June 6th: Slow train to Fes

Photos for June 6th: Essaouira to Fes

The alarm clock went off at a cruel and inhuman hour; we had purchased tickets to Fes. My aunt had it all planned, we would walk to Bab el Menzeh and catch a taxi the short distance to the Supratours office, near Bastion su Sud, for the 6.30am bus. No problem … until we reached Bab El Menzeh and ne’er a taxi was there in sight. We were told they don't start running until 7am… It was now 6.15am. Only one thing for it, sprint through the Place Orson Welles, past Bab Sbaa, through the gardens. I say sprint, but my friends know I don't run - although my kids claim they had to grow such long legs to keep up with my walking pace. As for my aunt, well, she’s a game old biddy, but I've seen snails outdo her. I grabbed the bags and set off, hoping against hope that the bus wouldn't leave early. Rounding the corner I could see the bus still there, motor running. A glance behind and my aunt was nowhere in sight! I ran into the ticket office, showed the tickets, went outdoors to plead to hold the bus, when she suddenly appeared. Yes! We were on our way to Fes, in 3 hours we would be in Marakesh.

It was still Ramadan, so at 7.30am the bus stopped for the driver to eat. Lo and behold, there was a stall flying a Union Jack, displaying pictures of mouth watering burgers, fish and chips … but, closed for Ramadan. I'm interested to see what changes take place after Ramadan.

I watched the countryside pass by. Looking forward to sights of the Atlas mountains, but we edged onto the motorway and sped on to Marakesh.

We disembarked, knowing we had 30 minutes to have some lunch and find the train before it departed. Thankfully the coach had deposited us right at the train station, no searching except for the platform number. No lunch. No food anywhere, except for the bread, boiled eggs and yogurts we'd had the foresight to pack.

The train station in Marakesh is lovely; clean, well organised, the employees friendly and helpful - even in a language they didn't know! The train was waiting at the platform … I love train rides, and this was going to be a long one! We boarded the train and, as with everything else when we travel, I let my aunt make the choices… because I refuse to get settled in one place then move to another. So, if we had to walk the length of the train to find a clean, unoccupied, compartment, then that's what we were going to do because we would be on this train for 8 hours.

Settled and comfortable in our compartment, the train slowly chugged its way out of the station. I hadn't had time to look at the route. I hadn't had time to check out the things to do in either Fes or Meknes… all I knew was ‘old medina.’ I was tired, grumpy, and facing backwards unable to take photos of the anticipated change in the countryside. But, we were once again on the move. Next stop Fes.

The countryside changed enormously as we headed almost due North, from Marakesh to Casablanca, from Sandy to lush green and plenty of agriculture. We passed through Casablanca, seeing the ocean in the distance, and continued northeast, along the coast, to Rabat. Public transportation reveals a lot about the communities it passes through. The commuters at Marakesh train station held a near 50/50 mix of European and Arabic clothing. Rabat could have been almost any European city; young, smart, jeans, dockers, cell phones glued to their ears … even the slow walk had been replaced by the rapid weaving those of us from big cities are used to. I'd love to explore this City. We stayed northeastward, towards Kenitra, wondering whether we were in Morocco or speeding through the English countryside; stone walls, fields of green vegetables and golden wheat. Our fellow commuters confirmed that we were not in England.

At Kenitra we turned Eastward, watching the homes become poorer, more sparse, with small cities or towns in the distance. Our fellow commuters definitely more Arabic than European. Meknes, where would be in a couple of days, and finally, Fes. I had done no research, I didn't know what to expect, but I knew I wanted a hotel to aim for and not just to direct the taxi driver to “the medina.” I finally made myself understood to my aunt, and we sat and looked though the usual - expedia, trip advisor … everything was booked! Finally, Riad Dar Guennoun. They had a room with 2 beds, and we could reserve it. I had asked about transportation at the ticket counter in the train station and was told that taxi fare to the medina should run around 10 dirham, and that there were no buses. I get the feeling that people assume we won't rough it on a local bus, how wrong they are!

The taxis wait in line outside the train station, much the same as anywhere else in the world … they all insisted the charge would be 50 dirham … “old part of medina, far away, is Ramadan.” Welcome to Fes! I seriously can't wait for Ramadan to end. I may celebrate with them.

The taxi driver wanted assurance that we had a reservation, as the Riad was not on a main street and someone would have to come out and get us. So our trip was conducted with me connecting to our hotspot, transmitting information to my aunt to translate into French for the driver to make phone calls in Arabic to the hotel staff, all while zipping around roundabouts. Welcome to Fes!

The taxi driver waited with us until the young male receptionist from the hotel came to meet us and walk with us to the hotel … just up these steps, and these steps, and around this corner and up these steps, to this street and up these steps and here is the hotel. We don't have a room at the rate you reserved, but we have another with 2 beds, just up these steps to the top of the riad. I should point out that the steps in the riad resemble those of old cathedrals; they are stone, steep, narrow, and spiral. And we had had a long day.

I told my aunt to stay put while the receptionist and I went all the way back down to fill out the papers and for me to get the wifi password. I would return and we could decide on dinner. As I began filling out papers, sure enough, there she was by my side! I summoned all that was left of my patience and asked whether she wanted to go out for dinner now, or return to the room and look through a map.  You guessed it, the answer was “yes.” I know this is my fault, I know I should have made a better attempt to learn French before my trip, but still, something inside me died. We walked out of the hotel, retraced our many steps to the street and sought a restaurant - because it was now well after 7.30pm, and food should be available for tired, hungry travelers.

We found the Cafe R’cif and were led to the elegant rooftop terrace where we ordered tea. Apparently that was the signal for the waiter to forget about us … more running up and down stairs to make it known that yes, we would like to eat. SOON. Two lamb tajines please …  Delicious as they were, they were consumed in stony silence.

During dinner we were approached by a young Italian woman, a student, wanting to know if we wanted to share a taxi to the airport the next day. She then told us about her hotel, a nearby riad, Riad la Source Bleue … at ground level… that included breakfast, was cheap and very clean.

You know what comes next, don't you? My aunt called the current riad to cancel our stay - although they had our bags. I found the Source Bleue online and made two reservations, one for 2 nights, the other for one night … just in case. We walked to the new riad to check that it was acceptable. I sat, firmly planted in the lobby, sending my aunt up the stairs to see the rooms. One of the two managers - both named Isham - accompanied us to the Riad Dar Guennon where we picked up our bags and then brought us safely home to the Riad de la Source Bleue. We ascended the steps to our room… only to discover that we had separate rooms, a salon separating the rooms with a balcony looking into the riad, and a bathroom with toiletries… all for a total of €30 per night, and that included breakfast!!!

A separate bedroom. Heaven! I don't remember if I wished my aunt a good night, but I remember closing the door, happy to be alone, at last.

June 4th - 5th: Lazy days, and fresh plans

June 4th - I woke up when the sun shone through the window and the birds sang their songs. Bright and early, refreshed after a proper nights’ sleep in a familiar bed. A shower; a long, hot, shower. That was the order of the day; wash the desert sand out of my hair, the saltwater from Legzira off my feet, and the grime of Agadir from my body. But the shower ran cold … the gas tank needed to be replaced! I had seen men driving carts full of gas tanks all over the medina, but hadn't questioned from where our hot water came! Aziz, my aunt’s handyman, was called; gas tank exchanged, two clean females vaguely resembling human beings emerged. Now for our clothes … I couldn't face the task of hand washing the collective grime from my clothes, and my shoes were in desperate need of a good machine wash - with the hottest water possible, bleach, extra detergent, any and all measures to return them to a wearable state. My items were going to the laundry, no matter the expense!

