When my original choice of destination for a December three night break was to go to one of the European Christmas markets, you could understandably ask how I ended up here in Marrakech, sipping mint tea on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

La Terrasse des épices

Unbeknown to me it was on my husband’s bucket list. So when it randomly popped onto my screen while I was searching for train times and hotels in Germany, my casual enquiry of ‘Fancy Marrakech instead?’ was met with such enthusiasm, who was I to deny the one I love his dream?

If you’ve never been to this part of the world it’s definitely the place to go for the experience. Forget any western world restraints; what lies ahead of you is complete madness. Chaos, crowds and confusion. This is a city where they want you to buy everything; even down to a piece of paper in the ladies’ loos.

Once ensconced in a taxi on the journey from the airport you quickly realise why the guide books don’t recommend you hire a car. There seems to be no rules, especially in the old city. Cars, mopeds, bicycles, horse drawn carriages and donkeys jostle for dominance through the narrow, pot-holed streets. And don’t think you’ll be safe on the pavement or looking the right way along a one-way street. You will need your wits about you or the young man driving his large, elderly relative perched on the back of his moped, carrying her huge packages, will be honking his shrill horn at you. That’s if the bony, weary donkey hasn’t forced you to take cover on the other side of a cart as he musters a final gallop, flinging his burden of oranges out like confetti.

‘Colored cottons hang in the air
Charming cobras in the square’

The place to head for is the Souks. Narrow alleyways of rows upon rows of stalls with pashminas, jewellery, shoes, handbags and metal work stacked high. Each vying for your attention. It’s not just the produce that draws you into its domain. Express the slightest interest in a lantern or necklace and you will be bombarded by the seller, keen to extract cash from you. My advice is barter and then barter some more.  It was a shame that on inquiring about the source of the goods we were told that they were mainly imported from India and beyond. You have to dig out the true artisans making their wares.

Spices Stall

 One place for this is the tanneries but only go if you have a strong constitution. Not even if you meet a man who professes to be ‘only showing, only showing’ because today is the ‘once’ auction day. You will find that all paths lead to the tanneries and once there you will be handed a large bunch of mint to place over your nose to disguise the stench. That’s after your ‘guide’ has insisted on extracting a large sum of money from you for the pleasure. Our local adopted us when we chanced to get the map out to check our bearings. From being ‘only friend, only friend’ in his insistence that he take us down an alleyway we quickly turned into ‘bloody tourists’ when we desisted.

Encouraged to venture into a women’s collective pharmacy where jars of potions to cure any aliment were stacked up along the walls like an old fashioned sweetshop, the white coated woman took one look at me. Selecting a small container and holding it up she extolled its benefits for the bags under my eyes. After inspecting me from every angle, if ever my husband wanted to swap me for a younger model now was the time as the evidence of my flaws were lined up in numerous small pots on the counter. Let’s just say her customer relations technique didn’t encourage me to buy as I feared with so many faults it was difficult to decide where to start.

Riad Alma

We found some havens of peace in this mad world. Our home for the short visit, Riad Alama, felt like discovering Hodgson Burnett’s secret garden. The fact that our taxi driver got lost getting there had done nothing to allay our fears of being led up the proverbial garden path. The entourage of local children who insisted on showing us the way made me feel like the pied piper. Keen to make money for their efforts they grabbed one of our bags and hurried off. Unfortunately we only had small change. Disgusted with the pittance on offer their leader threw it on the ground, shouting expletives at us. So when we arrived at the discreet brown wooden door it did little to show what was behind; friendly hosts, large comfortable beds with soft linen and delicious food.

Jardin Majorelle

A must see is the Jardin Majorelle.  A botanical garden where cactus meets culture. Formally owned by Yves Saint Laurent, the pools, streams and fountains covering a few acres create a haven of serenity providing many photo opportunities for even the most camera shy visitor. If you look on my Pinterest page you’ll see I seem to have a hankering for a cobalt blue pot.

Jardin Majorelle

I’ve breezed over the pungent stenches and engulfing fumes that confront you every time you venture onto the streets. These are the backbone of the city that can be endured or at least covered with large handfuls of mint. Even being woken before the birds by the call to prayer that resonates through the air, we still didn’t have time to visit the ruins or Royal Palace. But we did mange to get to the excellent Al Fassia for lunch. This restaurant, run entirely by women, served a lamb tagine not to be missed. On the way to the new city we strolled though the Jardin de la Koutoubia and after a day producing not many shopping bags but extremely weary feet, we lingered to watch the sun set over the Place Jemaa-el-Fna Square from the terrace of Café de France.

Place Jemaa-el-Fna

 Next year I have been promised it’s my turn to choose where we go. I might not drink copious amounts of mint tea there nor bask in warm winter sun but, fancy the Christmas markets anyone?

 Teresa x