Travel Guides: All Countries / Africa / Morocco
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| | | | Marrakesh — living up to the legend
Marrakesh has always loomed large in the popular imagination as a genuinely exotic and fascinating destination. The good news? It deserves its reputation.
Founded in the 11th century, it is one of Morocco's four Imperial cities and functioned as the North African country's capital until 1688.
Now it's a bright, bustling and very modern city with a plethora of sights and attractions for the eager tourist.
A labyrinth of souks and bazaars lies at the heart of the city. Vendors selling spices, leather goods, slippers, pots and various trinkets vie for your attention as you snake through the maze-like streets and alleyways.
Watch carpets being woven in the Zarbia Souk or seek out jewellery in the Souks des Bijoutiers. Haggling is compulsory.
The Place Jemaa-El-Fna lies at the very heart of the pink and ochre-toned city and draws tourists to its busy environs like a magnet.
This teeming square is a riot of spice hawkers, snake-charmers, jugglers and story-tellers, all indecently keen to separate visitors from their dirhams.
If it all gets too much — and it does — retreat, and enjoy a mint tea at the rooftop cafes overlooking the Place.
Visitors keen to escape the city's commercial hustle and bustle find their way to Menara Gardens near the market area. This picturesque retreat houses a lake that was man-made in the 12th century, plus 9,000 olive trees. Morocco has few lovelier sights.
Travel Guide: Marrakech
Why not pop over for the day?
The idea seemed like an improbable adventure: Bournemouth to Marrakesh. Just for the day.
As we drove down to the airport first thing on a sunny Monday morning, I had the Crosby, Stills and Nash song Marrakesh Express on the CD player - and you don't get much more of an express than a day trip from Bournemouth.
Friends couldn't quite get to grips with the concept: ' Bournemouth to Marrakesh... and back... in a day?'
Some said: 'Why?' Others echoed my thoughts and said: 'Why not?' A delicious quick slice of Africa - it was the travel equivalent of fast food.
We arrived in Marrakesh mid-morning and left just after teatime. So not so much a day, more a long afternoon. But thanks to Bath Travel's smart organisation, it's surprising just how much you can cram into seven hours.
Straight from the plane, we got on the bus waiting at Marrakesh airport and it took us into town for a brief sightseeing spin.
We stopped at the wonderful Majorelle Garden, owned by recently retired couturier Yves Saint Laurent, and then on to the charming Bahia Palace.
The coach dropped us off at the Jemaa el Fna square, normally famous for its teeming throng of acrobats and snake charmers and the like.
Travel Guide: Morocco
Our little piece of Africa
Finishing my coffee, I used the rest of the hot water to defrost the windscreen; then we set off to Gatwick, 90 minutes away, under snow-laden skies.
Later that same morning, we were basking under an African sun. Our flight from Gatwick to Marrakech landed at 11.40am, and the journey into Morocco's ancient capital took 10 minutes from the airport.
The three-hour flight had borne us into a landscape, a culture and a climate that was half a world away. Until three days before, the Moroccan weather had been cool and wet: now it felt like early summer.
We drove past the Mamounia Gardens and through the high mud-ochre walls - built in 1127 to protect what was then a fortified settlement - and plunged instantly into the street life of Marrakech: a cacophony of bicycle bells, klaxons, whistles, street-vendor cries, loud arguments, squeals of laughter and discordant snatches of music.
Bumping down the Avenue Bab Djedid, we passed the spiritual emblem of Marrakech, the 12th century Koutoubia minaret - to my mind one of the most beautiful buildings in the world - and weaved our way through the Casbah district.
After swerving past chickens, parked trucks and piles of oranges and artichokes, with the dust rising and the heat reflecting off the walls of the narrow streets, we suddenly stopped at a door in the wall, hardly different from all the other doors except it was white-painted and sported a brass knocker.
Porters emerged to take our luggage; the door closed behind us and the bedlam vanished as suddenly as a power-cut.
We found ourselves in a cool, domed room where we signed in, before being taken out into a glorious courtyard garden, lush with tall palms, figs, mimosas, citrus trees and flowering shrubs, and enclosed on all four sides by the washed-pink wings of what had once been the townhouse of a Moroccan princess.
Outside were dust and noise and people, and beyond them the desert. Inside was the oasis: solitude (if you wished it), shade and quietness in beautiful surroundings and with delicious things to eat and drink.
On my first visit to Marrakech five years ago, I was fortunate enough to stay at the Mamounia, which I described as reputedly the finest hotel in Africa.
Travel Guide: Morocco
Superb ports of the Med
Sailing on the MSC Sinfonia in February wasn't just an excuse to escape the miserable Brit winter. Honestly.
No, this was a chance to sample the delights of Barcelona, Casablanca, Tenerife, Madeira, Malaga and Alicante - if I could be bothered to vacate my luxury penthouse cabin.
You see that's the problem with cruising. Sometimes it's hard to drag yourself away from all that pampering.
Okay, so after a severe badgering from my girlfriend, we disembarked at our first port of call, Barcelona.
This fantastic city needs no introduction and, having both been there before, we knew what to expect.
It was just a shame that we only had a little over half a day in this glorious port town. It didn't give you much time other than to take a stroll along Las Ramblas, the main shopping street.
After a brief stop in Barcelona, our ship sailed on to the Moroccan port town of Casablanca.
This was the longest single spell at sea, and the choppy waters of the Atlantic were most unwelcome after the millpond-like tranquility of the Med.
Fortunately the prospect of spending a day exploring the exotic back streets of Casablanca kept our spirits up - how deluded we were. I can honestly say Casablanca is one of the worst cities I have ever had the misfortune to visit.
Forget any romantic associations you may have with the classic Humphrey Bogart film of the same name. You won't find a smokey Rick's Club here with the sound of wartime jazz music wafting through the air. This is a grimy, filthy, dust-bowl of a city with a menacing feel to it.
Casablanca really did mark a low point in our cruise. It's hard to describe just how bad this place was. Imagine Coventry in a heat wave on the morning after a particularly savage wave of bombing during the blitz - that's modern day Casablanca.
Fortunately we were only there for the day and Tenerife was just a day's sail away. This was going to seem like paradise in comparison.
For me, the island's capital Santa Cruz was the highlight of our cruise destinations.
Located in the north of the island, it couldn't have been more different from the tourist hell that is Playa de las Americas on the south coast.
The Spanish-inspired architecture gave the town an almost South American feel and the locals we encountered couldn't have been more welcoming.
Sadly, the torrential rain ruined what could have been a lovely day in Madeira so the free sauna and massage onboard the MSC Sinfonia was a lot more appealing.
On the last two days, we made consecutive stop-offs in Malaga and Alicante. The Picasso museum in Malaga was a real treat, and a much-needed culture injection. In Alicante, the Castle of Santa Barbara on the outskirts of the city was a must see. You could just imagine an ancient garrison of soldiers sat here keeping a watchful eye over the old town.
A day here was just enough, leaving a final 48 hours at sea for some vital last minute pampering.
Our 10-day Mediterranean cruise was a great introduction to life on the ocean waves for first-timers.
It was also a brilliant way to cram a lot of sight-seeing into a short period of time, while there was always the option to kick back and stay on board if you wanted to take things easy.
On the downside, I would say some of the destinations were a bit unimaginative and sailing to three Spanish towns was too much.
There were organised excursions for all the destinations on this cruise, but my girlfriend and I decided to opt out. They were often pretty costly, about £100 per person. And the thought of being frog-marched around by a tour guide has never appealed to me.
For instance, the neck-breaking optional tour to Marrakesh after docking in Casablanca was way too much to do in one day. I'd rather go back and visit the city properly.
So would I do a cruise again?