Over breakfast my aunt casually asked if I could access a train or bus schedule to Fes. My computer has not been fixed, but I have the world at my fingertips on my phone… Why, yes, there is a bus from Essaouira to Marakesh which conveniently connects to the train to Fes. Yes. In the abstract, the trip is do-able.

My aunt does not have a smart phone. I am sure she thinks I spend too much time on my phone: journaling in a word doc then uploading to my blog; captioning photos; creating photo albums;  keeping up with floodplain management and disaster risk management articles, news, and conferences; posting collages of our day and keeping track of friends on FB; writing reviews on Trip Advisor; following colleagues on LinkedIn; making notes of the the things I want to do and see … but I think she's also a little envious of all I seem to accomplish.

We took our laundry to the “pressing” in the medina. They provide a 1-hour rush service, or a 3-hour regular service, and charge by the kg. They wash, dry, and, if so desired, iron your items. They took our clothes, raised an eyebrow at my shoes, and told us they’d be ready that afternoon for the princely sum of $11.00. I felt there wasn't enough soap in the world to scrub the dirt acquired from lunching on building steps and endless waiting in the Agadir bus station. Perhaps not enough soap, perhaps fire was best. $11.00? Done deal.

We marched onwards to the Supratours office. Supratours is a coach, or bus, service. Their website is useless, but their schedules seem to be covered by the ONCF site. ONCF is the national rail service. I had deduced that we could journey to both Fes and Meknes, and back, without too much hastle. The Supratours agents confirmed this, took our money and gave us tickets in return. I guess we're going to Fes!

Coming back through the souk I decided to break ranks with my aunt. We continually pass the street vendors who appear shortly before 7.30pm - they have assorted breads on display, sticky gooey pastries,heavenly smelling fish … none of which I have been able to try! I am one of those people who simply has to sample every food around. I want to know the ingredients, how they are made, how they taste, are they traditional … family members would be amused, given that I was such a fussy eater when I was young; the bain of the adults’ lives as one was always assigned to me to make me chew ten times and swallow… the first accomplished, the second seldom so! Today I bought the fish;  fried sardines, stuffed with herbs, 1 piece for 3 Dirham (30 cents). Delicious!

June 5th - The laziest day imaginable. My aunt had business which seemed as though it would take her back and forth between the bank and the lawyer. She is still dealing with the fallout of relatively recent widowhood. My services were unnecessary … besides, my book called, and tomorrow would be an early start.

June 3rd: Legzira Beach

Photos for June 3rd - Legzira Beach, Agadir, and home.

Breakfasted, packed, and on the road by 9am to avoid paying for another night at the hotel! My patience began to wear thin in conversations with Gabriella and my aunt; whether or not you agree with Myers-Briggs personality types or even horoscopes, there is no denying that the descriptions for INTJs and Virgos have me in mind! The French habit of responding to questions with nothing more than a shoulder shrug leaves me in despair! I may think laterally, and see possibilities that others don’t, but I intake information linearly. When information received makes no sense, I quite literally feel that a computer screen inside my brain spits out a message stating “does not compute. Does not compute” and, like a GPS recalculating or rerouting, there is an almost human like element in the mounting annoyance. Age has helped me mask this - I am not as impatient as I once was, and my face no longer imparts the “what sort of imbecile am I dealing with?” look that I know it once did all too readily! But, being tired and dealing with a Rumanian, an example of whose conversation begins with “I am vegetarian, I no longer eat animals” and ends with “beef grease or fat is better than butter. I use it on all my bread” and a French woman who responds to questions such as “would you like to go out for a walk now, or stay in the hotel?” with “yes” was, quite frankly, more than I could cope with today. I decided the wisest course of action was to smile if looked at, but otherwise keep silent! Mental note to self: never, ever, ever, ever, travel with company again!!!

Gabriella and Andrei stated that they were returning the car to Agadir and flying from Agadir airport. I mapped the CTM station in Agadir and asked the location of their rental return so that I could find a drop off convenient for all of us. After twenty minutes of questioning, it turns out they are dropping off the car in Inezgane - a suburb of Agadir. To make things less complicated, I requested that they drop us off in Tiznit as I knew this was on their way to Agadir, we were already acquainted with the town, and knew the location of the CTM station, although not the bus schedule. Agreed upon this plan iof f action, we retraced our route to Sidi Ifni and onwards to Tiznit.

None of us had seen the famous rock at Legzira Beach, so we  stopped and followed the correct road downwards to the beach and agreed to meet at the car after 30 minutes. Legzira Beach is beautiful; soft golden sand, restaurants, a small resort, a surf shop, lifeguards,  families playing, locals sunbathing, and the famous arch … there were two rocks with arches, but one collapsed in 2016. The one that is left actually has 3 arches, and is very photogenic. My aunt thinks she would like to return with her daughter. It is a lovely sleepy place.

I walked to the arch as quickly as I could - encountering jellyfish along the way -  so that I could see it up close and take photos and then we strolled back to the promenade and up the steep ramp to the car and waited for Gabriella and Andrei.

We reached Tiznit in no time and said our goodbyes. We were grateful for all we had done with them, but it was equally nice to say farewell!

We walked to the CTM station … no more buses to Agadir today! We might be staying another night in the hotel Assaka. I got out the Wi-Fi hotspot that we are carrying, but using sparingly, and mapped the Supratours station - a short distance and worth a try. Success, they had a bus leaving in 30 minutes, and from Agadir we should find a bus back to Essaouira. We were feeling very nomadic by this time!

The route to Agadir took us through Inezgane, which looks like an interesting town; cosmopolitan, affluent, a mixture of architecture, and plenty if well kept parks and green spaces, full of families, palm trees … and jacarandas in full bloom.

Finding ourselves at Agadir bus station once again, we purchased our tickets. This time on Pullman Sud - the only coach leaving that day to Essaouira! We had a three hour wait and chose to explore the city streets in the hope of lunch. As expected, the restaurants and cafes were closed for Ramadan, but we purchased bread and laughing cow cheese triangles ar a small store. We found some steps in the shade to sit and eat our meagre fare and were soon joined by a wild (stray) dog, who sat and watched longingly, hopefully. Suddenly we heard a shout “hey, American” - it was our friend, Sallah, from our first time at the Agadir bus station, just a few short days ago. He shooed the dog away, chatted about our recent travels, again offered his services as a guide, and then left as suddenly as he had arrived.

We decided the cats of the bus station were preferable to the stray dogs of the street and made our weary way back. Only a few hours to go… We sat at the tables outside a cafe in the station, and one by one men and young boys gathered nearby. Suddenly, the tv was switched on and the entire floor came to life; apparently they can do without food, but not football (soccer)! Spain V Switzerland … we gave up our seats.

As 7.30 approached, we saw the same preparations being made at a tent in the station plaza. I asked the young ticket sellers, and was told that food is provided for free to the travellers during Ramadan. We were welcome to join the feast. I wanted to see what they were offering, but not to eat, so we walked to the tent and were welcomed like family; chairs brought out, plates set, we were offered mint tea, harira, hard boiled eggs, freshly baked bread … we kept refusing, saying that we had eaten and did not keep Ramadan. But, it is futile to refuse Moroccan hospitality and we sat to enjoy hard boiled eggs bread, and mint tea.

