Marrakech

Tangier is not Morocco and neither is Marrakech but perhaps they provide something of a flavour of the country and we would like to think it is more Marrakech than Tangier.

We have arrived in Marrakech on the sleeper from Tangier on time and enter a brand new railway station almost identical to Tangier. We are whisked by people carrier to the modern airport along wide avenues and the only things that tell us we are very much in North Africa are the camels grazing on the grass verge and the traffic. Drivers in Morocco usually drive on the right, sometimes on the left and often down the middle all of which results in an exciting journey and will make crossing the road an interesting challenge – who will give way first?

We wait nervously for the Ryanair flight from Luton to land and wonder if our children and their partners will recognise us after our time away. When they appear they seem to know who we are and we all clamber into the car for the journey to the Riad Zalia (check out the web site www.zaliaretreats.com and consider it if you come this way).

As we enter the old town through one of the gates in the old walls we leave the modern French built city and go back 900 years. This is a place of narrow alleys, donkey carts, bicycles and numerous scooters and mopeds. Our car cannot take us to the riad as the main street can only accommodate cars in the early mornings before the stall holders and shop keepers open up and crowd the way with their goods. In any case, the riad is in a narrow back alley only wide enough for 2 people to walk side by side so we pull our suitcases the few hundred metres to the door of the riad walking between the high walls of the adjoining properties. People had told us of the oasis of calm that exists behind these walls and it is true, one minute you are in the hustle and bustle of a city avoiding the endless mopeds and the calls of the stall holders and the next you in the peace and quiet of your own space with only the sound of trickling water, the centre of every Islamic garden.

At the riad we are greeted with fresh orange juice and then given a tour of the three floors. Kitchen, dining room and lounge on the ground floor, three bedrooms on the first and a terrace and plunge pool on the second all built around a large courtyard that remains cool in the hottest of weather. The whole is decorated in a clean contemporary style with en suite shower rooms in black tiling with huge shower heads much to the delight of the lads. The rooms have been left with the Moroccan shape, narrow with very high ceilings and day beds are provided on the terrace and in the courtyard. We are not sure the plungepool is traditional but very welcome even at this time of year. The riad has been renovated by two young English men who obviously have a flair for it and it looks to provide a very comfortable stay. Everyone approves.

After unpacking we venture out for something to eat and are immediately faced with the challenge that will greet us each time we leave the riad – which way do we go? Being in the Medina and on the edge of the area occupied by the souks we are fortunate to be able to enjoy the real atmosphere of Marrakech but the alleys all look the same and we will get lost many times but rarely admit it. Although we have many offers from boys to show us the way and endless requests to view the contents of the stalls we press on to the main square and find a place to eat lunch – Moroccan style – couscous and tagines before we head back to the riad (only one wrong turn) and head for the terrace to sunbathe and relax.after the children’s early start and our twelve hour ferry and train journey from Spain. There is something of a heatwave and we have temperatures in the high 20’s and expected to hit 30.

In any Moslem country one thing that you will always remember are the calls to prayer. In Marrakech we were in hearing distance of six or seven mosques. The five calls each day, broadcast over speakers placed at the top of each minaret, were not perfectly timed and so we experienced this wave of noise that rang out round the city for a few minutes every few hours from dawn to dusk. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I can imagine the concerns that might be expressed in our own village if the bells were rung with such regularity. If we were out in the markets at the time of a call there was an increase in activity as the devout made their way to and from prayer.

The week unfolded in much the same way with mornings spent sight seeing or exploring and the afternoon put aside to sunning, relaxing and catching up – just perfect as all four had come from busy jobs in the UK and were ready to re-charge their batteries.

We made a visit to the night market when the ???? square takes on a magical atmosphere and where you can sit on benches (very Harvest Supper) and enjoy hot food from any one of the 100 or so stalls that set up each evening and are gone again by daybreak. The service was frenetic and the food was tasty and the stall holders competed to attract us to their stall – “this is not any food – this is Marks and Spencer food”!! John ended up sitting next to a couple of students, John and Jimmy, from the North of England. They were heading back to the UK the next day after spending their Easter holidays hitching down to the Morocco as part of a charity event to raise money for third world projects, they had had an amazing time in the Berber villages. Margaret had already met up with other students on the train who were on a similar mission.

We spent time in the labyrinth that is the souks (each of which specialises in a different activity – metal work, leather, spices, shoes, dying of wool and silk). Having made a purchase we were given a tour of the dyer’s souk where work was in progress and then onto the upper floor to look out over the workshops and the hanks drying in the sun. Margaret was bursting to take photos of the work but, as with other parts of the city, the photographing of people was frowned upon. The souks seem to go on forever and the narrowness of the alleys means that everything is either transported by handcart or donkey cart, raw materials, building materials and finished goods.