On balance, I reckon I would, although I think I'd always have to do it in style, with a balcony and a large cabin. The thought of an inside cabin with no sea view just doesn't appeal.
That might be okay if you spend a lot of time off the boat, but we really wanted to use the trip as a chance to relax and unwind, and for that you need some serious luxuries.
* For reservations on MSC Sinfonia, call 0870 850 4883 or see www.msccruises.com
Travel Guide: Morocco
How many camels for your mother?
A young man in the souk called after us - '25,000 camels for your mother'. My mother pinched my arm. 'Did he mean me?'
'Yes, Mum,' I sighed, 'Come on'.
'How flattering. That's a lot of camels. See? You should appreciate me more.' And that was as much hassle as we received in Marrakech.
My thirty-something girlfriends often pop off for long weekends with their mothers but this would be a first for me.
'Why Marrakech? Isn't it dangerous for women?' my mother had replied to my invitation.
I'd wanted to spend three nights somewhere exotic, with a short flight and anyway, I said, new laws forbid the hassling of tourists.
Just so long as we didn't wear shorts - it's a predominantly Moslem city - there wouldn't be a problem.
Rather than seeing backpackers of questionable cleanliness boarding our flight, Mum nodded in approval as men in blazers and 'rather nice people' filed in.
But Marrakech's seal of respectability was sealed when we later spotted Rosa Monckton, director of Tiffany's, buying jewellery with husband Dominic Lawson in Al Badii, an antique shop in Gueliz.
Just over three hours from London (and in the same time zone) Marrakech, the so-called Red City because of its glowing pink stone buildings, sits in the heart of Morocco.
Travel Guide: Morocco
Hot footing in the High Atlas
From the Mail on Sunday
Behind me there are seven others following in the footsteps of Mohammed.
A young couple from Cork with the sweetness that comes from unsullied love, two women travelling alone with the weariness of recently failed marriages and a middle-aged lesbian couple from Canada.
There is also an Essex doctor whose hilarious readings of our unpredictable bowel functions disguise the deep sadness of caring for a severely handicapped child at home.
And then there is Mohammed, a descendant of the Berbers, a father of three children from an agreed tribal marriage, who leads us across the High Atlas mountains to his home.
Two hours after the minibus drops us in a fierce midday heat we are walking back centuries to stay at a mountain lodge from where we will attack the highlands of North Africa.
Planning the holiday two months earlier, I had pressed my wife to join a more testing trek.
'This one is for girls,' I decreed airily after an exhausting slog from the pub. 'It will be hot in Morocco in June,' warned my wife, and so we opted for the easier itinerary. Now I am quietly relieved to be with the 'girls'.
As the heat teases the last out of the water bottles, Mohammed points to a sizeable building set on a rock face, his very own Berber B&B in a small village settlement scratched on a local map as Wawrikt. The news revives wilting calf muscles.
The Canadian pair surge ahead to mutterings from others of: 'They're after bagging the best room,' which is undoubtedly the truth.
Then there is the unspoken question of the 'one flush toilet', mentioned in tour notes, to which several have obviously placed a mental claim as first port of call.
We receive a warm welcome from Mohammed's brother, who is the house cook. Thus settled in we are asked to join our host for sweet mint tea.
'Tomorrow, we will walk for six maybe seven hours,' Mohammed explains, his voice punctuated by chirrups of impish laughter.
Travel Guide: Morocco
Ghosts of the Great White Queen
The cross-eyed Moroccan gatekeeper swings a huge bunch of keys. 'Why have you come?' he asks in a whisper. 'There's nothing to see.'
I explain my quest and he breaks into a smile. 'Ah, tres bon. We don't get many visitors,' he tells me. 'Not like the old days.'
He opens the entrance gate with a rusty creak and ushers me inside. 'Come,' he says. 'The Consuls' Cemetery.'
I'm transported into a world of Victorian gothic. The cemetery's sandstone cherubs - blasted smooth by the salty Atlantic breezes - belong to a fabulous, but long forgotten, chapter of history.
Here, at the end of the world, lie the bones of illustrious Victorians - consuls, merchants, doctors and adventurers.
In the 19th Century, the British, Spanish and French all flocked to the city of Mogador and they were soon followed by dozens of other nationalities.
They came for one reason alone: in those days, Mogador was one of the most opulent and cosmopolitan cities in the world. This fabled port was a glittering trading entrepot whose tentacles spread deep into tropical Africa.
The European merchants who came here hoped to make their fortunes. They rarely returned home empty-handed.
The name Mogador has long since disappeared from maps of Morocco. The town was renamed Essaouira - meaning 'little ramparts' - in 1956, when Morocco gained independence.
It's now a lively fishing port that attracts day-trippers from Marrakesh who come to feast on fresh local crab and lobster.
But a century ago Mogador was a city quite unlike any other. The souks were filled with spices and costly jewels and it was to Mogador that the great Saharan camel trains came from Timbuktu, laden with gold dust and ostrich feathers, ebony and ivory. Such exotic rarities were in great demand in the bourgeois London households.
As more and more European merchants settled in the city, the Great Powers began opening consulates to represent their interests.
Within a short time, no fewer than 13 nations had consuls here, including Britain, Germany and Spain.
In 1881, Queen Victoria appointed a new British Consul to Mogador. His name was Charles Alfred Payton - a portly, bearded man from Scarborough who was accompanied by his young wife Eliza. They were to spend some of the happiest years of their lives in the town.
Shortly before Payton left London, his elderly head of department summoned him to a meeting to brief him on his duties in Mogador. 'Now let me give you a tip,' he told the eager young diplomat. 'The less we hear of you, the better we shall like you.'
Travel Guide: Morocco
Five go wild in the Sahara
Five females being a bit naughty and running away? It had that quality of a schoolgirl adventure. But the difference was we were all over 50 (only just!) and had teenage children.
We weren't Jungle Janes - so who were we? Jane describes herself as a social entrepreneur. Annie's a photographer/ homeopath, Jenny's a campaigner for the treatment of breast cancer, Marie a freelance television producer. And me, a theatre director.
We all wanted to do something different: something physically challenging but not death-defying; somewhere far away from a British winter - hot, but not too hot; avoiding crowds but not frighteningly abandoned.
We all knew at least one other of the five, but no one knew everybody. How would we get on nose-to-nose in our desert tent dorm? Was everyone else super-fit? Would they have all the right clothes for walking in the desert? What were the right clothes?
Although Richard Lawson of Yallah Tours had arranged everything to suit us - a week of desert trekking and camel riding with two days either side, we had to get to Marrakesh under our own steam. But that's easy with everything booked via the internet.
Our first night in Marrakesh typified the Moroccan experience. You never know what's round the next corner. We ducked and weaved along a narrow, gloomy, fish-smelling alley littered with beggars and staring children to stay in what turned out to be a fabulous riad.
Riads are grand houses of at least four floors, and in this case a roof garden, arranged around a central courtyard. 'Travellers' (as opposed to any old tourist) can pay to stay here. Richard had sorted all this for us, of course.
The family were away so we didn't feel we could rifle their wine store, but when we asked the cook where we could buy some we were met with horror. So no wine that night, but never mind because we had all forgotten how delicious Moroccan food is. It's so fresh and aromatic with that touch of French sophistication.
Next day we were off early in our Land Rover to drive south to the desert. This wasn't my favourite bit. Our driver was excellent so the trial wasn't so much the terrifying hairpin bends of the Tizi n'Tichka pass, more the discomfort of hard seats and banging one's head against the roof.
Lunch outside in the shade of Chez Dinitri's in Ouarzazate cheered us all up - in fact, our high spirits and giggles began from there. Was it altitude, warmth, strong beer or simple happiness? More driving, this time along the Draa Valley with its fine array of palmeries until we got to Zagora and stayed in the very Beau Geste Hotel Sorocco.
