Through Spain to Morocco and Back

[Jackdaw]

I've slowly been putting this together on another forum since our return.  Now its complete I thought some folks on here might want to see my Varadero in Morocco. I'll add the pictures ASAP!

Spain and Morocco June/July 2013

The Planning

It started across the dinner table. For a while I‘d been floating the idea of a ride down through the Balkans to Greece or Turkey (or both). We’d had a scoot on a fortnight’s holiday in Corfu and had a good time, but she’d not bitten at my dangled bait. Then, out of the blue one evening she’d dropped the bombshell. “We should go to Morocco.”
“How do you mean darling?” not wanting to sound too excited.
“We should go to Morocco on the bike and bring back some Argan oil,” and she goes on to tell me about how good it is for everything - hair and skin blah-blah-blah, but my mind is already racing. The fantasy is building.
“Are you sure? It’ll be hot you know,.” This is a dangerous card to play since it invites the negative response (“No you’re right, stupid idea“) But no, she wants to go.. So I book the ferry. Leave 10th June, Back 11th July.
So now down to the practicalities. Number one. Will the bike make it? Some will know that I ride an early (SD01) Varadero with well over 100k miles on it.

I was pretty certain that it would be good for at least another 5k. It would need new tyres before the trip anyway. Change the oil and filter. Check the bearings ( I knew the steering head was getting a bit notchey). I mulled over whether to get another set of Tourance or go for the TKCs. This was going to be a tarmac only trip. The Vara is a handful off tarmac and would not be improved by adding luggage and a pilllion. Tourances would do the job well.
Then the clutch started slipping. Colin Flashman, who does all my work, put new plates in and it still slipped. The needle bearings in the clutch arm rod had broken up and were preventing the clutch from engaging properly. While they were being fitted this came to light.
New clutch, new cable and new front sprocket.. Three less things to worry about. Then the exhaust started to blow. Yep! It was the difficult rear down pipe gasket. Back to the workshop, along with a second-hand set of Scorpions that I’d bought off Steve T some years ago. Sorted, but now my wallet’s a lot lighter. Can I still afford to go. A few extra days work sorted out the bank-balance. Now for a route.
Six or seven years ago we’d been to our son’s wedding. He’d chosen to get hitched in Taormina in Sicily (No, she’s a Gunnislake girl and not related to the Cosa Nostra) so we’d ridden down there. Six days of 300+ miles was way too much. I’d learned my lesson. “We’ll do 250 max and I’ll have you in a hotel by three in the afternoon,” I’d promised. So 3 days through Spain and then across into the unknown. Now Sue, my missus, has been brilliant so she deserves a bit of pampering. She needs aircon, and a pool would be an added bonus. We both like to sprawl in the sun whenever we can. I reckoned I could find places in Morocco that fitted the bill for about £50 a night and so it proved. Trouble was they were often more than a days ride apart. We’d need to stay in some cheapies as well.
I bought a few bits for the bike.

Some spiral bicycle locks for helmets/jackets left on the bike. A sheepskin, full length of the seat, from Lambland. A couple of cheap cargo nets to stretch over the crash bars. These to hold in place some roll-top bags issued to son-in -law for Afganistan. Some insulated water bottles. A tyre plugging kit and borrowed the compressor from the car. I bought hot weather riding gear for Sue. Spada jacket and HG pants.
And the planning and the fantasising continued full pelt. I read every thread I could find on various Forums. I read Morocco Knowledgebase ‘til I knew it backwards (thank you Tim Cullis). I bought Lonely Planet, Michelin 742 and ordered Morocco Overland by Chris Scott(2nd edition).
In February I went to see Sam Manicom speaking at Belstone on the edge of Dartmoor and met the only other biker there - Steve/Corbine from ABR. Sam talked about Africa. We all talked about Morocco. Steve had been. We talked about fishing (My other hobby) specifically bass fishing. He told me about Naila, a big lagoon way down the Atlantic coast and of the huge bass and corbine caught there. I bought a travel rod and a tube to carry it. I bought a helmet camera (Astac 1080) and various mounts for the bike and helmet. I reckoned that I would need maximum airflow around us while riding in the heat so bodged a low screen from the old stock screen that I had in the cellar.


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I sorted the documents, especially the D16 TER bike import form which I filled in online and printed out. I mentally rehearsed the border procedure. I wanted to avoid the touts and scammers so opted for Tangier Med, supposedly the easiest entry port. And we eventually, after what seemed like endless months, set off.



The Trip - Spain- Out
A good forecast. Light winds, slight sea state and even some warm sunshine. Jeez there was a lot on that bike and we wobbled off up the road. I’d loosely arranged to say hi to Treadtrader, who was off to Portugal on the same sailing, imagining it would be easy to hook up with someone at the port. Mistake! Millbay Docks was rammed with bikes. But I did find him later. That ABR shirt attracted my attention!



