Museum of Marrakech

It's my penultimate day in Marrakech. On previous trips, by this point, I'd subconsciously be starting to stress about what awaits me back at work. Unsurprisingly, my emotions on this trip are completely different. There's excitement - seeing my beloved Vicki, finding out what mischief Scout and Gizmo have been getting up to, putting in to practice some of the decisions I've made about what work I want to do in future.

There's sadness too. I'll miss Morocco generally, and Marrakech specifically. I feel like I've barely scratched the surface of this warm and welcoming country - by choice, as I've prioritised rest and relaxation above anything more adventurous. I'll be back, for sure - and hopefully with at least one partner-in-crime...

The sun's gonna be WAY too hot for my delicate, alabaster skin today, so I head into Marrakech late morning for a mooch around. There's a group of Brits behind me on the bus. Sheffield / Barnsley if I had to guess. They flew out yesterday, and clearly made a day of it. One of them repeatedly threatens to take another look at his breakfast. Sounds like they had the same ball-bustingly early flight yesterday, and instead of the parsimonious approach that I took, hit the beers at 04:00, and didn't stop till midnight. I'm equal parts smug and impressed.

On arrival at Koutubia Mosque, there's a strong smell of the urinal in the air. As I walk away from the mosque, if anything, it intensifies. I'm surprised, as I experienced nothing like this during my visit a few days ago.

I'm much more confident in my bearings after my previous visit, and I head into the Medina, looking for the Secret Garden (Jardin Secret). I mean - it's not really the secretest place ever, given I'm following Google Maps directions to get there... The garden is beautiful. It's right in the heart of the manic Medina, but you wouldn't know it. This beautiful botanical garden is an oasis of peace and quiet, in a city that otherwise doesn't seem to know the meaning of the words. I spend a restful half hour wondering around the garden, marvelling at the different cacti on display.

Back in the Medina, I plot a roundabout way of getting back to Jemaa el-Fnaa square, stopping at a couple of places along the way. I march off, and am soon drenched in sweat. It's over 30C, and in the confines of the tiny market streets, there's no breeze to be had. I encounter an enthusiastic local, who wants to take me to a tannery. I've read up on this before I headed out here. It's a common scam in the Medina, to take you to a leather shop/tannery that you didn't want to visit, and then to demand (aggressively) payment for guiding you there. I let the guy know what I'm aware it's a scam. Disappointed, he says something in Arabic that I'm sure is less than complimentary, and then slinks away to try his luck with another tourist. I'm bizarrely reminded of the one Hindi phrase I was taught on my first trip to Goa, by my dear friend Serafin. I couldn't possibly write it out for you - but in summary, it was, "No. Fuck you. I don't want it. Go away." It served me brilliantly well through the remainder of my jaunt around India...

I continue my wombling into the Souk, and from there back to Jemaa el-Fnaa. I'm sopping wet with sweat, and fall into the Cafe De France for a restorative cup of mint tea and a rest. As I do so, I read more about the Marrakech tanneries, and learn that the smell I was hit by earlier is likely a result of the tannery process - where camel urine is used to tenderise the leather. Yum.

Suitably refreshed, I wander around the market square. Again, I've been pre-warned about taking photos/videos of the ubiquitous snake charmers and monkey trainers. The merest hint of a digital record, and they will apparently expect payment. I'll have to made do with, honestly, the slightly depressing visual memories.

As I walk, I'm conscious I'm in the baking heat of the afternoon, and decide to call time on today's trip. Back at the hotel, it's well past beer o'clock, and by 4pm, I'm in a deep doze...Läs mer