Travel Guide: Morocco
Come with me to the Kasbah
From the Mail on Sunday
Before breakfast I told my son Richard I had discovered a dream castle. 'Yes, Mum. Where?' he said, not so much as looking up from his morning paper.
'It's in Morocco, in the High Atlas Mountains,' I said, spreading out my photographs and details on the breakfast table. Richard went through them, and by the end of that day I had his agreement.
The Kasbah Tamadot would be a bright new gem in the Limited Edition by Virgin hotel group. He would buy this imposing castle and, with the help of Luciano, the present owner, turn it into a palace of luxury. I was impatient to return.
I was joined at Heathrow on a grey, grizzly day by my six young friends for a weekend with a difference. I suggested they took walking shoes, tennis rackets, golf clubs, swimsuits, skiing and riding gear - our luggage wasn't light!
In the early hours of Friday morning and after only a three-hour flight, we were swept into a different world.
Soon after midnight, we were met by Brahim Den Dah, the Kasbah manager - tall, handsome, humble, always smiling and anxious to help.
With two Range Rovers waiting, excitement took over thoughts of tiredness as we twisted and turned, climbing higher and higher into the mountains. Stopping at the final bend and with no other building in sight, Kasbah Tamadot stood supreme.
Travel Guide: Morocco
On your bike
Better known for camel treks and mountain walks, Morocco is not many people's first choice of location for a cycling holiday, but with guaranteed sunshine, dirt-cheap facilities and a mix of cultures, it was worth a try.
Hating package-tour holidays with a passion, I decided to go it alone armed only with a Lonely Planet guidebook, a couple of road maps, some basic bike tools and, of course, my trusty hybrid bicycle.
Taking your bike on a plane is easier than you might think, and you can fly direct to Morocco, but I chose the cheaper and more adventurous option of going with Ryanair to Jerez (£35 return from London Stansted) in the south of Spain. From there, it was a 100km ride to Algeciras from where ferries leave regularly for Morocco.
Some airlines do not charge extra for bikes, although with Ryanair I had to pay an extra £17. It had to be flat-packed first, which basically involved taking off all the bits that stick out (handlebars, pedals, etc) and putting it into a cardboard bike box, which any bike shop will give you free of charge.
It sounds like an ordeal, but the whole operation took less than an hour and, having already grappled with my set of Allen keys in England, the task of reassembling my bike in Spain was a breeze. I was soon on the road to the southern coast.
The ride through the farmlands of southwest Spain took six hours but there was enough time to catch a ferry in daylight - essential if you want catch a glimpse of the dolphins which invariably swim alongside the boat as it passes through the Strait of Gibraltar.
The three-hour ferry ride takes you to Tangier on the north-western tip of Africa. It costs £18, and is basic cross-Channel-ferry-type stuff, but I hadn't come for luxury and was just glad to be able to sit for a while on a seat which wasn't saddle-shaped.
From Tangier, there are a few options with a bike. You could head east along Morocco's Mediterranean coast or head inland towards the nearby Rif mountains which dominate the north of the country. But I decided to head south-west, away from Morocco's European influence, to find a taste of Arabia along the vast Atlantic coast.
Most of my cycling was done on well-maintained, single-lane roads, but the first day also involved some time on farmland tracks on the route towards the small, enchanting port of Larache, 80km south of Tangier.
The views along the coast were superb, but the pick of the day was passing a huge lake covered with pink flamingoes before pushing on in order to grab some lunch in the tiny fishing village of Asilah.
This bijou resort is popular among affluent Moroccans in summertime and has a beautifully-restored, whitewashed medina, or old town, surrounded by 15th-century Portuguese ramparts.
The ride from Asilah to Larache was on well-maintained roads, including some dual carriageways, and I reached the town well before dark.
Larache, a small port, is bigger than Asilah but less touristy and it comes without the hassle of touts. The hub of the town is the Spanish-built square, Place de la Liberation, but its gem is its vibrant, blue-and-white medina.
Any trip to Morocco should include a visit to a hammam, Morocco's answer to the Turkish bath, and in Salama Hammam, a short walk south of Place de la Liberation, Larache has one of the best.
Dark and seedy-looking, Salama Hammam is in fact a friendly bath house and for £1 it's the perfect place to steam away any cycling aches and pains. With hindsight, I perhaps shouldn't have agreed to have the Moroccan massage.
After been pulled and twisted in ways I hadn't previously imagine, I hobbled, somewhat gingerly back to the lovely Pension Amal hostel, which cost £3 per night, for a well-earned sleep.
Travel Guide: Morocco
Beautiful beaches and bustling streets
Morocco is the most beautiful Middle Eastern country I have visited.
Not only does Agadir have the typical buzz of the Middle Eastern life style, created through the markets (also known as souqs in Arabic), it also has a laid- back approach, created by the relaxing beautiful beach.
There is always somewhere to go, either at night or day. Why not try the restaurants and outside cafes at night, while smoking an aromatic hubble bubble (shisha), sitting infront of the sea, listening to the laughter of the people, the singing of the musicians and the rustling of the sea?
But don't be fooled by the smiling faces and laughter. Poverty still exists within the bustling streets of Agadir.
Travel Guide: Morocco
Never a dull moment in Marrakech
Brits flying into Marrakech in search of the exotic must feel a little cheated on the drive downtown from the airport.
Grand hotels and conference centres so vast they'd suit Las Vegas line roads leading to the city - nothing like those dusty, ramshackle scenes you'd expect from Hollywood movies.
But in the old town, unfamiliar sights and smells constantly amaze the senses.
Modern Marrakech is far less beautiful than its bustling pink-walled old town (medina), unchanged for centuries.
Souvenir shopping in the labyrinthine souks means haggling in broken English or French, widely spoken in Morocco. If browsing, the trick is to be polite, ignore pesterers and avoid eye contact until you're ready to spend.
Vendors offer "free" gifts, but if you accept it's rude not to buy in return.
It takes a day to meander around chaotic Marrakech's main sights and you regularly bump into British couples and families doing the rounds.
The grand Koutobia mosque, source of a daily, piercing Muslim call to prayer (muezzin), is the city's most famous landmark, and its tallest at 70 metres.
And Medersa Ben Youssef Khoranic school and 16th-century Saadian Tombs are tourist trail stops, but absorbing.
It's worth taking time out from the dust and rush of touring Marrakech to meet its people - many of whom approach for friendly chats. The indigenous, handsome Berbers in long, hooded robes (djellabas) are as common a sight as men and women in Western dress.
Travel Guide: Morocco
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| | | | A place that time forgot
A 45-minute drive out of the metropolis lie the spectacular Atlas Mountains.
Local guides are happy to take you on a four-wheel-drive off-road trip through tiny Berber villages yet to see electricity. It's breathtaking: a place that time forgot.
Equally memorable are the vibrant local markets, where stallholders tether their donkeys before selling clothes, grain, meat and squawking roosters.
While Marrakesh has many fascinating spectacles and attractions, there are also tourist traps to avoid.
Local tour guides are keen to shuttle you off to Fantaysia, a tented banquet and all-action extravaganza billed as a cross between Ali Baba and Disneyland.
Be warned: it's nothing of the kind. A fez-wearing waiting staff serve up cold couscous and the shoddy live show cares little for animal rights.
Marrakesh is relatively compact and after three days you may find its pleasures are exhausted.
But the city known as Morocco's Pearl Of The South is perfect for a romantic weekend break and you are guaranteed to depart with a wealth of memories.
Purveyors of the bizarre
But by lunchtime it was nothing more than a strip of drab Tarmac with a line of ramshackle buses.