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A smooth crossing with a few pints of Guinness and we were in Spain. Follow the signs, ride on the right and within an hour there’s no other bikes in sight and the next time we’d see a UK reg. would be back in Santander 4 weeks later. We were on our own.
There is snow on the mountains and its slightly chilly, but clear and dry; great riding weather. There’s little traffic and the road is good. We need some fuel and an ATM. Hoping to find both at a services area we turn off when the next sign appears. Instead of leading into a service area the slip road takes us onto another dual carriageway with no further signs and there is no option except keep going. (We work out later to look for Via del Servicio) After about 10k a Repsol sign looms on the horizon. We pull in, fill up and get something to eat. There’s no ATM so we scrabble through the odd bits of change that we had and find enough. Should have sorted the cash before leaving Santander. We exit the motorway at Palencia, find an ATM and continue on minor roads. The landscape is flat with a low horizon. We’re on a high plateau. Fields and verges are full of wild flowers, predominantly poppies, but there’s whole swathes of yellow and purple in there as well. Stunning. Sue and I are constantly nudging each other and pointing.
First night’s stop was San Pelayo. A small guesthouse/hotel with rooms to lull Sue into a false sense of what might be to come, run by a lovely lady who spoke no English (to match our lack of Spanish!) and prepared wonderful food. The village was small and sleepy, but then it was siesta time. When everyone woke up there was still no one about. The wildflowers were out in abundance as we walked up an appetite for dinner.

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[Stewart Barker]

Next morning we rejoin the motorway at Tordesillias, venue for Los Pinguinos, a midwinter bike meet where everyone camps in the pine forest. Not for us. This day is motorway all the way and gets a bit relentless. Even the yellow flowering shrubs (broom? Gorse?) in the central reservation go on and on…Past Salamanca, over some interesting mountains with more snow, past Plasencia, past Caceres. Stop for fuel, stop for coffee, stop for a fag. (Sue, who was down to three a day has already been seduced by the cheap smokes and is full on again!).
Second night is in Merida, a former Roman garrison town. I’d not booked but remembered Hotel Cervantes as being an option. It was signposted and we found it, a utilitarian, town centre hotel, with locked garage parking available. Being a bit paranoid, what with stories of highway robbery and the like, by desperate unemployed Spanish youths, I locked the Varadero away for the night. We walked around and saw the sights and there were plenty.


We ate‘Menu del Dio’ for 8 euro a head.


When it came to dessert we were offered ‘seasonal’ fruit or flan. “What’s the fruit?”
“Banana!”
“OK, we’ll have the flan!” Now some may know, but to us first timers in Spain, it was a surprise when the ‘flan’ arrived. Not a spongy cake base with some fruit in jelly, but a crème caramel in its little plastic tub, straight off the supermarket shelf. That night we found a late night bar offering a bucket of beers and a plate of prawns for 6 euro. Get in there!

At the end of the third day we could see AFRICA. The balcony of our room at Mason de Sancho (thanks Corbs) gave a small sighting of Morocco! Next day we rest up, swim in the icy-cold pool then look for Carlos the ticket man. We find Lidl, but obviously it’s the wrong one. So we buy a ticket from a booth on the ferry terminal (open ticket, return, Inter Lines was 160 euro.), eat paella for dinner, have a good night’s sleep, induced by the last booze we’re going to drink for a while and the next day we’re going to Morocco!

Morocco.

The two o’clock Inter Lines, Algeciras to Tangier-Med sailed at three-thirty. We were the only bike on board.



The entry procedure went smoothly. They were almost impressed with the pre-printed D16 TER. A month’s insurance (950 dm cash) was purchased and the ATM raided for some spending money. So DAY 1, (To Oued Laou) or what’s left of it, here we go. Ten minutes up the road and I’ve nearly lost Sue and the luggage off the back, courtesy of a huge, botched road repair on a new stretch of dual carriageway. Reduce speed, stop looking at the scenery (which is stunning-views out over the Straits) and start paying much more attention to road surface, since I didn’t see that one coming. An hour or so later and we’re into Tetouan, a significantly larger town than I’d imagined . The traffic is slow moving. Just as well. Three ladies step onto a pedestrian crossing so I anchor on and instantly lock the front wheel! Brakes off and steer round them! Phew! (polite for F**K!) Next time we stop and my feet are down I wriggle them about. There’s no grip. Calm the nerves and start to get into this new country. People are starting to look and chat when we’re stopped at lights. Two guys on a scoot are being particularly friendly, talking about the bike and where we’re from and how the bike must be really expensive and how they’ve only got this little scooter…. I ask my new best friends if I’m still on the right road and they confirm with hand signals to keep going straight on. We pull away from the lights and continue straight on. Ten minutes later we’re in a narrow city street with cars parked both sides and clearly thee road to nowhere. I stop. Within seconds my ‘mates’ are alongside. They saw us take a wrong turn (?) and followed us to help. “Just follow us” so, against Sue’s better judgement, I did. As we ride Sue imagines us up a blind alley, robbed and throats cut, so takes a pic so they’ll know who did it.

