Marrakech

My knowledge of the amazing kingdom of Morocco was sadly influenced by popular culture. I had seen Patsy and Edina  visit Marrakech in a drug-addled haze, and Swinton and Hiddleston swoon with vampiric boredom in Tangier. Neither a realistic representation.

Our plane swooped into Menara airport, Marrakech, over flat roofs and pink walls, flat brown earth dotted with the occasional bright green square, blue sky and golden sunshine.

We had arranged a transfer from the airport as we were staying at a riad in the old medina which was hard to find. That was an understatement. Marrakesh medina is a maze of cobbled streets too narrow for any car. Our driver stopped outside the medina walls and our bags were transferred to a large, square, makeshift wheelbarrow, pushed at breakneck speed by a wiry old man weaving left, right and left again, until we arrived at  a tiny alley and knocked on a small studded wooden door. And so, we stepped over the threshold into our tardis-like home for the next few days.

White walls, delicate archways, wrought iron balustrades with gnarled bougainvillea  reaching heavy boughs to the sky.

This sanctuary offered a glimpse into the real lives within the medina. How easy it was to step from the frenetic hustle of the crowds and cobblestones into this wonderland. How daunting it was to consider stepping back out into the madness…. but the town square, Jemaa el-Fnaa was beckoning…