Marrakech in March

It’s taken me longer than usual to write up this post. Due, I think, to the fact that Morocco seemed like too much of a different world to capture from the instant we landed back in London and sprinted, quite literally, for the last Stansted Express which whisked us back to reality. It’s hard to comprehend we were even there at all.

To what I can only attribute to the frequency illusion, it seemed that everyone was visiting Marrakech in the lead up to our trip. And I can totally understand why. As soon as we stepped foot in the country, via the city’s architecturally stunning airport, we were treated to a myriad of wonderful, memorable experiences. I cannot say for certain whether it was due to our trip coinciding with Eid but it really did seem like we were seeing the city at its best. 

Having browsed through hundreds of riads on booking.com, we settled on one which was positioned in one corner of the main square, Jemaa el-Fnaa, and thank goodness we did, for Marrakech is not the place for anyone who lacks a sense of direction. Google maps will only hamper your efforts, sending you down to dead ends or back to where you started. 

On day one, after some beautiful and highly tempting window-less window shopping in the souks, we joined a gentle stream of tourists who we assumed must also be heading towards the Jardin Majorelle and fell into step behind the walking rucksacks in front of us. The gardens had been recommended to me by everyone I knew so, perversely, I was sceptical. Created by French Orientalist artist Jacques Majorelle, and featuring a Cubist villa designed by French architect Paul Sinoir, it’s the epitome of an oasis. Vibrant flowers and verdant cacti line the Majorelle blue pathways. Tiny turtles sunbathe next to their giant frog cousins and huge orange fish glide beneath cartoon-like lily pads. We did some obligatory (ironic, I’d like to add) posing and sat on each and every brightly coloured bench. Even the doors dotted around the place were works of art and, had my luggage been more than the Ryanair handbag allowance, I would have happily taken one home with me. Time to raid Hobbycraft’s paint aisle perhaps. 

Back in the main square, we ventured down a street in the opposite direction to that of the gardens and found ourselves on a much quieter road, save for the constant chorus of motorbikes. We continued on, through the Mellah (Jewish quarter) and ended up at the huge Jewish cemetery which stretches out across the horizon and gives the impression of being on the edge of the world. 

Back in the square, the city had come alive as the dwindling dusk turned to a bright night. Long trestle tables appeared in the square, with touters inviting us to eat from their griddles, each stand offering the exact same fare. It was warm, buzzing and exciting. With minimal cash to our name, we found a card-accepting restaurant down one of the narrower souks. Above the unassuming door and steep staircase leading up from the street, was a balcony overlooking the square which lay a little way off. It was a slice of peace above the bustle of the city. We ate lamb skewers and chips and drank fresh orange juice with twirly straws. Death row meal right there. 

Up bright and early the next day, we joined a motley crew of tourists outside the Cafe de France and looked out for the number plate of our van which would take us to the Atlas mountains. All aboard and off we went, fighting sleep (I am unable to remain awake on any form of moving transport) to marvel at the views beyond the city walls. We stopped at one point along the high road to stretch our legs and admire the mountains. Back in the van, we continued to a women’s collective to see the process of making argan oil and the various cosmetic and edible items associated with it. We then set off on a hike/stroll/scramble up through apple blossom and past ‘natural fridges (cans of coke, fanta and sprite glistening beneath trickling streams). After about an hour, we arrived at a waterfall, resplendent in the spring sunshine, before commencing the walk back down and losing two of our group en route. 

Back at the base, with escapees returned, we sat down on cushions by the river to a traditional Moroccan lunch - steaming bowls of tagine and plates laden with chicken skewers were carried across a wobbly wooden bridge above us from restaurant over the road. It was bliss, near misses into the river aside. 

Tragically, the next day was our last. We spent it half in the Bahia Palace, another oasis in the hot city, and half back in the souks, buying slippers and plates and resisting the urge to smuggle the below kitten home with us.

And with that, our Marrakech adventure came to an end. But hopefully it will be the first of many Moroccan ones. I hear Fez is pretty cool…