I’m trying to remember what’s in my wallet. Nothing small because I’ve only got the ATM cash. I think there’s a 5 euro. I’ve certainly got no change. After a tortuous ten minutes through the traffic we end up in a lay-by on the RIGHT road and here comes the sting. They’re off the scoot. “Petrol money?” They’re even quite polite and smiley, until I hand over the 5 euro, having slipped it out of my wallet as carefully as I could, then it changes. The five is an insult! Nowhere near enough. Then they change tack. “The five is for me. Now the same for my friend”
“I haven’t got another”
“Yes! You have 50 dirham. I can see it.” He was right of course. The change out of a thousand I’d paid for the insurance, but now I’m pissed off because I can feel Sue’s mood changing. They’re getting nothing more. Wallet away, into gear and I’m going, whatever. Even a ride along one of the most stunning stretches of coast road to Oued Laou can’t lift the gloom. “Maybe we shouldn’t have come!
It was hard to find a room and to make matters worse there are Mozzies in the room. Sue is bitten several times and we know these will swell up and itch for days!



Day 2 To Chefchaouen. We ride up a pleasant river valley into the edges of the Rif mountains. Where ever we look there are new things to see. Donkeys, sheep, goats, cows; often on the road. People. People walking, people working in the fields wielding hand tools, people standing at the roadside often miles from any apparent settlement. We climb higher up zig-zags and there are mountains around us. It’s pleasantly warm and great to be riding. We stop to take pics at a particularly stunning gorge.




We ride on to Chaouen. It’s bigger than I’d imagined. We find the ‘Dar Eschaouen’, park in a lay-by with the hotel sign on several of the parking bays. We are approached by a man in a high-viz who makes it clear that he’s going to need some cash at some point.


Day 3 and 4 Chefchaouen. Resting, relaxing, lounging by the pool. Wandering around the blue streets and generally enjoying the blue town. We’re on holiday!





I take a walk up into the hills and spot an old couple winnowing grain on a threshing floor. I get as close as I feel is polite and when they look up I point at the camera. They nod happily and gesture me closer. I take some pics. The old man tosses some grain in the air and the chaff blows over me. We all laugh. On the point of leaving I offer a coin. It's accepted with a smile. (Discuss)

Day 5 To Azrou.
Hard to drag ourselves away from the comforts of Dar Eschchaouen. Gave the ‘guardien’ 20 deram. He wanted 30. Hotel said I didn’t need to pay him at all since I was in one of their spaces, so what I gave him was a tip. He wasn’t happy!
Followed main road . Great scenery up to Ouezzane, miles of wheatfields after. Road changes up and over hills around Moulay Idriss. Around Meknes and its getting seriously hot so it’s a relief when the road steadily climbs up onto a high plateau. Through snow gates for the first time and it’s cooler up here. Room at Hotel Panorama (well signposted) is 420 with breakfast. Bit soulless but there’s wifi and a bar!


Day 6 To Todra
What a day. The plan was to ride as far as Imilchil. This would be our first taste of the High Atlas. Back on the main drag through Khenifra and then find the turn-off signposted El Kebab! A name to conjure with if ever there was one. Though more snow gates and check directions with a crowd of folks waiting (for a bus? taxi?) by the roadside. We’re now looking for the turn-off for Aghbala. Stop briefly for a fag at the Resto at the junction. Cooking tagines are smelling lovely, but it’s too early to eat lunch.


Setting off again we can sense the change. We’re getting higher all the time. Although we are still on a sealed road the tarmac, in places, dwindles to a narrow, uneven ribbon, plenty wide enough for a bike. I ride along the middle until we meet oncoming traffic (maybe 10 vehicles in 20 miles) when I take to the stony stuff on the verges. Some drivers reciprocate by pulling over so that their nearside wheels are in the dirt, others just keep on coming so we have to get out of the way. Once again we’re on high plateau country. The barley crop is still green. I notice how sparse it is in the fields; obviously not sown by a mechanical drill, but scattered by hand. And I think of the Parable of the Sower, told to me more than 50 years ago, and I think of my infant’s school, and I think of the crows coming down to peck up the grain and instinctively glance up to a large bird circling overhead - Kite, I think. Red or Black? And I marvel at how thoughts tumble over each other in rapid succession, while the bike riding consciousness continues in the background. Make a mental note to concentrate more and coming up is an episode that gets all my attention.

