a big city and the sights can be a long, long way apart. Fortunately taxis are cheap. Unfortunately, the taxi drivers all think they’re in a rally, or even a demolition derby. Closing our eyes and paying the fare is our coping mechanism.

Of the rather few sights to see here, the Hassan II mosque is definitely one, in a terrific position perched on the edge of the rocks looking out across the Atlantic. Completed only in 1993, this mosque is a huge building capable of holding over 100,000 worshippers – the largest functioning mosque in Africa and the seventh largest mosque in the world. As if to remind us once again that Casablanca is a modern rather than ancient city, the minaret (2nd tallest in the world) shines a laser towards Mecca. Ancient rites meets modern technology.

This mosque is a stirring and impressive sight, dominating its promontory and boldly staring out across the crashing Atlantic waves, perhaps occasionally glancing across to the opposite side of the bay where the prominent lighthouse, amusingly named El Hank, warns of the rocks below.

West of the lighthouse, Casablanca’s corniche runs for several miles along the shore, punctuated with expensive private beach clubs and the occasional overpriced cafe. Oh, and a KFC, a Pizza Hut and a couple of McDonalds. Once again though, this corniche is not designed for doing things on foot – it’s a very long stretch of busy six-lane roadway with big gaps between those private clubs. After walking about a third of it, we give in and grab a rally car, oh sorry a taxi, and, judging by how much the cheeky git tries to overcharge us, he clearly assumes we’re guests at a swanky beach club.

As we walk along the corniche we feel the odd combination of the heat of the sun and the cold air of the Atlantic, which is actually quite a pleasant sensation. It’s such a clash of temperatures that it’s little wonder that a heavy sea fog folds in each day both in the morning and at sundown.

We do have to dig really deep to find some attractive quarters here – there’s the odd pleasant garden, a quaint area close to the royal palace, and a beach at one end of the corniche, but all in all we won’t be leaving Casablanca with an eye on a quick return. Our Top 10 of Casablanca would be, frankly, 1) Visit Rick’s Cafe, 2) Visit Hassan II mosque 3) Leave town. 

Rick’s Cafe is the must-do of Casablanca. Designed to re-create the bar which features in the movie, it’s a very classy upmarket place with outrageous prices to match – we only call in for a drink at the bar but two rounds (not cocktails, just beer and wine) sets us back 380 dirham when entire meals for two have been typically costing around 120. Despite this, it is a properly classy place and it’s fun to sit at the bar and soak up the surroundings.

Yes, you read that right. Beer and wine. One element of Casablanca’s modern character is liberalism – there are bars here full of the kind of indulgent revelry which we haven’t seen or enjoyed since leaving Spain. One such is Bar Atomic, a smoky, raucous old-school bar which unashamedly jumps on the movie memorabilia bandwagon with film star portraits and movie stills around its every wall. It’s our first alcohol since Tangier two weeks ago and it feels pretty good to be in a genuine bar, especially one filled with friendly locals.

By “friendly”, we mean this. I get chatting to the guy standing next to me about the Moroccan football match on TV. He is scoffing from a tempting looking bowl of peanuts, cashews and almonds – but when I try to order the same, the barman explains that the guy brought them in himself. Before I know it, the football guy has paid bar staff to run down the road, buy me the same nuts from the mini-market and present them to us in a bowl with our next beer, which he also pays for. Come on, you can’t get much more friendly than that! 

As the 100th day of this trip dawns, we’re packing our bags again for what will be the last leg of this long summer sojourn which began in Paris on July 3rd. That seems a long time ago now. Having kept the Mediterranean as a constant for long spells, it seems fitting to end this summertime journey with the Med close by.

So by the time we post again we will be in…..Cyprus. After some debate about where to spend the last two weeks of this trip, we came across a relatively cheap way of getting from Morocco to Cyprus. Only as the date approached did we realise there’s a complication, a complication which involves the word “illegal”.

Oh well, in for a penny….