Marrakech is not rich and there are many trying to earn a living any way they can. There is the guy who takes the leaves off the oranges before they go on the juice stall, the women who sell small handmade biscuits from trays in the square, the guy who buys a pack of 20 cigarettes and then splits the pack to sell them singly on street corners. There is a feeling of pride in the city that seemed to be missing in Tangier, the streets are kept clean and although the stall holders were insistent they were never aggressively so. The feeling in the Medina was of excitement rather than concern over possible threats.

Margaret, Rachel and Emilie decided that a hammam was in order. Apparently this involved being hosed down, covered in warm black soap and left to marinade. Then the feared exfoliating mitt was brought out (no-one expects the Moroccan mitt!!!) and all three were mercilessly scrubbed from head to toe. A second hosing and black mud was applied and the room turned into steam bath for 20 minutes before another hosing, a massage and a mint tea. They arrived back at the riad looking simply gorgeous and with supplies for the same treatment when they get back home – Karcher at the ready!

We met up with some old friends from the UK and Canada who were passing through Marrakech as part of a guided tour of Morocco. It was good to catch up and in the two hours we managed to take them around some of the markets and show them some of the sights of the square – mainly snake charmers in the morning – before they headed off to the Atlas and Fez. We visited the gardens of the ????? mosque and took a walk around the city walls which are still much in evidence. We left by one gate and entered by another and strolled though a market area which has a very local feel to it and where meat and vegetables were being sold.

We saw the museum of Marrakech housed in a fabulous building in Andalucian style where there was an exhibition of photographs of the city from the later 19th and early 20th century – little had changed except for the lack of tourists. We visited a recently excavated washhouse, the Almoravid Koubba built in 1117, the base of which is now 10 or 15 feet below street level and provided showers and toilets for a long gone mosque.

The La Majorelle gardens bought and restored by Yves St Laurent were an oasis of calm (apart from the many tourists that visit) but provided stunning colours.

John needed a hair cut and visited a barber near the riad. Some said he was a Berber barber and only barbered Berbers but without a common language John received an excellent hair cut from a guy whose attention to detail was absolute so that no stray hair was allowed to escape the attention of his scissors, cut throat razor and clippers. Ok! Ok! Please insert your own jokes on the subject of baldness here.

As this trip is part of our anniversary celebrations the children insist on treating us to a meal at Le Fondouk which turned out to be a very swanky restaurant. It took some finding but after a couple of wrong turns we got there and were treated to some the best food and service we had while in the city on a terrace next to the ??? mosque.

Monday came too soon and after an early start, the children were dropped for the Luton flight and we to the station for 9am train to Tangier. The weather had become cloudy and we headed north over the plains with occasional ranges of hills. In our compartment are a young French couple who sleep all the way to Rabat, and a German couple, just arrived in the country, who were starting their tour of Morocco in Rabat. The train, made steady progress and is on time as we hit the Atlantic coast and the industrial outskirts of Casablanca and Rabat before heading East inland towards Fez.

Most of the country is under grass and cereal crops and we see the occasional settlement of mud brick as well as passing through white towns which look run down. Rubbish seems to be dumped on the outskirts which means that much of the landscape is dotted with the cursed plastic bag, in the fields and hanging on thorn bushes. This is an agricultural country and the herds of sheep, goats and cattle whether numbering one or 100 animals are always accompanied by one or more herdsmen. .

Finally by mid-afternoon we reach Sidi Kacem where we leave the Fez train and pick up the Tangier express thirty minutes later. This time we sit with locals a grandmother, mother and daughter (3 or 4 years old). As Margaret, gran and mother doze little girl gets bored and requires John to take part in a variety of games involving hiding and finding her watch, clicking fingers and blowing in ears. John, grandfather material if ever there was, obliges.

We arrive back at the coast and follow it up to Tangier to arrive on time and to the usual hassle of taxi drivers. Every one is on the make from the guy who jumps in our taxi for a free ride, to the ticket inspector at the port who wants money for a coffee. The good news is that the previous ferry was late and so we can hop on the gangplank and we are off and back in Spain within 30 minutes and in the campsite by 8pm (Moroccan) 10pm (Spanish) time.

The van is safe and sound but the campsite empty having been deserted by the Semana Santa holiday makers.