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I’d expected the ‘village’ of Aghbala to be smaller. We seemed to come up on it suddenly and it was overpowering. It was market day, (the Wednesday souk?). Everyone was out on the street. We rode through , very slowly, without stopping. Why did we not stop? In all our other travels we’ve loved markets, wandering freely, taking in the sights, sampling the food, buying stuff that we didn’t really need, but here we did not stop! I think to myself that we’ve maybe lost our nerve, or that we don’t really ‘get’ Morocco yet.
We ride on, in the dust of market day lorries until we meet the juction at Tizi-n-Isly, a great place for a Resto, but there’s nothing. The map says 61k to Imilchil so we turn left and carry on. And on and on… We need a drink and some food. We need to get off the bike. At the top of every climb, at each change in the scenery,-gorge, valley, hill top we hope for a café. We stop to drink water from the water-bottles.
It’s warm of course. We’re fed-up; pissed off. We’d like to be fed up with food… and then at the top of the next rise we reach somewhere. Some rough buildings flank the road. There are mini-buses parked up.

There is a tagine standing on the roadside so we know that there food available. The man takes me into the back, to a bare room with an earth floor, to show me what’s on offer and I order up.

It tasted every bit as good as the expensive meals we’d had in Chaouen, although, to be fair, they did have more meat in them. What this tagine contained was vegetables and some bones, but what do they say about the sweetest meat? We picked up the bones and sucked off every scrap of meat. We mopped round the tagine with the hunks of fresh bread. Bloody delicious. When it was time to pay the man, he went into his ‘shop’ and came back with some money, not for me, but to show me how much the bill was..A 20, a 10 and a 5. Lunch for three quid. Result! Sue plays with the kids for a while and we think of our grandchildren back home. How different their lives are to this bunch.
Again we ride on. Imilchil can’t be much further, surely.
Tizi n’Bab’n Ouayyed is high. The drop offs are steep, often sheer and the barriers are not complete. Even in our tired state it was awesome.


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So was the sight of Lke Tiizlit, when we glimpsed it from high above. like a huge sapphire cast into the rocky waste. The Auberge on the lakeside was to be our overnight stop and we were there by three o’clock as the plan had dictated. We looked at a room and I could see immediately that Sue wasn’t happy, but she said “OK”. Then we thought about it. Were we going to sit and look at a beautiful lake for the next seven hours until bedtime? No! We’ll ride on.
Now I’m planning on my feet. Next place with ‘nice’ accommodation on our road is the Todra gorge. I reckon it’s another 3 hours riding! We’ll head there then! This bit of road was a stretch I’d looked forward to since the early stages of planning and had allowed plenty of time to dawdle. Now I was focused and determined to press on. The highlight was the Tizi-n-Tirherhouzine and, hurry or not, we were going to have a good look at this amazing pass. I’ve not seen the Grand Canyon, but this was surely something like. Huge buttresses of rock tumbling deep down imto a valley system.


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We pressed on, ticking off the names that were familiar to me. We passed through lush valleys and small villages, the narrow road threading between mud walls. In one village there were children playing. The Scorpion cans on the Varadero gave them notice of our arrival. They lined the street, waving and shouting. At the end of the village a small girl carrying a baby rushed out , screaming incessantly with her free hand outstretched. There was no mistaking what she wanted, nor was there any ambiguity in the look that was in her eyes when she realised we were not stopping. Eventually the road takes on a downward trend. Ait Hani looks like it might have hotels, but it was now Todra or bust. The valley sides get steeper and closer. The walls start to tower over us. Surely we must be there soon, but like all roads in Morocco this one seems to go on and on. We spot a roadside notice. ‘Auberge… can’t see the rest. But quite soon there’s another …De La Festival’ That’ll do nicely. We’ve arrived.

The Auberge is situated in the higher, quieter end of the Todra gorge. Half board was 700 derhams, so within budget, and the dinner and breakfast were very good. The ‘tower’ room looked out over the gorge and was very comfortable, if rather warm during the night.

There was one other couple staying, so when the night’s entertainment (the staff drumming and singing) started the performers outnumbered the audience. We sat out and watched and listened as the occasional vehicle crept into or out of the gorge, but nothing, not even the howling of the stray dog somewhere out in the night, disturbed our sleep.



In the morning we watched, amazed as a shepherd took his flock across a sheer rockface on the way to higher pastures.