We hailed a taxi and travelled to the Mamounia Hotel for lunch. One of the world's most celebrated hotels - it was more or less a second home to Churchill, who rightly described it as 'the most lovely spot in the whole world' - it's a must-stay spot for every passing celebrity.
Lunch by the pool, chosen from an extensive buffet, is one of life's great treats: a plate of cous-cous on the table and a stunning view of the Atlas mountains in the distance.
But there is no time to linger. The meat of the afternoon was to be spent in the labyrinthine souks which run north from Jemaa el Fna square.
The taxi driver dropped us at the top end and assured us it would be no problem to find our way out into the square at the bottom.
This wasn't quite true. Within about 10 minutes we were completely and thoroughly lost among the maze of metal workers, wood turners, weavers, dyers and tailors - each stallholder apparently employing at least one man prepared to drag you in by your hair if that's what it takes to get you to browse the goods.
When we finally emerged into Jemaa el Fna square two hours later, we were more than a little relieved.
By now the square had transformed itself into the expected madcap tangle of hucksters and purveyors of the bizarre.
Little more than four hours after being in one of the most bizarre places on earth, we were back in Bournemouth, feeling as if we'd been away for days rather than hours.
It's true - the day trip is the new weekend break!
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Further information from Bath Travel (0870 738 7373) or http://www.bathtravel.comhttp://www.bathtravel.com
Cool and spacious
So it may be, but since then a new kind of tourism has been pioneered in Marrakech - staying in 'riads'.
These are townhouses (most of them in the Old Town, like ours) which have been redeveloped as small hotels. And if I may be forgiven the heresy, I preferred our riad to the Mamounia.
Marrakech townhouses are not recognisable in the same way they are in Britain. Rather like Mole in the Wild Wood, in the maze of streets and alleyways in the Old Town you could easily go past their doors without knowing they were there.
But step inside and you are transported into a world of 21st century luxury, with restaurant and boutiques, a masseuse, a hammam (sauna) and rooms with telephone, air-conditioning and satellite TV - while staying only a walk away from the souk and the sights of the city.
I didn't see how our riad could be bettered. Our room, one of 36 in the hotel, was reached by strolling down an avenue of heavily-laden orange trees and up some steps to the south-east corner of the courtyard.
It was cool and spacious, with deckchairs on a balcony to catch the summer sun (in winter, ask for a room on the west side). On the flat courtyard roofs, with their spectacular views of the Atlas mountains, were more deckchairs shaded by umbrellas.
There seemed to be no point in doing anything more than move - in a trance of contentment - between our suite, the heated swimming pool and the dining room.
But, in the interests of readers, I selflessly went prospecting for other riads which might offer similar delights. There are dozens of them in Marrakech, but they vary wildly. At one end of the spectrum is Hotel Les Jardins de la Koutoubia, a huge and rather soulless hotel which is nevertheless well-placed for the Koutoubia mosque and the Jamaa el-Fna market square.
It has a giant swimming pool, unheated when I was there, and is perhaps best viewed as a fallback when everything else is full. At the other end is the Dar Donab, a small palace restored to the height of Arabian Nights luxury. Off its main courtyard are six luxurious guest rooms giving on to a small swimming pool set in marble and surrounded by palms and citrus trees.
Not far to the north, close to the 16th-century Bab Doukkala mosque, you can walk up a busy alleyway and suddenly duck down a flight of steps into the Maison Arabe.
Slightly chaotic place
With a backdrop of the High Atlas Mountains, it looked so beautiful from the plane that we wondered if we'd find a seedy tourist trap that had seen better days.
Thankfully, we found a languorous, slightly chaotic place, cleaner than London, blessed with exquisite palaces and charming people.
Four miles from Marrakech, set in 30,000 acres of the date palms of the exclusive Palmerie district, we checked into Villa Dar Ayniwen.
We'd sought out a small, tranquil retreat away from the city hum.
As our taxi pulled up, late at night, wooden gates opened to reveal courtyards twinkling with lanterns that guided us inside to the fire-lit salon.
Temperatures for spring average about 75F, but it cools at night.
Juliette Binoche had stayed in the seductive Sheherazade suite with its marble bathroom and paintings of veiled harem women.
'It's an old-fashioned grandeur - no trouser presses here,' remarked my mother, who was impressed by the unobtrusive (yet devoted) staff.
Breakfast was whenever we fancied, on a terrace, overlooking the pool and acres of gardens.
'Eat lots now,' advised my mother, helping me to more crepes, 'then we won't feel so hungry at lunch.' Which is, as we all know, a fallacy.
Sure enough, after seeing the exquisite riads (grand houses set around a courtyard) of the little-known Mnebhi palace in the medina and hammam (traditional public steam baths) we felt hungry enough to head for El Baraka, off the main square.
There, in a courtyard under orange trees, a waiter in traditional white djellaba and fez served us tagines of lamb with prunes and chicken with lemon and saffron.
Alcohol is frowned upon in the medina where there are no bars, apart from the glamorous piano bar at La Mamounia hotel.
Fabulously rich colours
We sit on cushions around a long table and that evening dine handsomely on a tajine, a delicious stew, followed by a creamy yoghurt made from local goats' milk.
The overhead lamp flickers and dies just as Nick, the doctor, produces a bottle of malt whisky.
'Only three hours of electricity each day,' grins Mohammed, who strictly observes Islamic abstinence from alcohol.
We take off to bed, a mattress in a beautifully cool room, basic but impeccably clean, where I, for one, enjoy several nights of serene concussion.
Breakfast, to general surprise, is piping hot porrridge, perfect in texture, fuel for our first full day's trekking in what the Berber people call Idraren Draren - Mountains of Mountains.
We set off past the flat-roofed, earthen homes, Mohammed picking out the well-used trails which once carried ancient trade caravans and pilgrims and which are still busy with mule traffic.
Out of Wawrikt we quickly leave behind terraced plantations of walnuts, cherries and figs and an entire market garden of vegetables that are fed from a sophisticated system of targa - small irrigation channels.
A posse of dark-eyed children, in clothes of fabulously rich colours, ritually pursue us to the village borders shouting, pleading in their second language of French for 'bon bons'.
Walking on upwards there are thickets of Spanish juniper and thick, gnarled trees. Still higher, spiny domed bushes scatter the route like giant hedgehogs while herbs such as lavender, rosemary and thyme are recognisable.
And then on upwards, rise the spectacular peaks, rugged, sparsely vegetated, with enormous escarpments, gorges and flat-topped summits. As we scrabble to find our footing and send up clouds of dust, we marvel at our guide's grace of movement. Each footfall is instinctively judged to minimise effort, a ballet learned from a childhood roaming the High Atlas.
After a few hours we rest and Mohammed distributes succulent figs and dates. A lone figure tending sheep, emerges from behind a stone wall and shares our treat.
As the morning progresses so the babble of our excited voices subsides. We are climbing steadily without trouble.
Markets and souks
Payton imagined he was being posted to a romantic Moorish kasbah - 'a rare and slumberous city of dreamland, wherein we might expect to meet all the familiar characters of the Thousand and One Nights.'
Instead, he discovered himself living in a city that was as international as London. Merchants from Manchester struck deals in guineas and sovereigns.
Patagonian mercenaries sold guns to blue-robed nomads from the Saharan hinterland; London bankers exchanged currency bills with Anglo-Jewish traders dressed in long gaberdines.
In the markets and souks of Mogador, Payton heard every language under the sun and found goods from around the world.
He also found that the Jews outnumbered the Muslims by more than three to one. The richest lived in palatial villas that still line the town's principal square.
Payton soon discovered that Europe's links with Mogador stretched far back in history. The togas worn by Roman emperors were coloured purple with dye from here.