Tarifa – Sun, Sea and Sand

We have had three days in Tarifa. On Thursday we walked the 6 km into Tarifa along the beach and picked up tickets for the fast ferry to Tangier. Walking there at low tide the beach was deserted apart from a few fishermen but walking back we saw from distance that the wind had encouraged the surfers out and as the tide came in their kites were whipping across the beach. Despite the shadows of kites that fell across our path there were no collisions and we could see these surfers were very experience managing to avoid each other and those of us walking the beach as they criss-crossed the waves. On Friday the wind died and whilst there were a lot of frustrated surfers we were able to enjoy a day on the beach in the peaceful conditions. The wind returned on Saturday but we found a sheltered spot and could continue to enjoy the beach and watch the surfers in action.

Sunday was the end of the holiday week in Spain and, along with many on the campsite, we packed a suitcase, locked the van and left the site to catch the ferry for Tangier and the train to Marrakech.

Tarifa to Tangier and Marrakech

The modern ferries run every 2 hours and provide a fast and efficient link between Tarifa and Tangier. Arriving at the port 35 minutes after our departure we disembarked and were immediately surrounded by groups of men offering their services as guides and taxi drivers. We had agreed that we would head straight for the railway station to try and make sure we could get couchette tickets and hoped for a left luggage store where we could leave our bags and then spend some hours sight-seeing. As we entered the port buildings we were approached by one of the “official” tourist office guides offering us a tour led by Hassan, a small chap in his fifties who spoke English with an American accent and wore a white kaftan and bright yellow slippers . He promised to organise us couchettes on the overnight train and sort out our tickets (which cannot be booked from outside of Morroco). John, took to Hassan and his patter, agreed a price and accepted the offer. Hassan summoned a taxi driver, we loaded the luggage into a battered taxi and were off. Margaret, somewhat discomforted by this turn of events whispered “are you sure you are happy about this? Do you know what you are doing?”.

John was fairly sure he knew what he was doing and as it tuned out Hassan had a pleasant manner which John found more and more endearing. Margaret continued to feel uncertain. Our bags were unloaded into the “consigne” and we set off on foot through the Kasbah and the Medina – Margaret’s stomach was in something of a knot. Hassan explained that he had broken his back when young, which accounted for his small stature, and was full anecdotes to amuse us. His favourite phrases included “lovely jubbly”,”take a shufty” so heaven only knows where he was taught his American English. He had a sister living in Acton, W3, and was interested to learn about our family, our ages and what we did for jobs (ha, ha).

The difference in culture between Spain and Morocco is significant and you do feel you are somewhere rather different. There is much poverty and so there are plenty of people wanting earn a few dirhams and the level of hassle is high. Many houses do not have water and so this was being drawn from taps in the streets and we passed a number of bake houses where dough was brought each day by local women to be baked into bread. The lanes were narrow and the medieval buildings hung out over them letting in little light, they were rubbish strewn and quite crowded with many men sitting around chatting but pausing only to watch our passage. Buildings were dilapidated except where Europeans had moved in and “prettied them up” in Hassan’s words.

Hassan pointed out buildings of interest with his specialist subjects seeming to revolve around famous Americans and Europeans who had lived or stayed and films that had been made in the town. We saw the 600 year old magnolia which was the size of a large oak and must have looked magnificent in bloom.

As we toured the souks I could understand Margaret’s concern as, although she was modestly dressed, it was she that drew attention and was stared at by the men. Hassan seemed to know and be known by many people and was well received wherever we went. The final part of the tour was for Hassan to take us to a few shops where he had friends who were only too willing to sell us slippers and carpets and he also include a pharmacy where were given a lecture by the pharmacist on spices and herbal remedies. We purchased a remedy to cure snoring which in a confined space, like a van, can be the ruination of even a good marriage.

True to his word, Hassan took us to the station and, even when the train was declared full, got us couchettes (the booking clerk was a good friend of his!!). We paid up and bid him farewell. Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. Unfortunately this feeling did not last long as she was soon accosted at the station by a guy wanting to practice his English with her – she refused!

Tangier has a new railway station which remains underused – while we were there (6 hours) 2 trains arrived and one left. At these times the concourse was crowded but for the rest of the time there was not much for the 3 or 4 ticket clerks and 4 or 5 buffet staff to do. We can confirm that the buffet serves the best panini and fries we have tasted for some years and we were greatly impressed by the station master who kept one eye on the platform and one on the ticket office to make sure that even latecomers were able to buy a ticket and catch the train before he would let it leave.