[Stewart Barker]

Day 7,8,9. Boumaine Dades
This really was a short day’s riding. I’d booked Tassiouline for three nights on the basis that by now we’d need a rest and there was a pool! We had the hotel and the pool pretty much to ourselves all day, with a few other guests arriving each evening in 4x4s. This was our base for a short ride up the Dades Gorge, one of the highlights of the trip.


The road twists and turns away from the main road, following a river, so there are lush fields along the bottom and steep, craggy moutainsides above. The bike feels relatively nimble again without the clutter of luggage and we’re riding without the pressure of having to get somewhere. We’re just bimbling. We pass the ‘monkey fingers’ rocks. Impressive. Then the road starts to climb. The first hairpin negotiated and as the second looms quickly I realise we’re on this iconic stretch of road. It’s even on the cover of the map!

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At the top I drrop Sue off and go back down, solo, so that she can take some pics of me on the way up. We have a coffee on a terrace with a precipitous drop and then ride on up the valley. We admire the resourcefulness of Moroccan farmers who make the most of any flat piece of land that can be irrigated. Soon we come to the gorge itself.


Smaller in scale than the Todra, but narrower and there is water in the river. Through the gorge and the landscape opens up once more and it is clear that this, like all Moroccan roads goes on and on and…
I had considered riding on to Msemir, where the tarmac turns to piste, but cut the journey short, turned back and enjoyed the leisurely ride down again.
That night we eat in town on a balcony overlooking the souk entrance. Great for people watching and there were certainly plenty to watch. The next day we leave the bike at the hotel and walk down among the green fields along the river bottom. It’s cool and relaxing. The folks we pass mostly have friendly smiles. We walk back up to the town, through a dusty back street. I’m watching a blacksmith outside his forge. Three guys have their backs to a wall in the shade and watch us as we pass. We’re 20 yards up the road when a stone comes rattling up the street, narrowly missing our ankles. We don’t stop. The message is clear.

Day 10 Boumaine- Ourzzazate - Tazenakht- Taliouine..
Just writing this you would know that it was too far. Originally I put in another short day to Ourzzazate, but after three days in the same place we wanted to be moving on (towards the sea now). Taliouine was the saffron capital and we’d also get Argon oil. So we pressed on. Sue wanted to see Ait Benhaddou. She loves ‘Gladiator’ and wanted to see the setting. It was hot. Too hot to walk across to the actual buildings so we made do with pics.

A cold drink and we press on. The road to Tazenakht is interesting for a while, but soon I’m hoping for a more open vista at thee top of each crest. Instead, the road climbs to the high point, zig-zags down the other side and we look out towards yet another ridge to cross. It’s now very hot! Eventually we pull in to Tazenakht, dusty and hot. The digital display above the pharmacy show 46! It’s Sunday and the cafes are rammed, the grills are billowing fragrant smoke and we need to eat. Sue feels uneasy in exclusively male company. Hardly surprising! The grilled lamb brochettes were tasty.
Back on N10 again and its another endurance test. This time its long straights, rather than ups and downs. Fifty odd miles later, getting on for 2 hours riding and we’re dropping down into Taliouine, accompanied by a searing hot wind. Imagine the wife sticking her hairdrier, on hot, in through your visor and you’ll get the idea. We check into a campsite with rooms and a pool. The rooms are shabby, but have air-con. The pool is so green that the Sunday afternoon bathers disappear when they dive in. Hot as I am I ain’t going in there.

Day 11 Taliouine - Tafraoute
Next morning we rise early, eat breakfast and stop in the town to buy Saffron. I pay 35 for a gram. I reckon it’s the right price and buy several sealed jars as presents. The aroma inside the museum/cooperative is amazing and it permeates everything in the tank-bag.. Tim Cullis recommended the road from Taliouine to Tafraoute through Igherm and I could understand why. It was stunning, remote, bleak…the adjectives keep coming. We saw a truck which had gone over the edge. Brakes failed coming down the pass? Driver sleeping? Whatever the reason it focussed my attention on the road once more.












Auberge Kasbah Chez Amaliya is highly recommended, understandably so. The façade and entrance suggests a high price but we paid 500 a night, including breakfast. It was a welcome sight and the pool was just the right temperature. 
 
We decided to stop for two nights so Day 12 was a ride to Ait Mansour and back.
We’d had this day out recommended by other guests so went to check it out. Didn’t disappoint. Another fantastic gorge ride, but this time there was the palmerie at the bottom, lush, green and shady.

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Back to the poolside to relax after. The setting of this hotel is fantastic. A high mountain ridge - Jebel L’Kest and the Ameln valley runs across the back. Ordered dinner. I’d looked forward to eating B’stilla and it was on the menu. Made with chicken, rather than pigeon, but tasty never-the-less.