Finally, it was time for our bus to leave. We would be in Essaouira by midnight, home shortly after. The bus dropped us off in a part of the City I had not yet seen, and the streets were absolutely packed with people celebrating Ramadan; it looked like a combination of a busy market day and kids waiting, expectantly and excitedly, for a major pop concert. It was tough to navigate the streets for a taxi, but navigate we did. Finally home! Feeling dirty, grubby and tired we decided that tired won out. Showers could wait until tomorrow.

June 2nd - The desert tour

Photos for June 2nd - Tighmert

Breakfast was served at 9am on the dot; black olives, assorted freshly baked breads, fresh butter, strong coffee in miniscule cups. Salama and Mohammed arrived at 9.45am in an ancient jeep. Oh, today was going to be an adventure! My aunt had felt unwell the previous night and didn't think she should accompany us today. But we would be sitting, chauffeured through the desert and who knows where else. Convinced there would be minimal walking, she joined us. A box containing our picnic was put in the back of the jeep, Salama wound long white scarves into turbans around our heads, and we piled in ready for, and expecting, an adventure.

Salama was to be our guide, Mohammed our driver. Salama is fluent in French and speaks very good English. He is of Berber origin and has family who live in the Sahara as he once did. Mohammed speaks Arabic and little else.

Our first stop was ‘an oasis.’ Lush greenery, palm trees and bougainville standing out among the rocks, a river, and a canal system. Salama proved both knowledgeable and willing to answer my endless questions. Our tour took us from one oasis to another where we left my aunt and Mohammed and walked along the narrow canal, crossing from one side of the river to the other … watching the jeep following our progress and wondering where we would rejoin. We saw nomad’s tents off in the distance, a solitary nomad and his dromedary drinking at the river - possibly returning from the market in Goulmime. Suddenly the jeep was back in front of us and we headed into barren land.

We drove through endless desert, although not true desert - not the Sahara, but bleak nonetheless. Mountains on all sides, cactus, small shrubs, no dwellings, the occasional small argan tree. Bleak, desolate, but still beautiful in its own way. Rich colours, striations creating attractive patterns, valleys showing where the wind and weather alter the landscape. Hot, but not humid. We journeyed on.

We stopped at the hot spring; not a geyser but a spring tapped by the government. Salam said there is a network of them, mapped by the government. Oh how I wish I had proper computer access. I know I could pull those maps, see the locations and all the associated information. Gabriella and Andrei took the opportunity to paddle in the warm sulphurous water. I, meanwhile, found molehills to explore and a lizard to play with.

We passed outcrops of rocks, black flint with pictures etched “by the ancient ones” and graffiti etched by the more recent ones! We stopped for lunch in the shade of a solitary tree. It is Ramadan, observed by both Salama and Mohammed, so they served us our meals and then absented themselves. We ate, sitting on a low branch, my aunt on a small chair thoughtfully brought along: simple ‘Moroccan’ salad of cucumbers, tomatoes and the lightest olive oil; a loaf of large round bread - airy and full of holes, hard boiled eggs, yogurt, water. We took some time to stroll after lunch, finding sea shells while Salama slept in the jeep. Mohammed joined my aunt and I, and, amused, answered with animal sounds and gestures, my questions about the animal scat on the ground around us. Dave and I hike, ramble really, in the parks and conservation areas near us in Sarasota County. Identifying  animal tracks and scat is something that we do. Of course, Mohammed was not to know this!

We passed a group of dromedaries and descended en masse to take photos. Salama instructed us to walk slowly towards them, hands cupped. They would think we came bearing food so would not run away. Taking photos was the first glance we had of Mohammed’s personality and sense of humour. He is not a young man, he doesn't say much. But he watches, is attentive to our needs - swooping in with an upturned makeshift step for my aunt to ascend and descend the jeep - and photo bombing with a delightful and mischievous smile at every opportunity.

We drove for what seemed hours through barren land, mountains around us, whispy clouds hanging barely above us. The sun on the mountains creates different pictures as we drive. It is all quite beautiful. We pass more groups of dromedaries, ears tagged, bearing brands of ownership, not a human around for miles.

In the distance Salama points out a sand dune. Distinguished by its homogenous colour, its lack of striations, it is barely visible. Another half an hour and we are on an upward climb, to marvel at the mass of richly coloured sand underfoot, and the view from the top of the dune. Gabriella takes the opportunity to roll down the dune. I am older and can think only of how many days it would take to remove the sand should I join her! As we sit and survey the scene, I note Mohammed standing aside … chatting animatedly on his cell phone!

We began our return journey, but still have delights ahead. We drove interminably on barely discernable roads, tracks really, until suddenly Mohammed stopped the jeep seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Salama gestured for us all to get out and follow him, then promptly disappeared! It is a rocky canyon, with a series of small waterfalls into a small river at the bottom. Mohammed planted a small chair at the top of the cliff and made it understood that this is not something my aunt should attempt. I gamely followed Salama, hoping that I would be able to make the upward journey without too much help. Gabriella is young, she bounded ahead, Andrei followed behind me, a little more cautiously. My aunt watched from way up high and waved as we finally reached the calm quiet river. I stopped to take photos then clambered back up to find the source of the falls, thinking how sad to see so much graffiti on the rocks.

We were not yet done with our tour, although the day was getting on and Mohammed and Salama were becoming anxious. It is Ramadan, they have not eaten, they want to be at prayer on time and break their fast at 7.30pm. Our tour was supposed to end at 6pm… it us already later than that. But we had requested a visit to the local museum. We pulled in to the parking lot of the Caravanserai museum, a tiny building, and were greeted by L’habib. He has the gentlest face of any human I have ever encountered. He has a booming laugh, an easy smile, is thrilled when asked to pose for photos - photobombed by Mohammed- loves to be huggged, has a generous personality, and punctuates all of his sentences with a gut busting “ugh” - an Arabic version of the Canadian “eh” eh? He showed us around the museum; artifacts found in the desert or bartered for when the caravan is in town: slave cuffs, agricultural tools, camel seats, traditional clothes, musical instruments… the museum is small, but contains many items. He is Saharawi, a tribe from the Sahara, and speaks little French or English. But he makes himself understood. After the tour he led us to a tent and made mint tea. Gabriella and Andrei inspected the trinkets for sale, she chose a bracelet, he purchased it for her upcoming birthday. I don't want any more possessions so I remained seated. Finally Salama ordered us into the car. His day is done. He is tired and hungry. Mohammed needs to drive to Goulmime for prayers. We returned to the hotel where Ibrahim was waiting, and our evening tajine was being prepared.

Before dinner Ibrahim made it understood that he would like payment that night, not in the morning. Oh, and he doesn't take credit cards … the four of us checked our wallets; credit cards a plenty, and almost -but not quite - enough cash. Andrei and I were elected to drive into town, accompanied by Ibrahim. Gabriella and my aunt remained. We told them to do the dishes and that we'd Skype their families and inform them of their new address!

We drove the 10 Km to the supermarket in the nearest town. Tomorrow, Andrei and Gabriella will be returning to Agadir and flying back to Roumania, they have kindly offered to drop us off along the way. We knew the shops will be closed for Ramadan, so took the opportunity to buy items for the next days journey.