Eventually our train was ready to leave and we were allowed onto the platform to find our couchettes – two top bunks in a four berth compartment and French schoolboy reading Voltaire below. As we spent the next 11 hours rattling south we were very comfortable and even slept. Rising around 7am we watched from the train windows as we passed through the plains north of Marrakesh, already green with ripening cereals and dotted with the odd farmstead with its herd of sheep or goats. Arriving at Marrakesh on time were picked up by Mustapha and taken to the airport to meet our family before heading for the riad that will be our home for the next week.

Cadiz and Tarifa

We left Seville on Wednesday morning intending to have a few hours in Cadiz before heading on to Tarifa where we would spend a few days preparing for our trip to Morocco and where we would leave the van for the week we were away.

The journey across the flat plains South of Seville was uneventful but as we drove into Cadiz we were reminded that this week is a holiday week for many in Spain and Cadiz was very busy. We aimed for the old city hoping to get some feeling for the history surrounding the place which might claim to be the oldest city in Europe having been founded by the Phoencians in 1100BC. It is probably better known for being the jumping off point for a couple of Columbus’s voyages to the New World in the 15th century after he had discovered (actual found something that was already well known to others) it in his first voyage and for where Drake singed the king of Spain’s beard in the 16th century.

As if in retaliation for this last act we were unable to find anywhere to park our British van and so had to come out again and park up some 3 or 4 miles from the old town from where we could, at least, enjoy the brisk air coming off the North Atlantic. Yes after six weeks we had reached the Atlantic again and it looked just like it should – breakers crashing against white sand in brilliant sunshine.

After a short stop we took the meandering coast road to Tarifa aong the Costa de la Luz. This is surfers paradise and the number of vans increased dramatically at each town and village we passed they were parked up while their occupants enjoyed the water sport that was offer.

Arriving at Tarifa we chose our spot (with a sea view) settled in, decided the place would be ideal to leave the van in relative security and prepared a late lunch on the bar-b-que surrounded by young familys enjoying a holiday with mum – dad seemed to be absent. In the late afternoon we went off the check the beach. We were unprepared for what we found. Friends had told us that this was a popular spot for surfing but as we looked long the 6km between us and Tarifa the sky was filled with surfkites and the sea was awash with windsurfers. This is where the missing dads were to be found.

We agreed that the campsite had a great family atmosphere a that it is was nice to have the youngsters around – all very Cornwall in July or August.

Superb Sevilla

The first assault on our senses and what we will always remember about Sevilla is the scent of orange blossom. The centre of the city is full of open spaces, wide avenues, parks and gardens and the trees are everywhere. We left our sensomatic camera in the UK and so you will have to make do with colour photos but if you spray the room with orange blossom scent before reading on then you will get the idea.

We chose to be here at this time, Semana Santa, so that we could catch some of the festivities and parades that start on Palm Sunday and continue each afternoon/evening through Holy Week until Easter Sunday – we were not to be disappointed.

On Palm Sunday the clocks changed and so we missed the bus we planned to take and did not get into the city until midday had to change our plans accordingly but all worked out for the best. The bus brought us in from the South and we came along a wide avenue with gardens on both sides and Andalusian style villas along the way.

This would be the first of three days in the city and so we decided explore the city on foot to get our bearings and then hoped to see a procession or two. Sunday is always a popular day for the Spanish to get together with family and so it was not surprising to see family groups walking around but this was Holy Week and attracts massive crowds. The centre was buzzing with the locals dressed in their Sunday best (literally) enjoying the sun and waiting for their friends and family to appear in a procession. We passed the cathedral where rows of seating had been arranged for the crowds to watch the final stages of each procession and passed through a number of squares with café tables and the inevitable orange trees before arriving at the Museo de Bellas Artes where we were able to see works by local artists mainly from the 17th century and a special exhibition of Murillo’s paintings on religious themes – of he more later! The plaza outside of the museum is taken over by local artists on a Sunday selling their works of art – as many styles as artists.

During this week a number of brotherhoods will proceed to the cathedral from their local church starting in the afternoon and evening. The route is carefully planned and the timing arranged so that they do not interfere with each other and arrive in sequence at the cathedral from early evening until late night. They pass through the cathedral and then return to their churches. Each procession has the same format, a band leads two lines of costumed supporters, clothed in the traditional pointed headdresses and long capes (only God knows their identity) - the most contrite go barefoot and carry crosses. Then comes the first “paso” a large sculptural representation of events from Christ’s passion which can weigh up to 2 tons and is carried by teams of 40 bearers. Its weight means that the procession halts regularly so that the bearers can change over. The paso is followed by a second band, more penitents and then a second paso showing the Virgin Mary, a third band and supporters and members of the church. These are large processions which meander along the narrow streets of the city, they can include up to 2500 costumed followers and so can take up to an hour to pass. We found it very interesting to observe the veneration of the paso by some of the crowd but found it difficult to reconcile this with the casual attitude adopted by other of the supporters.