We did a brief ride into Tafraoute for shopping for Argon oil and Amlou - a dip/spread made from toasted almonds, argon oil and honey. Delish. The town seemed fairly laid-back and we enjoyed a spot of people watching.
With the benefit of hindsight we should have stayed longer at Chez Amaliya , but we could almost smell the salt air. We wanted to get to the seaside and dip our blistered toes in the Atlantic

Day 13 (not a good omen) To Sidi Ifni
Sidi Ifni was the ultimate goal. The beaches along that piece of coast, Mirlift and Legzira, looked stunning and there was the promise of some great fishing with the possibility of a large bass. The fishing gear was still untouched. We set off in good spirits, despite leaving one of the nicest hotels we had stayed in. We avoided the main road to Tiznit, since we had been warned of long stretches of roadworks. Another great ride with very little traffic. Eventually we reached the Col de Kerdous and it was all downhill from here! The air was now deliciously cool and we felt we could smell the sea air. Stopped for a coffee in Tiznit (nice town, but much bigger than I’d imagined!) and then pushed on to the coast.
The low bank of cloud on the horizon introduced the first feelings of unease. We got closer, but the cloud didn’t shift and our first view of the sea was of grey waves through thick grey mist. Could’ve been Cornwall. The novelty of feeling chilly soon wore off.


We tried the hotel we had been recommended, but they could only offer us one night. They were fully booked for the Berber music festival. We checked in to Suerte Loca with a room overlooking the sea. With the sun shining in through the windows it would have been fine, but nowhere looks good in drizzle. We walked to the fish market and ate grilled sardines. Not great. An opinion endorsed by three Moroccans who had a blazing row with the proprietor, I guess regarding thee freshness of the fish! We walked on the beach. I could only see thee piles of building rubble stacked up alongside the river, waiting for the winter floods to wash them into the sea. The next morning we checked out as early as we could and headed north.

Day 14 To Essaouirra
The day when a mechanic at a filling station helped me top up the oil (On the Vara, without a main stand it’s a 2 man job. One to hold the bike up level and the other to get on their knees to check the level in the little porthole) and didn’t expect payment and was pleased with the tip I gave him. We stopped and had a good lunch of deep fried fish at Taghazout, then rode on. Maybe we should have stopped. The beach looked nice.
A fantastic road along the coast made for good riding. Eventually the road climbed into the hills and it was back to the zig-zags that were by now second nature. We stopped for tea at a crossroads in a town. I used the toilet, but had no coin to leave in the attendant’s dish. I gestured that I would come back when I had change. We sat and drank our tea. A vagrant wandered between the tables, not begging or disturbing us in any way. He rummaged through the bin on the corner of the street and went on his way. Five minutes later he passed by again on the pavement. The waiter rushed out from the back, pursued the man and delivered a hefty fore-arm smash across the back of his neck. He stumbled and then limped off as quickly as he could between the traffic. I paid for the tea. I think he said sixteen derham. (We’d never paid more and often less for 2 mint teas) I gave 20. The waiter asked for small money, but I had none. He went in the back and when he returned started serving other customers. I asked about my change; I needed a coin for the toilet attendant. I received no change, just a tirade of insults and if I wanted change I could come back the next day, week… We beat a tactical retreat. I’d been seen off, but the toilet lady missed out.
On to Essaouira. Cheap but presentable hotel near the bus station. Hazy, atmospheric light. Wheeling gulls. Busy fish market. Great street market. Walk on the ramparts. Get offered hash cakes (happy cakes). Eat grilled fish at the much publicised fish cafes outside the fish quay. We’re freezing cold and the fish was not that great..



In the morning its drizzling. We pack up and leave. But where are we going? We’re rapidly running out of options.

[Stewart Barker]