England, too, had a long acquaintance with the town. Sir Francis Drake ate his Christmas lunch in Mogador bay in 1577, dining on what he described as 'verie uglie fish'.
It's no accident that today's town looks and feels so European; in 1760 the ruling sultan commanded a captive French engineer named Theodore Cournut to redesign the old citadel.
Modern Essaouira is Cournut's creation: long, straight alleys, quaint covered markets and ramparts so perfect they belong in Toy Town. These battlements are lined with stout brass cannon - the gifts of European merchants desperate to ingratiate themselves with the ruling sultan.
The sultan was only too keen to encourage trade (and fill his empty coffers) and he slashed import duties on goods coming from Europe and invited local Jews to act as middlemen between Muslims and Christians.
As the Jewish population swelled, so did the European. Within a few years, Mogador had been transformed from backwater to boom town. When Charles Payton and his wife arrived, it was at the height of its glory.
It takes time and effort to find the Mogador of old. I stumbled across the former Portuguese consulate at the end of a dingy cul-de-sac. Disused for more than half a century, it's in a pitiful state of disrepair.
I brushed the dust and cobwebs from the doorknocker, revealing a funny-looking head with ringlet curls. When I banged at the door, a flock of sparrows scattered in the air.
The Danish consulate - which has more than 100 rooms - is also long disused. These days, its grandiose salons and open-air atrium provide temporary shelter to more than a dozen impoverished Moroccan families.
Shouting and mild thrashing
Piling our luggage back on the roof rack was good post-breakfast exercise, then off to the town of M'hamid. After that the road simply stops. Camels or walking only from now on. This was it for the next week.
There were nervous jokes about the gorgeousness of our Berber guides in their brilliant blue gandori (tunics) and gold sheish (turbans) and just how attractive we would be after seven days without washing.
Once we'd been introduced to our camels, who were tethered up enjoying sacks of dates, came the intimidating task of mounting them as they knelt - our legs wide to accommodate the luggage in panniers either side - then the dizzy moment while the camel tips forward to get up, back legs first.
Getting off was more dramatic and noisy, with a lot of shouting and mild thrashing to get the camel to kneel down again. They walk at a perfect human walking pace, so that if your feet feel sore from walking you can sit on your camel for a while - until your bottom gets as sore as your feet.
How physically hard was it? Not at all, really. We walked on the flat and stony parts and along the meandering dry riverbeds, so you need good worn-in canvas boots. But when the landscape was pure English Patient - fabulous wind-patterned dunes - you had to let your camel carry you along the thinnest zigzagging ridges. You talk to it, of course, because you've given it a name. Mine was Hannibal, Annie's was Fluffy. Jenny's was definitely Grumpy.
After the first day, Marie tried to calculate how far we'd walked - 12 miles? 15? We gave up after that and simply adopted the rhythm of the sun. You had to because the temperature swung from about 30C midday to 3C during those long hours before the spectacular sunrise. That was the most difficult bit. Even wearing thermals, a woolly hat, pyjamas and a fleece inside a sleeping bag with Berber rugs on top and underneath, the cold crept into those fit-but-50 bones.
While we walked we talked. Up on the camels we were silent and contemplative, enjoying the unmatchable quiet and vastness.
What to wear? Anything really, so long as you're comfortable and won't get sunstroke. Our attire became more and more eccentric as the days passed. We ended up with long pieces of material we'd haggled for in the villages wound round heads and bodies in fascinating new fashions.
Buckets of sun cream were spread over every exposed bit of skin and you never went anywhere without your water bottle (handy hint: take eye drops, as a horrible affliction is caused by the combination of sun cream and sand rubbed into the eye). And, hey - we weren't smelly.
Honest. You don't sweat in that amazingly dry air and between us we probably had 1,000 moisturised wipes for every occasion. As for Moroccan tummy - Jenny had a huge supply of the magic grapefuit seed extract, Citricidal, to be taken at the first twinge.
Mule train to the mountains
After six hours' sleep and with the sun peeping over the snow-capped mountains, I found my friends already exploring the Kasbah - shouts of excitement from parapet to parapet.
After a swim in the steaming indoor pool, a Berber breakfast and a stroll in the sunshine, we took the unsurfaced road to the village of Imlil. Even in February the half-hour drive was captivating with a river bed running beside us, its natural rivulets having been carved by large boulders which were brought down in floods in 1995. In May the valley is even more beautiful with walnut and apple trees in full bloom.
Below the towering mountains, Berbers were driving their flocks of goats. The small settlements of clay-built houses on the hillside were coming alive with colour as blankets and rugs were hung out-side to air. The road ended at Imlil, which we found basking in the midday sun. From now on the only form of transport was on foot or by mule on criss-cross mule tracks. Hence, beneath each tree, a tethered mule patiently waited to be of service.
Never having ridden a mule before and feeling some trepidation, I was helped up by many willing Berbers - I don't expect they get many grannies mounting their steeds - but with no other tourists in sight, they seemed to be enjoying our odd little party. Then off we trekked, snaking higher and higher, twisting and turning, hanging on for dear life to the moth-eaten old saddle.
There was not a sound save the echo of a dog barking, a cock crowing and the odd donkey braying. Finally, to the sound of drums and singing, we arrived at Kasbah du Toubkal, a fortified house. Slithering off my mule, I was awed by the most spectacular panoramic view under the clear blue sky. Towering above us was the highest mountain in North Africa, Jbel Toubkal at 13,665ft, with the market village of Asni lying snugly below.
Kings of hospitality
Moroccans are renowned for their hospitality so when, the following day, I under-estimated the length of the ride from Larache to Kenitra and found myself between towns at sunset, I soon found help.
A young man called Aziz from a village I had never heard of cycled up alongside me and invited me to stay at his family's home. It was an experience I shall never forget.
Aziz lived with his mother on a plot of land scarcely larger than my living room back in London. On it, they had a tiny concrete yard and two rooms - a corrugated-iron hut the size of a small shed, where they cooked, washed and went to the lavatory, and a larger, concrete room, where they ate and slept. They had no running water and no electricity and yet they were as hospitable as any family could be. They fed me, gave me a bed for the night and spent the whole, candlelit evening trying, in vain, to teach me Arabic. And, when I left in morning, they flatly refused to take a penny from me in return. It was extremely humbling.
Having said au revoir to Aziz and his mother, I set off on the 80km ride to Morocco's capital city, Rabat. The road went past the small city of Kenitra and its nearby Lake Sidi Bourhaba, home to half of Morocco's bird species and the perfect place to stop for a lunchtime picnic - a baguette with goat's cheese and olives.
Rabat was less than two hours away on very well-maintained roads and I was soon heading for another hammam, this time minus the massage.
Rabat lacks the big-city, gritty edge of its larger neighbour, Casablanca, but is nevertheless relatively cosmopolitan. French cafes are dotted in among posh shoe shops and designer clothing stores in the new town, but the medina still has an air of Arabian history. Its souqs (markets) are well-known for quality carpets and its 11th-century kasbah, situated proudly on top of a hill overlooking the city's estuary, is a romantic place for a coffee. Try Cafe Maure.
Rabat is also a stone's throw, or a short bike ride away, from the white-washed city of Sale, which is well worth a visit, not least to see its beautifully ornate grand mosque.
After two days in Rabat I cycled inland for the first time, heading, unfortunately up hill, to the ancient city of Meknes. The ride was torturous at times, but the scenery over the foothills approaching the Middle Atlas mountains was breathtaking.
Meknes is often overlooked by tourists in favour of Morocco's other two, more famous imperial cities, Fes and Marrakesh, but it has a lot to offer, not least because it is smaller and therefore more hassle-free. The huge, green Bab el-Mansoor, once the entrance to the imperial city, is one of the best-preserved ancient gateways in Morocco and the mausoleum of Moulay Ismail - probably Morocco's greatest historical figure - gives non-Muslims a rare opportunity to enter an Islamic sanctuary. Admission is free.