We returned to the hotel, paid Ibrahim, packed, and made plans. This has been a good day. We didn't see much of Goulmime. We didn't see the camel market. We saw so much more, had a wonderful time, and made new friends.

June 1st: Sidi Ifni

June 1st: Road trip, day 3
Photos for June 1st - Sidi Ifni, Mirleft & Legzira

We awoke refreshed after a good night’s sleep; the view from the balcony even better in the daylight. After dinner I had spoken to Yassir, the receptionist, asking what sights he would recommend. He gave me a list - which included Legzira beach, just as a gentleman in the cafe the night before had suggested. He also offered his services as our guide, for free - to practice his English - should we choose.

Breakfast was purchased, hastily, at the grocery store; jambon de dande, danone yogurt, Laughing Cow cheese, and bread. But on my return to the hotel, I found the manager kindly making coffee for us. Coffee and pain au chocolate… such a welcome sight!

We left our bags at the hotel and walked to the bus stop for the local bus to Tiznit. We had been told the number 18 would cost us 6Dh each, and would drop us off at Legzira. At the bus stop we met Milosche and Jeanetta from the Czech Republic. When not travelling, they pick apples in a village near Murano, Italy.

The bus dropped us off at what appeared to be a deserted crossroad… the mountains to our east, a ghost town between us and the Atlantic to our west. No sign of a beautiful beach - or the famous rock. Undeterred we set off on the rocky path… only to find ourselves on a cliff. Despondently we walked back to where we had alighted, and waited… there would be a return bus in an hour. Instead, a taxi pulled up and we asked the fare to Legzira beach, gesturing the rock with the hole in it. We had found one of the few taxi drivers who speak no French! But, he seemed to know our requested destination. Fifteen minutes later we were summarily deposited in Mirleft. But there was a rock, and it had a hole in it. So we went to explore. The beach was quite deserted, save for ourselves and a young American couple taking photos of each other scaling the rock. We walked the sandy beach; dotted with pebbles but few shells, the water looking inviting but cold,  the rock showing the geologic processes at work. A wild dog came to join us, following every step of the way. It is hard to not make eye contact, but dangerous to do so.

We walked back to the road, a little disappointed in ourselves and our day, and settled in for the long wait for a taxi or bus, whichever appeared first to deliver us back to Sidi Ifni. Our luck was in. While we waited patiently near a restaurant, a young couple arrived. They stayed for coffee, we waited … As they left they asked our destination. Their names were Gabriella and Andrei, from Roumania, and vacationing for a week in Morocco. They were passing through Sidi Ifni on their way to Goulmime - our intended destination that night. We gratefully accepted a ride back to Sidi Ifni.

By the time we arrived in Sidi Ifni we had agreed that all four of us should engage the services of Yassir. He was happy to take us on an extended tour of the town - and we for a lot more than we bargained for! Sidi Ifni is known for its Spanish influences and architecture; it was once a protectorate of Spain, only returned to Morocco in 1969. Many in the town want a return to Spanish rule … Yassir is one of those! Descriptions of the town, details of the history, were dotted with tales of his resistance to Moroccan rule; “this house, the government (of the country whose name I will not say) wanted to pull down, my friends and I we climbed the roof and staged a sit in. There are photos. You see, it still stands. We saved this house …” We walked the streets, bemused, amused, and interested.

Our tour ended at 5pm, as Yassir’s evening shift at the hotel began - our bus not scheduled to leave for another 3 hours, and the market jumping to life in readiness for the evening break-fast. Our Romanian friends offered to drop us off at an as yet undetermined hotel in Goulmime, and we readily accepted.

Goulmime at sundown, gateway to The Sahara, cannot be described as a welcoming place. Stark, austere, dirty … nonetheless we stopped to find a hotel. One room for two, bathroom shared between eight rooms? Perhaps we should look elsewhere? The four of us opted for an inexpensive hotel outside of town, made reservations, and set off. Wherever we would be in this inhospitable place, we would be together!

The drive to Maison D'hotes Nomades seemed to take us to the Moroccan equivalent if the “backwoods.” Turning, twisting, unlit roads far off the beaten track, until suddenly there was Ibrahim welcoming us to his home. Welcome, welcome, come inside. Meet my family, my wife, my daughter, my mother. Come, join us for our Ramadan breakfast … it was going to be a long night! Ibrahim's wife had prepared fish, slilou, an assortment of snacks, and the ubiquitous mint tea. We stayed in their salon getting to know the family, sampling their foods until finally we were shown to our rooms and instructed that dinner would be ready in “maybe 1 hour.” It was already 9pm.

The hotel is set apart from Ibrahim's home. It is a lovely place; quiet, clean … with a shared bathroom. But it was ‘home’ for the night. We were served a delicious vegetarian tajine - and mint tea - and set up a tour for the following day. Breakfast would be served at 9 am, we should be ready to leave by 10am, a picnic would be provided, and we would return at 6pm. Just like that our say was set! Nothing more to do but say goodnight on the terrace, under a sky flooded with stars.   

May 31st: Tiznit

May 31st Road Trip, day 2
Photos for May 31st - Tiznit

Dawn broke over Tiznit and we had no plans other than visiting the medina, the souk, and pressing on to Sidi Ifni. Travelling during Ramadan takes extra preparation - preparation we had not made because, lulled by the tourist industry in Essaouira and on the advice of locals, we did not believe it necessary. However, once away from tourists, the rituals of Ramadan become more obvious; hotels do not serve breakfast, cafes and restaurants remain closed. Fresh fruits are available in the souks, but coffee… hot coffee, fresh pastries, meats and cheeses. These are nigh on impossible to find between sunrise and sundown. We passed a supermarket and purchased what would become staples on our short trip: bananas, a packet of turkey ham, Danon yogurt drinks - and fresh bread wherever possible. This served as breakfast, lunch, or dinner, depending on the time of day; in bus stations, seated on sidewalks, in whatever shade we could find; sometimes under the eyes of children amused to find such mischievous adults breaking Ramadan, sometimes under the imperious eyes of women questioning our not keeping Ramadan, once under the hungry eyes of a wild dog.

Tiznit is larger than Essaouira, but the guide books list only two attractions: the Grand Mosque (pronounced mosk-eh, in the Canadian fashion) and le source bleue; both located within the Medina, which is a maze of majestic proportions. The people of Morocco are incredibly friendly and do their best to give directions in a mixture of English, French and their native language - always delivered with a smile. Our final impromptu guide to the mosque was a young schoolgirl hurrying to some activity, but trying not to lose the strange women lagging behind. Naturally we arrived at the mosque in time for the call to prayer! We waited for the mosque to clear, and then - covering heads and shoulders -  entered where we had watched the women leave. The interior was simply decorated, many women were still at prayer, and there were no additional public spaces to wander. It was a bit disappointing for a tourist, but the mosque has historical value for the locals.

Following the signs for La Source Bleue, we took our tourist photos of the pool and the reconstructed nomad storehouses, and then browsed the traditional Touareg jewellery in the nearby store. The owner, Abderrahmane ID Bakrim - who collects pens from around the world - plyed us with Morrocan mint tea and showed off the hand made original designs in his store. We spent a pleasant afternoon in the square, watching and being watched by the local residents, and then caught a taxi to the souk.

The souk resembles Eastern market in Detroit; large, covered, clean, bustling - and few tourists. It was late in the day, so only the fruit and vegetable stalls were open. The colours and smells were heavenly … especially to two hungry travellers.