Day 14.
We’re going to go back to Chefchaouen, but I reckon that’s three days away, so today we’re by-passing Marrakesh heading for the Cascades d’Ouzoud. Because of the rain Sue gets fully kitted up. For the past few days she’s packed her jacket and ridden in t-shirts. Thank goodness for the rain!
The main drag to Marrakesh is a four-laner, with a variety of central reservations. We see joggers and cyclists using this 2 foot wide space between the traffic. The road is generally straight, good for 60mph,and there’s not much traffic about. There’s a car a fair distance in front and I can see over it. The road is clear for a mile or more. Then the car’s brake lights go on. Why? I roll off the throttle expecting engine braking to be enough. But its not so I hit the brakes as firmly as I dare. He’s doing an emergency stop in the middle of the road and then throwing open the drivers door and jumping out. My only option is to take to the dirt and we squeeze by safely. That was close enough. What was he doing? As we pass I see across on the other carriageway. A horse pulling a cart has bolted. The owner is frantically, almost comically pursuing it up the road, legs pumping, arms flailing. Our hero in the car has spotted this, slammed on and then raced across the road to catch the beast. Was he successful? Don’t know. I’m just glad we didn’t crash into his rear.
A few hours later we’re back on the N8 and the traffic slows. There’s been an accident at a junction. It’s a bike and we guess an artic. The ambulance is there and there are two body bags on the road!
We turn off the main road at the sugar beet factory. I tell myself “Not long now” but its more than 30k, so more than an hour. We cross a rickety bridge over a gorge and start climbing a narrow road. Its endless zig-zags and few barriers. Some fantastic scenery, but surely we must be there soon. I’m well into the rhythm of the curves. Slip the clutch going in then power on up and out. And then, as I ease open the throttle out of a bend we’re spinning round and down. The worst nightmare has happened. I’m up in an instant. I check Sue and help her up. She’s OK; frightened and maybe shocked. In a t-shirt she’d have lost some skin from her elbows I reckon. On a road where we had passed so few vehicles two bikes now appear coming down. They stop and help us, look after Sue, help me get the bike up. No damage to speak of. The pannier and crash bars have done a good job. As I get up the cause of our crash is immediately apparent. Diesel! All over the bend. I guess a truck has broken down at this spot and dumped a couple of gallons right on the apex! After five minutes we’re on our way again.
We ride into the village of Ouzoud just as the mosque is emptying after Friday prayers. We are immediately spotted by our new ‘best friend’, who has a hotel and will take us there now. Sounds good to me so we follow our friend who runs alongside the bike.
Hotel de France is OK, bit like a greek taverna, with tables under olive and almond trees.


We check out a room with bathroom, small but functional, and reasonably priced at 250, but the toilet cistern syphon is broken and its constantly filling. We look at another room with air-con and 4 beds at 550. We sit and chat with our mate and he tells us about the falls and he can take us and show us. Sue’s not keen but I fancy a look. I ask how much, because I’m starting to get the hang of Morocco (I think). “No, no charge for my friend.”
“OK then, in the morning…”
Another bike pulls in. Dutch couple on a V-Max. We chat to the guy while his wife goes to look at the air-con room. We’re getting on fine and I’m quite looking forward to some company over dinner, when the wife and ‘Our New Best Friend’ come back. She’s not happy. He’s not happy. This is not just bartering over the price of a room. Soon they’re trading proper insults and the upshot is the couple get up and go. Just me and Sue for dinner then! Our mate then tells me the cause of the disagreement and I remind him about the toilet and he, possibly in haste, tells us to take the air-con room for the same price as the smaller one. We move our gear.
In the morning I meet with ‘Our New Best Friend’ and he gives me the waterfall tour.


It’s very good. Impresssive with a good amount of water coming over. He tells me he’s a guide and takes coach parties around. Back at the hotel Sue’s up and about and he’s persuading her to go with him. She’s not really interested, but eventually agrees to just 5 minutes to look at the top of the falls. While they are away he sees her taking pics on her I-phone. She lets on that she also has an I-pad. He explains that since it’s a tradition in Morocco to exchange gifts with new friends, he has a valuable plate that belonged to his mother that he is prepared to swap for the I-pad. He’s very persistent, but still good natured. When they return I decide to give him something. I take out a 50 and offer it, thanking him for taking me. He looks and laughs and says “No,no.” I think I’ve embarrassed him by offering to pay for what he said would be “No charge” But its not that. My 50 is not enough! He wants 150 for TWO tours. Like a mug I hand it over. Afterwards I shrug and reckon he’s just getting back some of the difference for the room.

Day 15 Back to Azrou
We spent all day, and what a hot day it was, competing with sugar beet trucks in one direction and onion trucks in the other on N8. Overtaking was often difficult so it was doubly demoralising when they all passed again while we were stopped for coffee. A thunderstorm over the mountains promised some rain, which we prayed for, but didn’t materialise.
Checked into the Panorama again and had a nice meal in town opposite the mosque. The bill was half as much again as my worst case estimate. Seen off again.

Day 16 Back to Chefchaouen
Hopefully via Fez. Morning visit to ATM unsuccessful. Tried another. No good. Trie different cards. No good. We have enough fuel to get on the road, but will need some soon . I have some euros that I can use but the restaurant last night took my petrol money! There doesn’t seem to be a working ATM in the North of Morocco. Worrying about cash spoils the ride up through Ifrane, which really does have the flavour of the Alps.
Should’ve invested in a Satnav. Instead of taking a quiet country road from Fez, I missed my turn and ended up on the motorway to Meknes! Now we’re retracing our route out.