My principal reason for visiting Meknes, though, was to visit its souqs. Like Fes and Marrakesh, Meknes has its own labyrinth of winding streets with stalls selling all manner of goods. Row upon row of different-coloured leather slippers sit beside piles of wonderfully aromatic herbs and spices. Around one corner is the jewellery souq, around another a lively flea market. Even if you don't intend to buy anything, it's worth spending a whole day getting lost in the higgledy-piggledy network of alleyways. Probably worth leaving your bike in your hostel, though.
With time running out before my flight home and my legs unable to take much more punishment, I decided to take the train back to Tangier. The bike had to go separately on an overnight goods train (which meant buying two tickets - one for me, one for the bike, at £1.50 each for the four-hour journey). I followed my bike back to Tangier the next day.
Tangier has a multitude of hotels, and therefore a multitude of touts, but they hardly bother you with when you approach the city by bike. And, having been there earlier in my trip, I knew where I was going so had no need to ask for their help. For £3 a night, Pension Bacerra is an enchanting, if a little run-down, throwback from Morocco's colonial days which overlooks Petit Socco, once the heartbeat of Tangier's medina. But it's still a decent spot to people-watch with a glass of mint tea.
After a delicious chicken tagine, a spicy Moroccan casserole which tends to cost about £2 per helping, I slept like a log before catching the early morning ferry back to Spain.
It had been a brief, and sometimes painful visit to Morocco, but one I would not hesitate to do again. Having the bike made everything, and everyone, so much more accessible than if I had been travelling by train, bus and taxi. Locals instantly showed an interest in my trip and I had the freedom to stop anywhere I wished along the way. My Arabic is non-existent and my GCSE French leaves something to be desired and yet, thanks to the incredible hospitality of Moroccans, I felt at home almost everywhere I went.
If you love cycling, and a bit of an adventure, I can't recommend Morocco enough.
Feel inspired? Read our 10 guide to cycling holidays and book a break.
Buzzing with life at night
As night falls in Marrakech, make a beeline for the Djemaa El Fna.
From dusk till late the square swarms with snake charmers, fortune tellers, tooth pullers, monkey handlers, acrobats, drummers, orange juice stalls and carts with snails and pig's heads.
Before wandering into the thick of it, take in the scene from a terrace bar at Cafe des Glaces, yards away from the action and ideal for panoramic photos.
Lots of tourists like to leave Marrakech for the day for a 90-minute drive to the green Ourika Valley.
Here life is quiet, donkeys not cars are the transport and foreign visitors are welcome at poor villages scattered about - a bit too keenly perhaps.
Raggedly-dressed Berber children mob you for pens, money, anything they can get, while older ones sell pretty handmade necklaces at cheap prices.
The other well-trodden spot on the Marrakech tourist map is Essaouira.
Rustic, white-walled and on the coast, it's got a successful fishing port and attracts artists and surfers, served by numerous dive shops near the beach.
Sixties music legend Jim Morrison stayed in the town and it's extremely touristy but laid-back, with bracing sea air and generally friendly people. Every shop sells vivid blue and white paintings.
With so many hotels to choose from in Marrakech, one tip would be to stick near the centre if you're a night owl.
The city has swanky, affordable bars, like Al Anbar, hidden behind a towering wall with a discreet entrance, that are great if you want a late night out.
Wherever your hotel, you'll never be stranded. Tiny Peugeot taxis buzz about at all hours - perfect in a place that is easy, and exciting, to get lost in.
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| | | | Snake-charmers and dervishes
The subterranean feeling persists, despite stairs to upper floors and two high, square, flower-filled courtyards open to the sun, around which the 13 rooms and suites are set.
Of all Marrakech's riads I saw, this one feels the most strongly Moroccan, perhaps because you are so enclosed in it. There is a 10-minute shuttle from the Maison Arabe to its private swimming pool.
Of the large number of riads in central Marrakech there are at least six others of this standard, including riad Noba and riad Kaiss, each with a swimming pool (though if you travel during the winter months make sure the pool will be heated) and the Villa des Orangers.
It is worth booking one through a good travel agent in the UK or Marrakech, because standards vary. Expect to pay between £90 and £120 a night for two.
The charm of Marrakech is not just that it is intensely exotic as a break from an English winter or spring, but that it offers such contrasting pleasures.
One moment you can be standing among the snake-charmers and dervishes in the Jamaa el-Fna, or hustled through the alleys of the souk in a whirl of spices, silk slippers, rugs and oillamps, and the next you can be alone in the majestic ruins of the El-Badi Palace.
Looking down on what appears to be a walled garden sunk 20ft deep in the ground, you realise that the pools, pavilions and the pavements you stand on are raised on vaults so that the gardens and parterres could be irrigated.
On Saturday night, we drove out to Kasbah Agafay, an 18th-century fortress, 20 minutes from Marrakech, which has been turned into a luxury hotel.
Over dinner, with the doors opened to the stars on one side and the blazing fire in the huge drawing room on the other, we pondered wryly on the civilisation which had turned this battle-scarred fort into the equivalent of a four-star British hotel.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Christopher Hudson travelled to Marrakech with Menara Tours (00 212 4444 6654)
British Airways (0845 773 3377) has flights to Marrakech.
Revealed the secrets
Don't worry about changing your money into dirhams.
Guidebooks don't mention that not only are you forbidden to take local currency in or out of Morocco but that everyone uses sterling or dollars anyway.
I made the mistake of changing sterling into dirhams - only to be lumbered with them, as they weren't accepted at duty free in the airport.
Mum and I felt far more at ease for hiring a guide, especially one that treated us as friends rather than clients.
'We are ladies together,' said Khadija, our guide, smiling as she revealed the secrets and traditions of Moroccan women.
Although half-day tours of historical sites and gardens in groups of between two to four people aren't cheap at £20 each with Menara Tours, we found them truly fascinating.
After a day touring we felt less grimy than after shopping in London.
Serious retail therapy came at Centre Artisanal next to the Casbah, where crafts and carpets by local Berber women are sold at a set price with only a little room for haggling.
With not so much as an argument, we agreed on a return trip to Morocco, taking in Fez, famous for its mosaics and Essaouira on the coast.
'What's your favourite memory?' my mother inquired on the plane home (a hangover from childhood scrapbooks).
'Seeing my first camel, chickens running in the souks, the scent of mint, cinnamon and jasmine - then retreating for tea at the villa under the palm trees.'
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Mediterranean Experience (http://www.themed.net tel: 020 8445 6000) features the Villa Dar Ayniwen with flights with Royal Air Maroc.
Unconventional beauty
Yet it is very hot and I can hear my own breathing, and thankfully others, beginning to catch.
The water bottles are out in number and by the time we break for lunch the shade of an overhang and a small waterfall are welcome. Here Mohammed has arranged for us to be met by an ass laden with lunch of sardines and salad. This is a lengthy affair (I sleep) and the group sits in deep, contemplative silences.
These mountains are unconventional in their beauty; a harsh mosaic of Jurassic limestone, at first unappealing, but, as the traveller takes in the expanses of rock and colours, they inspire both calm and awe.
We return along the Quarikt river bottom, passing shepherds grouped around a lazy fire, who call out 'ssalamu lekum' - 'peace upon you'.
An eaglet is overhead. Geckos and small, quite harmless snakes, disappear as we approach. Today, and for the rest of our stay, we see no other walkers. This evening we are tired, not from the walk, but from the heat.
The meal of couscous, the traditional semolina-based dish which is a staple of Moroccan cooking, is served with delicately spiced local vegetables. It has been prepared by Mohammed's brother and is simply delicious.