On Monday we had set aside the day for a visit to the Cathedral but we stopped on the way to look at the tobacco factory which is now part of the university. The previous day we had seen paintings of the gloomy interior dating from the early 20th century and it was here that Carmen worked in Bizet’s opera. John has some experience of tobacco factories having work at WD&HO Wills at Bedminster during summer vacation from university. The women depicted in the paintings were making cigarettes at tables in dingy rooms and enjoying the banter. It reminded him of the fear and trepidation with which he would enter these rooms at Wills where a young student was always fair game as a butt for their jokes!!

The factory today does not allow smoking and the grand entrance which hid the working conditions in the other parts of the factory was again reminiscent of the situation at Wills where grand marble entrance halls gave way to the dark dungeons of the tobacco stores.

We arrived at the cathedral and took audio guides as we have decided that these are good value and enhance the value of this type of visit significantly. The building, which took over 70 years to complete, was finished in 1507 and was intended to get the reaction from all who saw it that the planners were mad (“let us create such a building that future generations will take us for lunatics”). One must admire the work that has gone into creating this magnificent building that is now one of the largest cathedrals in the world. It has many highly decorated chapels which surround the choir and main alter and our old friend Murrillo must have spent many years providing much of the artwork. We still think the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona would be our favourite cathedral. Although not finished, the lack of opulence sits more easily with us.

The cathedral was built on the site of a mosque and the original minaret, La Giralda, still survives and allowed us great views across the city from the bell tower at the top. As we looked out heavy rain was lashing down but by the time we had descended and walked out into the patio of oranges, where Muslims would prepare before entering the mosque, the rain had stopped.

Dodging the puddles, we made a circuit of the centre and finished by walked along the river and came back into the Plaza San Sebastián with its fountain and benches where we could picnic, people watch and enjoy an ice cream before setting off to find the afternoon procession. Following groups of people, some already dressed as penitents, and the sound of a band we eventually found what we were looking for and stood for an hour to watch it pass before heading home.

The bus we took was followed a slightly different route and wound through the industrial estates on its way to the campsite – this added time to the journey which was further extended when we were stopped for …….. not sure what really could be speeding, could be defective lights. In any case a familiar scene was played out with the Guardia Civil (traffic division) officer in full uniform, dark glasses and scowl requesting the pleasure of the company of the driver to answer a few questions!! Half an hour later and with a good ticking off he was allowed back onboard to drive us on our way.

Tuesday, our last day in Seville, had been set aside for the Alcázar, the residence of many caliphs and kings over 11 centuries. Built around a muslim fort dating from 913 the buildings have been much added to and modified by successive rulers and this is still used as the residence of the King and Queen of Spain when they are in Seville. The different styles of architecture and decoration are melded to provide a fascinating set of buildings. The many rooms were decorated with the familiar tiles and intricate plasterwork relief of the Muslim period, Mudéjar ceilings and later gothic influences. Running water and fountains were present in the cool courtyards built to alleviate the hot Seville summers. The palace also houses some superb 18th century tapestries depicting various battle scenes and one fascinating piece showing a map of Spain from the North to the African coast.

The large formal gardens with their orange trees and fountains are quite delightful and provide an opportunity to break the exploration of the building and picnic or sit and absorb what you have seen. One would never believe one was in the centre of a busy city and I think we will put this down as our favourite building we have seen so far.

A slow lunch and then off to find Casa de Pilatos, a fine example of a noble’s mansion or so the guide book says – we will never know as our way was blocked by a procession which completely filled the narrow Calle Acquillas. Never-the-less it provided us with our best experience so far of a procession with great views of the event and a real feeling of involvement as we stood with locals who were pleased to see us there and encouraged us to get a better look as the pasos came by. It is clear that the local neighbourhood gets right behind the event and the friendly and relaxed family atmosphere was there to be enjoyed by all.

An uneventful journey home brought an end to our time in Seville and I think we both agree that it has been our favourite city so far and that we will visit again at this time or later in April during the fiesta. Everyone we speak to seems to agree that Seville is a very special city made extra-special at this time of year. We do not feel we are able to do justice to the city in this blog and if you have visited then you will know what we mean – if you have not visited – GO!