We took another taxi, requesting to be taken to the “boutique traditional” - the closest shopping mall; we had time to kill, and had, apparently, seen all that Tiznit offered! The three storey shopping center housed elegant bridal stores and clothes stores, all with a working sewing machine in use and other clothes stores - ‘sales’ tables laden with clothes “exchanged when the caravan is in town.”

Back to the hotel to pick up our bags, eat a dinner of turkey ham and bread and then a short walk to the CTM station for the evening bus to Sidi Ifni… arriving just in time for the Ramadan break-fast.

Sidi Ifni was a Spanish protectorate, has Spanish architecture and influences, and a thriving resistance movement. The drive from Tiznit has mountain views on one side of the road and crashing blue waves of the Atlantic on the other, with gulleys, ravines, and hairpin bends thrown in for good measure. The town itself is high on a cliff; peeking through alleyways reveals endless flights of steps. It is beautiful.

We arrive as feasting begins for the evening. The main streets are over run by food stalls, we can smell fresh cooked fish and bread, the restaurants are opening. We opt to find a hotel first, knowing that a hearty dinner is assured. The Hotel Safa is a glorious and unexpected haven. Our room has a balcony, with views both westward, of the sea, and eastward, of the mountains. The bathroom is large and has an “Italian” style shower. The beds are clean and comfortable. We could stay here for weeks… But our stomachs call, we make the short walk back into town … but the food market stalls have disappeared, the restaurants empty, the cafes serving only tea and coffee. Thankfully the hotel is still serving dinner; my aunt has brochette de viande (turkey kebabs/skewers) with chips, and I have a seafoid gratin. Hungry, and happy with our hot food, the irony of our portions being too large for us to finish is not lost on us.

May 29th: The museum

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Today was washing day. When you plan to be on the road for 5 months but only bring a carry-on sized backpack, washing day comes around pretty quickly. In Norwich it was easy; RL has a washer/dryer combination machine. Here …. well I didn't exactly walk to the river and beat the clothes on stones, but, yes, time to handwash in the sink. I haven't had to do that since I moved to America 34 years ago… and cursed and swore with every sinkful of newborn baby clothes, wondering to what kind of backward place I’d moved! Clothes washed, it was up to the roof to hang them on the line. In the midday heat and the Essaouiran winds they were sure to be dry in no time.

Chores done, I went to the Sidi Mohamed Ben Abdullah museum, a short walk from the apartment. Founded in 1981, and named for the founder of the town, it is a small museum with some lovely pieces from the bronze age up to modern day. It is interesting to see jewellery from the 13th century alongside its modern counterpart and realise little has changed in either design or technique - both sets being large and clunky, ornate, and primarily silver. The facade of the museum is extremely plain. It easy to walk past without realising it is there. But the lobby is beautiful. It doesn't take much imagination to picture the pool that was there before the double staircase. The colours are mainly blue and white - as with many homes in the medina - and red for a background. There’s so much blue and white here, I often feel as though I’m wandering along the Mediterranean. The museum has coins, jewellery, pottery, sugar moulds, clothing that would be quite chic on any millenial, all the apparatus for extracting argan oil - which has been a large industry here for centuries - and lovely old photos of the town as it has changed.  The museum is open every day except Mondays, and admission is a mere 10 Dh ($1.00).

After a lunch of soup and salad - harira and leftover tabouleh - we went for a walk to the souk. Eggs and coconut milk were the order of the day… coconut milk for tonight's turkey curry. Success. Now to find the little French bakery that my aunt has been looking for. That was a much longer, and unsuccesful, walk. But we did run into my aunt's friend, the baker from the medina. As soon as I can I must take a photo of her with her pastries. She is such an effervescent woman, always smiling and laughing. Her pastries are works of art. I don't know how she manages to produce them on the small oven that she has in her shop.

We purchased tickets for an upcoming bus trip. The poor young man in the ticket office had to deal with us, a couple of young Japanese girls, and the driver and passengers of a departing bus, all at the sane time! Naturally no one but the driver spoke Arabic…  Wallking home we passed a newsagent displaying papers from around the world - something I miss in Venice. The Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung was a bew one to me. Apparently it is “a centre-right, liberal-conservative German daily newspaper.” Now I know!

A pause for coffee on the way home. Today I tried the intriguing sounding "Ness ness" - which turns out to be similar to a cappuccino. I'm still waiting for a good strong cup of Turkish!

Turkey curry, with coconut milk, made and devoured, we heard the sound of drums in the street. We rushed down just as they ended so went for a walk to the sea. There's a full moon tonight.

May 27 - 28: Exploring and planning

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May 27th: Essaouira at play

We set our alarm clocks for 7am planning to visit the large market at Had Dra.  But the rain woke us up at 6, and the market is a muddy place. Changing plans, we spent the day both in and outside the medina, checking bus and coach timetables while discussing the possibilities of a road trip.

We walked along the beach and explored far beyond the city walls, into what appeared to be an affluent neighbourhood; signs of gentrification here, too. The beach was crowded; families enjoying their Sunday, children playing soccer, kite surfers aplenty enjoying the wind for which Essaouira, the windy city, is famous. The plaza by the beach could be any Mediterranean beach

In the evening we opted not to cook,but to go out for dinner and a movie at the nearby cine club. I have good intentions of reading Neruda’s poetry, but as yet they remain intentions. The movie was Neruda,  the 2016 release directed by Pablo Larraín. Interesting - but I think I need to read more about Neruda’s life. For 100 Dh ($10) we were served fish soup, a delicious dessert of chopped pears & bananas, covered with toasted almonds and cream, and a tajine of our choice. My fish tajine was nothing to write home about - my aunt was even less impressed with her chicken tajine. But, for  $10.00 it was a pleasant evening, and only 3 other people watching the movie with us.

May 28th: Planning a road trip

In the morning I took some time to wander a small corner of the medina on my own and was rewarded with the sounds of drum beats from a small shop. I spent about half an hour with Said watching him at work on djembes and other instruments. He was born here in Essaouira, and has been hand carving and building instruments since he was 7 years old.

To their amusement, I stood and watched workers repaving a street. I pondered buying egg cups as gifts for friends. Strolling on I passed a cat house set out on the street. This city is full of stray cats; they laze in the sunshine and feast on the many scraps thrown to them by shopkeepers and fish vendors. I was amused, but wouldn't have considered a cat house necessary. I purchased an old photo showing the collapse of a section of city wall. Again, I had a lovely conversation with the owner - the woodwork for sale was carved by him, and the photos had all been taken by his father many years ago.

The shops in the medina sell mainly leather goods, silver jewellery, and wooden items - “magic” boxes with hidden slots and mysterious openings being their specialty, and proudly shown. Thuya is the wood most frequently used. So far I have been able to “converse” with the shopkeepers - gesticulating while using broken French.- They look disbelieving when I say “Anglais,” but smile when I touch my face/skin and say “Indian … mais Anglais.”

I made tabouleh for lunch, then we spent the afternoon researching bus schedules and hotels.  I miss my laptop as I am having to do everything, including this blog, on my little 2.5”x4”phone. (Thank you for tolerating the incorrect grammar and the autocorrect mis-”corrections”). I think we have it sorted: 5 cities, 4 nights away. This is going to be fun…. My aunt suggested with a laugh that we can get one bed and I can sleep on the floor...

