Marrakech
Pat White, Client.
The main square in Marrakech comes to life in the late afternoon and buzzes long into the night. Cars cannot cross after 4pm. We are met at the edge of the square by Saïd, porter from the Riyad, who leads us expertly through the carts, mules, caleches, mopeds and people, laughing at our expressions. "Keep walking straight," he says, "they'll avoid you." And, miraculously, they do.
We cross the square, all senses bombarded. Stallholders yelling, hooves clopping, multicoloured spices piled high on stalls. Fresh oranges are being squeezed, the peel tossed onto donkey carts patiently waiting. And a barrage of smells, not all identifiable.
It is hot and dark. Saïd leads us down a narrow lane and keeps pointing out landmarks as we go. "Turn left at this minaret." - we enter an alley - "straight on to the end, and turn right" - this alley is narrower - "and now we arrive." He bangs on a studded wooden door and we enter a small, dark hallway.
Saïd tells us to leave our bags and follow him. We go along dimly lit corridors and up narrow stairways.
"Here is your terrace." We peer over the balustrade into a courtyard formally laid out in the traditional square, with orange and lemon trees and lanterns. The suite is L-shaped. Our bedroom is large and cool. The bathroom has a shower, sunken bath and a pile of spotless white towels.
Our fridge holds an enticing selection of wines and soft drinks. We select the rosé and take it to the sofa on our terrace where Saïd has laid out pastries, pistachios, dates and glasses of fresh orange juice. We sip, sample and relax in our oasis.