The group is happy but wary of the effects of the day's sun. We chat on the veranda from where I look down on an almost biblical scene, a tethered ass crushing barley, sweeping an arc under the driving of a child.
That night, as feared, the heat takes its toll and 'the one flush toilet' becomes a shrine for several. The next morning two decline the hike.
But it is a nuisance rather than a crisis and after the obligatory porridge, the rest of us push on out and upwards, discovering vast valley floors and manageable peaks, with fast-running streams in which to cool down.
As the week progresses we relax and, in the still cool evenings, strangers become holiday confidantes. We agree it has been a worthwhile trip, although one that it would have been better to attempt outside the summer months, when walking conditions are cooler.
Looking out across the lush valleys and beyond the peaks where the sun is rapidly exiting the day, the place takes on a spiritual calm, epitomised by the phlegmatic Mohammed.
While we struggle to find our footing on the scree and stumble and miss our step, this mountain man seems to glide effortlessly just above the terrain.
His presence is quiet and becalming and in the evenings he joins our group, patiently answering our questions about his way of life which, in contrast to ours, seems narrow but certain. One built on an unquestioning faith and family.
And humility in the face of such a vast and awesome mountainous backdrop.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Exodus (http://www.exodus.co.uk tel: 020 8675 5550) offers an eight-day 'Atlas Panorama' walking holiday.
A maze of alleys
This is a town where everything works at half speed. The townsfolk while away the hours in the shaded Cafe de France, sipping glasses of sweet mint tea. When it's time for lunch, they saunter to the seafront where the local catch is grilled over coals.
In the harbour, shipwrights build fishing skiffs, much as they did in Payton's day - and probably Drake's as well. Hidden under the ramparts, craftsmen carve fabulous chess sets from the knotty thuja wood that grows locally.
The town's souks are interconnected by a maze of alleys, many of which run underneath people's homes. The poorest quarter has long been the mellah, where locally born Jews once lived in squalid conditions.
'There is much garbage of various degrees of foulness,' wrote a horrified Payton, 'thrown everywhere with a charming abandon'.
The Jews have long since departed but the mellah is still the dirtiest quarter in town. It's also the most traditional.
Here, you will still see women in cream coloured haiks, a top-to-toe garment that leaves no part of the body exposed. In the half-light of evening, they flit like phantoms through the shadowy alleys.
Payton soon discovered that life as Her Majesty's consul was far from onerous. 'I am the consul of the Great White Queen over yonder,' he would tell his bewildered Moroccan friends, yet his official duties consisted of little more than reading a daily sermon sent by the Bishop of Bedford.
The rest of his time was spent fishing for sea bream and collecting turtles in rock pools by the harbour. Payton was passionate about fishing and wrote his experiences in a weekly column for Field magazine.
He also liked to track wild boar in the grassy dunes. He went with his beloved mastiff, Caesar, which would collect the sandpipers and turtledoves that fell prey to his gun.
Shooting was so popular that the British ex-pat community built a vast hunting lodge in the nearby dunes. These days, it's nothing more than a shell - the roofs have long since crashed through worm-eaten timbers.
Staircases lead to nowhere and acres of stucco cling precariously to the crumbling brick. It must have been quite magnificent in its heyday, when guests sipped champagne as the sun sank into the Atlantic.
I was told about the hunting lodge by Joseph Sebag, one of the few Jews still living in the town. A former New York trader, who was born in Essaouira, Sebag has returned to run a small brocante.
Although he's too young to remember the time of the Great White Queen, his mother and grandmother told him stories from the good old days.
'The merchants were always finely dressed,' says Sebag, 'especially in the evenings, when they went for their promenade.'
The British Mission had the only piano in town and many of the Jewish girls had lessons there. 'Each week there was a masked ball. My mother said that the girls would look forward to the ball with great excitement.'
Five hadn't gone mad
The food, cooked by a 17-year-old boy, was wonderful. At lunchtime we would stop under the shade of a struggling Biblical thorn or the luxurious spread of an oasis palm and Idrid, the smiling 23-year-old senior Berber whom we all wanted to take home, would bring us mint tea. Later the meal would arrive - couscous, scrummy dishes made with pulses, lamb kebabs, tomato salad and flat bread baked on a hot stone.
We slept or read for an hour before the afternoon trek and would arrive at our night camp a couple of hours before dusk to find the tents erected by the advance party.
One of us clutching Jenny's bottle of Jack Daniel's, we would climb up a sand dune to enjoy an unrivalled sunset and make up joke messages to send to our families: 'Crossed the Algerian border by mistake. Prison cell really quite comfortable. Trekking has built up our muscles so much they had to let out our leg irons.'
It seemed hilarious at the time. By then it was time for delicious supper washed down with the delicious fruity Moroccan red we'd brought with us.
Bedtime. Annie and I slept under the sparkling night sky while the others preferred the tent. One freezing morning my dream turned very odd as I woke to the deafening sound of a camel urinating for a steady minute, about 6ft from my head.
When Richard Lawson appeared - which he did frequently, his camel loping out of the horizon - we found our leader had gone native in full blue-and-gold costume, right down to the pointy babouches on his feet. Inevitably we called him Lawrence and threatened to enter the next oasis village as his harem, roped together behind the camels.
On the last night in the desert, a car came bumping over the sand. Out tumbled musicians, weird instruments and female dancers. I had fun drumming with the band while my friends improvised a very uninhibited dance and imitated the singer's ululations. These were the photos we didn't show our families.
For me, the off-road return to Marrakesh was great. There was some point in being in an uncomfortable four-wheel-drive if you were rattling up mountain tracks and emergency-braking for a herd of goats. And off-road was the only way to get to the extraordinary abandoned palace at Telouet.
Despite nights so cold that you daren't move, we all agreed the trek had exceeded our expectations. The five hadn't gone mad, but they'd had their adventure.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
British Airways (0845 7733377) offers return flights from London to Marrakesh. Details on Yallah - Specialist Moroccan tours call 020 8248 5548, e-mail yallahmorocco@hotmail.com or visit www.yallahmorocco.com
Mint tea and Mechoui
Mounting the steps, we were greeted by a little band of Berbers beating drums and covering us with rose petal water. I was handed a bouquet, not quite sure why I deserved it - perhaps having ridden a mule and arrived safely.
We were hosted by Chris and Mike McHugo, directors of Discover Limited which owns this old Kasbah. We also learnt more of the mystic culture of the Berbers who traditionally have not paid taxes, nor received state benefits.
One tradition I fancied happens in September when the women in the village of Imibtil meet in the market place to choose the man they wish to marry!
For lunch we had mechoui - lamb cooked whole in a mud oven. They drop an entire lamb through a hole into an upturned earthen beehive-shaped oven. The result - delicious.
After lunch we set off for a journey along even higher criss-crossing narrow mule tracks. Then our two Range Rovers came to gather us up and take us down the valley to La Roseraie, a hotel wrapped in peaceful seclusion within half-an-hour from our Kasbah.
La Roseraie is well worth a visit and after sitting in the warm afternoon sun sipping mint tea, we drove back to the Kasbah. As we rounded the final bend the light radiated from our castle - it seemed on fire with the many flickering candles.
After a swim and shower, we all gathered around a large log fire, sipping Moroccan wine, tired but utterly content.
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| | | | Plump-faced angels
Sebag has many mementos from Payton's time. He shows me Manchester bills of exchange and old daguerreotypes of stiff-looking Victorian patriarchs. Mogador's European gentlemen are invariably portrayed in tweed hunting-gear, sporting rifles and accompanied by gun-dogs.
While many prospered in Mogador, those who succumbed to sickness or disease were interred in the Consuls' Cemetery. The burial ground has seen better days.