May 26th: Grocery shopping by horse and carriage

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Today we needed groceries, so a trip to the souk was in order. We have a large fridge but tend to buy only what we need for a day or so - and why not, when fresh foods and meats are available within a short walk. My aunt has had a home here for many years; she has a number of friends, knows which shops have good produce or baked goods, and is greeted with hugs by many of the owners. Today we were lucky to pass by a particular bakery as they were opening - hugs and kisses were exchanged, and introductions made. We made a note to stop again on our way home.

The souk was busy as usual. Smells of fresh mint, cilantro/coriander and assorted spices mix readily with fruit ripening rapidly in the sunshine. We pass shops with mountains of dates - flies buzzing all around - but she is resolute in her determination to purchase only Moroccan dates. The souk seems to expand with every visit; the entire city is a maze of alleys within alleys. Our last visit took us to the fish market, today we pass chickens and rabbits. Some are caged, others penned, yet others have their legs bound and are lazing on the sidewalk awaiting their fate. It's not a fit place for a vegetarian. I eat meat, I abhor the animal farming methods in use today, I have reconciled myself to hunting for meat - but not for sport. We pass by the chickens, continue past the butcher shops as they cleave full carcasses, and on to purchase onions, squash, peaches and bread. The squash will accompany our leftover couscous and lamb curry tonight.

We returned home, passing the bakery where a line is starting to form… fresh quiches straight from the oven, items that look like pizza, and pasties. She hasn't even had time to put the prices out. We purchased a slice of quiche and a chicken sausage pasty for our lunch.

My aunt had spoken of two grocery stores outside the City walls. We visited the French store earlier in the week, today we decided to visit the Moroccan one. We walked back through the medina, to Bab Doukala and the awaiting taxi cabs, buses and horse drawn carriages. The buses are for long journeys, between cities. The taxi cabs are for short journeys. The carriages are for the poor who cannot afford the 6Dh ($0.60) taxi ride … or for those opting for a little more adventure. The carriages run to the Moroccan supermarket, about 10 minutes away, and cost 2Dh ($0.20) per person. They seat 6 … and do not move until they have at least 6 people aboard.

The journey was pleasant and short, and we were dropped off outside the supermarket in an area of council, or government supplied, homes. Not picturesque, perhaps closer to ghetto, but not unsafe. The supermarket had Whirlpool fridges and large flat screen tvs, and household goods as well as groceries; Tescos or a mini Wal-Mart on two floors, with a flat escalator between them. Prices for household goods were comparable to Wal-Mart, but quality closer to that of a dollar store. Appliances were on a par with the US - although wages here are not. We were only there to look, but bought cracked wheat/bulgar for tabbouleh, and a box of harira soup which we have both been wanting to try.

I have realised as I have wandered the medina, the souk, the grocery stores, and the stores I have visited in other countries, that I am a more knowledgeable cook than I give myself credit. My cooking is incredibly diverse, my love of cook books has taken me to other lands and introduced me to exotic dishes and ingredients - occasionally only by name and photograph.

Across from the supermarket, in what would be a council estate in the UK, the projects in the US, was another souk. We walked over to explore and found ourselves listening to Moroccan versions of Del Boy!

As we returned to Bab Doukala we noticed a restaurant advertising “terrace vue de la mer,” disbelieving that we would be able to see the sea, we entered and asked if we could take a look. Up the stairs and… the Catholic cemetery, the taxi cabs and carriages lined up for prospective customers, the City walls and Bab Doukala and yes, the sea! No additional invitation was needed for us to sit and order mint teas. One day soon we shall return to watch the sun set.

May 25th: Shukran

Today began at our usual leisurely pace; breakfast of kiwi and banana in lemon juice, bread and jam, and a steaming bowl of coffee… I could get used to this. The coffee my aunt drinks is a mix of coffee and chicory, just as I have at home. But hers is smooth and mellow, and delicious. I am not a coffee drinker; I require my cups of tea throughout the day, like a true Brit. However, when I do have coffee I prefer it to be Turkish, Irish, or a coffee & chicory blend. In that order. I first sampled Turkish coffee many years ago in a restaurant in Bayswater (London). I was smitten. Living in Dearborn (Michigan) gave me frequent access to it… Turkish coffee and baklava. That's a close definition of heaven!

My aunt had errands to run, leaving me to my own devices …

My aunt and I were last together approximately 25 years ago, but we remain in touch with occasional letters or phone calls, and now by Skype. She is not really my aunt, but given the title as a friend of the family, as is custom with Anglo-Indian families. Her husband, R, and my dad were school friends, many years ago in India. Although several years apart, they had established a friendship and were, by all accounts, quite the ne’er-do-wells. In an attempt to straighten him out and set him on the right track, R was sent to England by his family. The years went by, my dad and R lost touch ... my dad moved to England, my mother followed, I was born  and then my brother … and one day, quite by chance, the two men found themselves standing next to each other on the platform at a train station. I can only imagine how they felt; life as an immigrant can be quite lonely. No matter how full your life may become, a piece of you is irretrievably gone. For his part, R had also acquired a French wife and a child. This wife is the aunt with whom I am now staying. Our conversation covers the gamut from current events - watching the developing storms near Florida and Yemen - to relationships, and everything in between.

This afternoon I ventured out alone. I needed a haircut before I left Venice but thought I'd find time for such an activity whilst in Norwich. Now I was in dire need of both shampoo and haircut, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Speaking no Arabic and scant little French, I wasn't sure how this was going to go. But, success!!! My aunt and I had previously found a little shop whose owner professed to cut and style the hair of any gender. That seemed to include me. The price of 150 Dh ($15.) met my budget, and we set up an appointment. I came away with super shiny hair, blow dried and styled like it has never been before. That's not to say that it was anything glamorous or out of the ordinary, simply that my hair gets little ‘styling’ other than being threatened by the hairdryer, and a brush dragged through it! The vendors in the shops close to our apartment, having grown used to me by now, signalled their 'approval' by shouting “bella, bella” as I walked past them on my way home!

Lunch today was couscous, cooked with a vegetable stew (squash, courgettes/zucchini, chick peas/garbanzo beans  and carrots), all purchased for a ridiculously small sum in the medina, and a lamb curry that I had cooked. Our lazy dinner was shawarma and chips in the medina.

Today my aunt and I each learned one word; shawarma, and shukran. For the uninitiated, here's the wiki definition of shawarma. See if you can read it without salivating.

The vendors smile with their lips when I say ‘Merci,’ but they smile with their eyes when I say shukran.

May 24th: Slowing down

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Life in Essaouira is slow. After a week I may feel as though I  am sleepwalking. After 6 weeks I may need to be resuscitated! I tend to live life at a fast pace and have been told that I accomplish more before breakfast than many do in a day. So this will take some getting used to. Perhaps this is just what I need to aid in this recalibration of my life? I've always taken time to stop and smell the roses, watch the bugs at work. But now I'm really learning to slow down. There are no pressing needs, no appointments. Just life, and time ticking slowly by.

Our routine, thus far, consists of waking, having a leisurely breakfast, showering, walking the medina to buy food for lunch, returning home for a leisurely lunch, walking the medina to buy food for dinner, returning to the apartment to cook and have a leisurely dinner, walking the medina, returning home to catch up on the day's  news, going to bed, rinse and repeat … my blog is going to become awfully dreary… anyone care for a daily weather report?