We check back into Dar Eschchaouen, although all the standard rooms are full. They give us a suite, which is very nice, for the same money. We spend another 3 nights there. We like Chaouen.

Day 19 To Tangier Med and Spain
Plenty of time to check out and have a leisurely ride back to Tangier Med. We’ve arranged to meet some new friends at their home in Spain that night so that’s our destination. Negotiate Tetouan without incident and take the motorway north to M’Diq, then follow the coast road. Something’s afoot! There are massive flags all along our route. There are street sweepers in smart blue boiler suits every 500 metres. All the junctions and roundabouts have 2 or 3 cops being officious. A barracks (Royal Palace) has a guard of honour outside. The King is on tour!
We reach the port, only to be told, that there are no Inter lines Sailings today. We have to go to Tangier Port. Our ticket will be good there. We can take one of the fast boats that go to Tarifa! Not a good journey. I just follow the motorway and b*****ks to the speed limit. I’m going home. A long drag through the city brings us to the port, hot,tired and with frayed nerves. And here are the nice, helpful men in High-viz jackets with the shipping line logo, (implying that they are employees of Inter Lines, presumably on wages, whose job it is to help inter-line ticket holders) asking for our ticket. “This ticket is for Tangier Med. You are in the wrong place.”
I explain. He listens.
“Wait here, I will phone my boss” He plays a charade of walking away with his phone to his ear and then, in ten seconds, comes back and says he’s sorted it out with his boss. We can go from here. I know this.
“Give me your passports” He takes our passports to an office and returns immediately. “It’s OK” Now comes the sting. I hand over 20 derham. It’s obviously an insult, not a tip. He shows other High-Viz wearers, who , of course, agree. One of them says, quite clearly to “F**k off back to our own country!” I’m now waved forward by a ‘proper’ uniform who tells me to take passports to the window! This is the ‘proper’ window. The passports are scrutinised and thrown back across the desk to me. The D16 is checked by another proper uniform and eventually we are waved through to join a short queue. The loader at the ramp also wants to see our ticket and passports, so does his mate who comes along 2 minutes later. Eventually we get loaded on. The fast boat sails to Tarifa an hour and a half later! It is a shorter journey and soon we are back down on the car deck disembarking. It chaos! Engines started, horns blaring before the doors are open. We’re at the front end of the queue. The ramp has huge pads covering the gap between boat and quayside. I aim for one but realise that if I ride over it I wont be able to touch my feet down, because it so fat. I need to back off a bit and steer round. I cant back up though because the car behind has his bumper under my pannier and, despite the fact that I am not moving, is slowly edging forward and pushing us over. Impatient t**t! The guy on the ramp sees what’s happening and shouts. The driver behind eases away. I manage to get round the pad and onto the quayside.

We eventually meet our friends who live a mile and a half up an unmade track. Who says Varaderos can’t do off-road? We travel on the next day, and the next and next retracing our route up through Spain, but have 4 nights spare, before the ferry. We aim for Asturias, decide on the peninsula above Aviles and find a very comfortable and welcoming small hotel on the cliff-top. We have a holiday!
Sue on the road to Ronda.


I think this 'pose' is really cool. However,if the pic was scratch and smell it would suggest that I'd been sleeping with the donkeys for the past 4 weeks.




Would I go back to Morocco? No! Writing these last few paragraphs I still have a bad taste in my mouth. Am I glad we went? Absolutely! I scratched an itch. We bought Argan oil and Saffron.(Oh and a big tray that appears strapped to the pannier in some pics) We saw some amazing scenery, stayed in some wonderful places and rode along some epic roads. We had brilliant times as well as sh***y ones Would I recommend it to others? Oh yes, but don’t let your fantasies run away with you as I allowed mine to do.
The bike was solid and reliable. I had a nail in the tyre coming back up through Spain, which, luckily had gone sideways into the tread block and not punctured. On the last day riding to Santander, the engine suddenly cut out. Reg/rec I’d immediately thought and was mentally fitting the spare I had with me, but pressed the starter and she fired up and away we went. I’d dropped the bike and the only damage was the latch on the side box. I’d achieved better fuel figures than expected, possibly due to low speed riding in Morocco, but maybe the low screen has affected this. It used a litre and a half of oil in just under four thousand miles.
That’s it. 
 

[Two Plugs]

Excellent write up, Jack!

[Jasper]

Thanks for sharing your adventure(s) 

[welshwizard]

Brilliant reporting Jack. Thank you very much for sharing your experiences.

[Athanman]

I really enjoyed your report mate , thanks for the infos.