There are crosses and weathered headstones, weeping cherubs and plump-faced angels.
I rip ivy from the stones and find myself among friends and colleagues of Payton. Here's Theodor Brauer, 'Kaiserlich Deutscher Vice Consul'. And here's Senor Don Antonio Fierro y Cruz, 'Consul de Espana'.
Many tombs belong to babies and infants; as I clear the foliage from one headstone, my heart jumps. It belongs to Beatrice Vera, 'daughter of Charles Alfred Payton, Her Britannic Majesty's Consul'. The poor girl was just 10 months old when she died.
When I poke my head into the dilapidated Chapel of Rest, I get an even bigger surprise. There on the shelf, awaiting an occupant, lies a diminutive baby's coffin. It must have been there for almost a century.
In the 19th Century, Mogador's most illustrious inhabitants were Jewish. The father of British Prime Minister, Benjamin Disraeli once lived in Mogador. So did Leslie Hore Belisha, the British Home Secretary in the Thirties who gave his name to the Belisha beacon.
As the Victorian era came to a close, Mogador was heading into decline. The Moroccan sultan was besieged on all fronts, and Mogador was threatened by Berber chieftains.
In 1906, a chieftain called Caid Anflous fought off the town garrison and swept into Mogador, accompanied by 200 horsemen.
As they blasted their Winchester rifles, the terrified townsfolk hid in their houses. Caid Anflous pillaged without mercy, ordering the richest Jews to hand over their silver.
The distraught merchants were unable to resist. The attack spelt the end of the good days and the European population soon melted away.
When France took over Morocco just six years later, her Resident-General, Marshal Lyautey, found the town empty and windswept. He decided to make Casablanca the centre of French colonial commerce.
Under the protectorate, Essaouira fell into obscurity and was almost unknown to the outside world when, in 1949, Orson Welles came here to film Othello.
Skiing with the Berbers
The next morning from my window I could see the sun rising beyond the snow-capped mountains. Donning ski outfits, we set off for a day on the slopes, first alighting in our local market town of Asni - a fascinating milling mass of Berbers jostling as they sold their wares. For the equivalent of less than £1 we thought it prudent to take a guide who helped us haggle for the best prices.
He also pointed out the sights, including the veterinary corner where every 15 days or so the mules - which the Berbers call their Mercedes - have their hooves shod in home-made, hand-beaten iron shoes.
It is a two-hour drive - although if young and fit it is possible to walk over the mountain - to the ski resort of Ockmaiden. So we headed across the plains of Ourika to the slopes where an oasis of white snow lay before us. At 10,312ft, it is possible to ski from November to April. Not quite like St Moritz, but for less than £20 you can hire ski gear and passes.
As the rest of my party were advanced skiers, they were off to explore the six runs. Never having skied, I was left with Maurice, a Berber instructor, but after two major falls I gave up and enjoyed the hot sun instead. While I waited for the others I watched the Berbers with their woolly hats and brown faces, the children on toboggans - and not another tourist in sight.
Brahim had suggested we had a picnic lunch, and to my astonishment to one side of the resort we found a long table laid for ten. Suddenly Hassan from the Kasbah appeared in his golden waistcoat, turban and white breeches (the Raj all over again!) and out of nowhere served us hot chicken, salad and fruit.
No need for ski lifts here - mules take you as high as your purse runs. Finally, sunburnt, well exercised and happy, we left the pink and mauve haze of the mountains, passing groups of Berbers strolling home. All of them dressed colourfully, as though their clothes had been snatched out of a dressing-up box - scarves, long, full cotton skirts, socks and sandals.
Dotted along the roadside were stalls selling eggs, mint tea and goodness knows what else. Unable to resist, we stopped at one selling carpets, trinkets, pottery and fossils, before arriving back for a swim in the indoor pool.
We changed into kaftans and jalabans for dinner, and later sipped cool Moroccan wine lounging in front of a roaring log fire. Then, one by one we drifted off to the fabulous individually designed bedrooms, tired but longing for another day.
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| | | | Best job in the world
It was a fiasco that almost ended in disaster. His Italian backers went bankrupt and he was left having to improvise: 'Sixty people! No costumes, no money, no return tickets, nothing!' he wrote.
But the local townsfolk pitched in, making armour from sardine tins and acting as extras. Welles was delighted and later said he'd experienced 'one of the happiest times I've ever known'.
When the film was screened in Essaouira, the then Crown Prince of Morocco was so impressed that he renamed the principal square, Orson Welles Square.
Essaouira's brush with Europe's hippies was less happy. In the Sixties, Jimi Hendrix and Cat Stevens came here, attracting a large band of doped-out groupies.
Jimi Hendrix's song, Castles Made Of Sand, was inspired by the ruins of an old fort on the foreshore. This wistful spot had been one of Consul Payton's favourite hideaways: 'an ancient Portuguese fort,' he wrote, 'falling in and crumbling to pieces like an exceeding rotten old Stilton cheese.'
Essaouria has, in recent years, seen a new influx of rich Europeans, drawn by the easy-going lifestyle. One of these newcomers is Jack Oswald, a Swiss-German entrepreneur who owns a string of holiday apartments.
When I tell him about Payton and the British consulate, he starts to chuckle. 'The British consulate,' he says '. . . why, I live in it.'
Oswald bought the place from some American hippies who lived there in the Sixties. 'It was in a terrible state,' he says, 'the floors were broken and windows shattered'.
He leads me up on to the roof of the conical tower. 'See that flagpole,' he says. 'That's where Charles Payton used to raise the Union Jack.'
It was one of the few duties that Payton had to perform each day. As he stood on the rooftop, saluting the flag, he must have congratulated himself on landing the best job in the world.
TRAVEL DETAILS:
Best of Morocco (tel: 01380 828533) offers tailor-made holidays to Morocco. For more information about Jack Apartments, call 00 212 44475538.
Walnuts on the golf course
I loved the early mornings, sitting on Luciano's self-designed swing seat, Brahim having brought me a glass of fresh orange juice. I also relished the pure morning air. Today my little party divided up - half went off to the souk in Marrakech, the other to the D'Amelkis golf course.
After 18 holes of careering over the well-kept fairways in our buggies, we had lunch on the terrace. It was the perfect temperature for golf and with lots of sun we laughed our way round.
There is another golf course close by - The Golf Royal - which is kept private when the King is in residence, otherwise well worth a visit. Orange, walnut, lemon or date trees line each fairway.
We were glad to arrive back at our starlit castle in the mountain after the bustle of the souk and the golf, and more shopping. Having swum, we enjoyed drinks and dinner to the sound of the mullah calling in the valley below.
It was sad the weekend was over, but we were looking forward to returning for another long weekend in the Atlas Mountains. Perhaps next time to go horse riding at Ourgane, hiking at Jbal Toubkal, mountain biking, rafting or just fishing in the glorious lakes.
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| | Available rental properties in Morocco |
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| |  | | Darsal
Beautiful spacious Riad on a quiet street in heart of the old medina of Essaouira. Ideal for couples, families or groups. LOG FIRES THROUGHOUT FOR WINTER BREAKS
|  | | Chez Rebecca, Essaouira, Morocco
Light, airy and stylish rooftop apartment with panoramic views of Essaouira's histoiric medina and the Atlantic Ocean.
|  | | El Cherqui
El Cherqui is a two hundred year old house on a hill with an fantastic views.It has been featured in many style magazines & books.Car essential but not suitable for children.
|  | | Apartment Simoom
A delightful modern apartment three minutes stroll from the centre of Essaouira's famous beach.
|  | | 'Chez Nicola' Apartment
'Chez Nicola' is a beautiful and charming self-catering 2nd floor apartment in the heart of the ancient medina of Essaouira.
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