My aunt insists on fruit throughout the day, so I am being plied with watermelon, kiwi, bananas... yet we pass by all the beautiful mangos. I will add them to the menu soon. We passed a cafe and she said their coffee is really bad -  it's Moroccan. When pressed for an explanation it transpires that it's Turkish. Yes, yes!!! That's what I want!!! I am not typically a coffee drinker, but Turkish coffee and a slice of baklava, oh happy memories of life in Dearborn, Michigan.

Today we went up on the rooftop to see the city spread below us. Then we walked to Bab Marrakech, the City wall, the ramparts, the port, and the fish market.  Bab means gate, and the medina has 4 gates - roughly corresponding to N,S, E and W, but none opens out to the sea. There are definitely more up-market areas of the medina, streets that are Americanised, the restaurants offering burgers and wi-fi. The port is being enlarged to allow for cruise ships… this way of life has, I'm sure, changed greatly in the past few decades. It will become unrecognizable once the cruise ships arrive.

We visited the artisans co-op area, quieter and less visited than the central streets, and watched seamstresses and carpenters at work. We strolled in and out of the tiny stores and visited an art exhibition in the turret of the ramparts. My aunt is French and belongs to the French institute, so we wandered in there and saw an exhibition of photos of “ethnicfolk” … the folk, in all but two photos, appear to be frowning at the camera, seemingly questioning why they're subjects of his camera.

The harbour, with its fish market, is a bustling place at all times of day, with arrays of freshly caught fish proudly displayed by the fishermen; conger eels, moray eels, rei, sardines - sardines everywhere, fried fresh by street vendors. The market is smelly and crowded; a loud and lively place - just as a good fish market should be! It is a place to see, but not necessarily a tourist destination as the walk through water sloshing with fish guts is not for everyone! The assortment of fish changes constantly yet, just as with my visit to the souk, I found all the vendors willing to tell me the names of the fish and to take photos when I asked.

The evening held a late night concert by Oum in the Place el Menzah, a square close by. It is Ramadan here, hence the vendors open up late and the streets are filled with celebration at night.

The local guide book offers the following snippets: the average temperature is 18°C (64°F), population is 80,000, taxicabs are un-metered and cost 6Dh (60 cents, 50 pence), “security is quasi-total.” The port was constructed in the 18th century, the Kasbah, armed with bronze cannons, to keep watch against invasion from the ocean.

Everyone here speaks French, so I stand next to my aunt, like an idiot child, understanding much but saying little… hopefully that will change.

The sun shines but offers little warmth, and the night's are downright cold.  It is a beautiful place, and the people friendly. I'm not sure it is somewhere I could live.

May 22nd - 23rd: Arrival in Essaouira, The Medina and The Souk.

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A good article about Essaouira

May 22nd- I spent an uneventful, and sleepless, night in Luton airport, dutifully walking through security at the allotted hour of 3.30am - only to discover that the flight would be delayed until 9.30am, courtesy of air traffic controllers on strike in France.The flight was thankfully uneventful and we arrived to a beautiful warm sunny Moroccan day at one of the loveliest airports I've ever seen. I then had the task of staying awake in the tiny terminal until the arrival of my aunt's flight some four hours later. She had left Paris the day before, but her flight was grounded in Madrid because of a cracked windscreen. They were flown to Bordeaux where they spent the night in luxury and put on another flight to Essaouira after I had already landed. It has been about 25 years since I last saw my aunt, but we recognised each other instantly and talked as though we did this on a regular basis. Her driver was unavailable so we caught a taxi to the flat, passing goats along the roadside! Her flat is in the medina. From my bedroom window I look down on shops and shoppers, yet it is not noisy. I feel like the luckiest girl alive!

We unpacked then walked through the medina, finding a lovely restaurant in which to dine on delicious lamb tajine.  The shops are all pocket sized, and inserted into odd shaped nooks and crannies. Our restaurant seated 8 people in a space barely larger than a small bedroom! Whilst waiting for our food to be served, the call to prayer sounded and we were told that our food would be delayed by 15 minutes because of Ramadan. It was worth the wait.

May 23rd - I slept in late - recovering from my journey - but awoke to find that my aunt had gone shopping and returned with croissants for breakfast. We ate our croissants, and bread & jam, with bowls of hot black coffee; very French. We determined that we needed provisions from the grocery store about 1.5 miles away, outside the medina, and that we should walk there and return by taxi.

I have just spent 3 weeks in Norwich, walking up and down cobblestoned hills at breakneck speed, so I knew I could handle this. However, I was soon reminded that I was with a French woman in Morocco… life moves at a slower pace… I am reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s Travels with a donkey in the Cevennes and feel he adequately describes our pace: “... it was something as much slower than a walk as a walk is slower than a run; it kept me hanging on each foot for an incredible length of time; in five minutes it exhausted the spirit and set up a fever in all the muscles of the leg.” But arrive at the grocery store we did - on the same day on which we had set out! and having had plenty of time to watch the dromedaries on the beach.

The grocery store contained few surprises, but much nicer smells; spices and peppers set out like a buffet bar. I hovered while my aunt made menu decisions I was happy to go along with… Ooh, lamb curry? Yes please! as I watched three steaks being sliced from a leg of lamb. Our taxi driver was obviously a D- student in taxi school, but he dropped us off at Bab Sbaa much as he had found us, perhaps a little more shaken, and we walked home through the medina. I don't know how my aunt finds her way around here, it is a daunting place; twisting and turning, alleys leading off alleys. One day I will ‘own’ this medina… I have 6 weeks to learn it. My mapping and orienteering skills will serve me well.

We had to go to the electronics shop - more laptop woes! and I had to run home to pick up my charger. Three objectives: find my way home, gain access to both building and apartment, return to the shop. Success in the first. Then I was left to struggle with the door to the building. Now, almost everyone in the street is in jeans or similar western gear. Some of the locals are more traditionally, but casually, dressed. As I wrestled with the key, the lock, and the door, a turbanned and exquisitely robed gentleman appeared, from thin air, to assist me. He pulled the door closed with a heavily jewelled hand, dealt deftly with the lock, and entry to the building was mine! Open sesame! and as I turned to thank him, he smiled and vanished. A splash of colour and elegance in a denim clad world. I grabbed my charger and ran back to the shop, happy to have accomplished all three objectives.

In the afternoon we walked to The Souk to price the fish, meat, and fresh fruits and veg. Essaouira is a port on the Atlantic, so the fish market was astounding. There were many fish I didn't recognise. But I do remember how to say “qu'est-ce que c’est?” and “merci” - with a smile...

May 19th: Royal Wedding Day

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We had scanned the internet  and the local papers to see what celebrations were on locally, but could find very little - no street parties, parties in village halls, nothing like that. So, we took ourselves off for a full English breakfast at The Woolpack pub, planning to stay and watch the wedding on tv. The breakfast of fried eggs, chips, sausages, grilled tomato, mushrooms, baked beans and real bacon was such a treat and filled us up for the entire day! American sausages and bacon simply do not compare; I remember buying bacon for the first time in America and wondering why they only sold streaky bacon. The pub was quiet but that didn’t stop the landlord and staff from goofing around wearing Harry and Meghan masks and hawking their Royal ale. We watched the wedding guests arrive and, as none present keep up with either the royals or celebrities, it was a bit of a guessing game. We did recognise John Major, George & Amal Clooney, Elton John and Fergie! The pub remained quiet so RL left to check out activities in the Cathedral. They had set up a tv in the nave, and were serving champagne, tea and biscuits - and there were plenty of people. I ran down to the Cathedral, impressed that after three weeks I kinda sorta know my way around. The Cathedral was full, but not packed. Everyone sang along with the hymns, the kids chased each other around the font, and families had packed picnic baskets for after the wedding. It was a lovely atmosphere.

With the wedding over, we raced across town to the Catholic Cathedral for the weekly  1.30pm tour of the tower... 280 narrow, winding, steps to a gorgeous view of the City, and another 280 steps back down. Gosh those steps really were narrow; I have small feet (size 3UK, 36 European, 6 USA) and the steps were too narrow to accommodate them. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the steps were only about 2ft wide. How they wound around in a dark and seemingly endless upward spiral, until suddenly we were on the rooftop, in the blinding sunlight, with a glorious view of Norwich. We had debated this excursion, wondering if it was a foolhardy adventure the day of a Barn Dance. But, surveying the view, we were glad we had seized this opportunity. Of course, the 280 steps down had us wondering about our sanity… we walked home at a leisurely pace and determined that a pot of tea and a couple of hours of nothingness was what was required before the Barn Dance.

Rl had reserved the car to get us to the Barn Dance at the Lingwood Village Hall & Social Club. He had never been to this dance, had never heard the band, and the caller was not mentioned on the flyer … but it was a dance, and it was nearby! The hall seemed relatively new, 60 tickets had been sold, and the attendance was a nice mix of old and young - including very young children who caught on very quickly and happily danced every dance. A man named Biggles was the caller, and Willowspin the band. The music was fantastic and the programme consisted of simple barn dance favourites: The OXO reel, Scatter promenade, Strip the willow, Johnson’s surprise, Walpole Cottage, Farandole, and others - many of which I call at dances, and a couple of simple ones that were new to me. It was a great evening, filled with laughter - just like a barn dance should be.

May 20th: Open Day at The Bishop’s garden, Norwich Cathedral

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We had a lazy morning, recovering from the activities of yesterday … my legs certainly knew I had climbed that tower. Funny, I didn’t feel that way after climbing the tower at Ely. Perhaps it was the additional 110 steps? The calendar indicated that the Bishop’s House Garden was open today should we feel so inclined. We did. The BIshop’s House Garden is open for a select few weekends in the year and a small admission fee is charged, but each open day is assigned a particular charity, and that charity can plan additional events and activities within the garden. Today was the turn for Hope into Action. Their website states that they “provide homes for the most vulnerable in society in partnership with local churches…. [their] model is built on the belief that when people have a safe, secure home surrounded by loving, non-judgemental relationships they will find the strength and motivation to make positive life choices.” We didn’t have a problem with that, so we forked over our £4.00 each and wandered in. What a wonderful site awaited us; the garden itself is beautiful, tended to by one head gardener and a few volunteers, but there were families and couples of assorted ages strolling the grounds.

I do love Norwich, it is a city, it feels like a City, there is movement all around, hustle and bustle, life in every alley, on every street, in every garden and every park. But it is also rural, and there are families everywhere, strollers being pushed up and down the cobblestone hills, in between the historic churches, elderly couples strolling hand in hand through the market or chatting over a slice of bakewell tart or cream tea at one of the many tea chops. I love that the Salvation Army has a cafe which sells cream teas for £3.50.

The activities on the lawn were mainly directed at the children - face painting, soccer goals, treasure hunts through the gardens, but there was also a used book stand. We did our best to avoid it, unsuccessfully. I do not need to make any purchases as I am travelling with one small backpack … but buy we did; a Welsh/English dictionary and a couple of novels for RL, and  a very slim copy of R.L Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes for me. The gardens were beautiful and included a box hedge maze, a mowed labyrinth with assorted wildflowers growing in it and a pear tree at the center, a jungle walk, and a “bambooserie” with assorted bamboo trees. There were alcoves covered with fading wisteria, the last of the bluebells, and roses bushes everywhere just waiting to burst into bloom - it would be lovely to return in a few weeks and see them.

Across the road from the garden is the Wig & Pen pub. They were serving Sunday roasts … we were unable to resist the temptation of sitting in the sunshine dining on roast beef, Yorkshire pud, roast potatoes, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage and lashings of gravy… all washed down with a pot of tea? It was delicious and the perfect way to spend our final Sunday afternoon together. Late in the evening we thought it fitting to end this leg of my travels with a spot of tea and a slice of Battenberg cake. Mr Kipling, you do make “exceedingly good cakes” as the ad from my childhood goes...

May 8th: Seal watching at Blakeney Point

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May 8^th: Having checked the weather forecast, today seemed the best time to venture to the coast for a seal watching boat trip to Blakeney Point, revisiting a place from RL’s childhood. RL no longer owns a car but belongs to a car club - and it all appears very civilised. He pays a small monthly membership, then books the car in hourly increments. Time can be added or subtracted from the original reservation, in 15-minute increments, while you have the car - as long as no one else has it booked. The reservation fee is not high, you pay additional for the mileage, must return it in good condition … and someone else cleans and maintains it. It seems to work out cheaper than renting a car through a conventional company, and he has the benefit of reserving the same car each time.

We booked a Yaris hybrid and set off for Blakeney, arriving just in time to jump on the boat and head out to sea. We had reserved the trip through Ptarmigan seal trips, although there are a few other operators and all charge the same price. The small ferry boats leave from Morston Quay, are ruled by the tide and do not venture out into the cold North Sea but only as far as the limits of Blakeney Harbour. It took about twenty minutes for the boat to arrive at the Point, passing all manor of sailing boats as well as the lifeboat house and the 100-year old Mary, a former lifeboat. Blakeney Point is a four-mile-long sand and shingle spit joining the Norfolk coast at Cley-next-the sea. It is where grey seals and common seals come to have their pups. We didn’t see any pups, but quite a few seals. Some lazed on the sand, others cavorted in front of us … like dolphins, they are difficult to photograph – appearing like the Loch Ness monster in many of my photos! Expecting cooler weather along the coast, we had brought jackets and dressed warmly, only to be treated to Florida like temperatures.

Boat trip over we stopped briefly at the Stiffkey saltmarsh then ventured to Wells-next-the-sea (don’t you love these names?) - RL hoping for some Cromer crab, but settling for crab sandwiches and another seafood tray of cockles, mussels and whelks. I think I’ve had my fill of these now … but hopefully won’t have to wait another 34 years for such delights. I believe RL could go longer without trying whelks again. Whilst lunching on the seafront at Wells-n-t-s we joined the crowds watching a dredger at work; each questioning the other as to the procedure and objective. We walked around the small town enjoying the picturesque houses and then made for home …

But historic Georgian Holt was en route, so we stopped to explore then stopped for tea at the Black Apollo. Curious about the name, we learned that that was the name given to coffee by several 18^th century writers. Who knew! We spent ages exploring all the nooks and crannies at Holt and found ourselves in a little shop called Baron Art where I picked up a delightful little 1897 gem titled “The story of weather.” We stayed for what seemed like days, chatting to the owner, Anthony, as if to a long-lost friend. Continuing on our wanderings around town it was finally time for dinner and we settled on doner kebabs, carved from the spit, and chips. We sat on a park bench to eat them and then made for home …

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Passing Blickling Hall we stopped for a quick photo and arrived home safely, minutes before the Yaris turned into a pumpkin.

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