Essaouira, Morocco

I admit it upfront: I’ve never been anywhere as different as Morocco. Obviously, this is an entirely subjective viewpoint, but I grew up in New York City, lived in its suburbs, went to university in the US midwest (or maybe Ohio is mideast?), then moved to London, from where I’ve spent the past 10 years travelling my little heart out, trying to make up for lost time, trying to pack as much as poss into whatever time I have…

I’ll never forget my first trip to Crete, circa 1988. The flight arrived pre-dawn and we waited in a large square in Heraklion for the island to wake up and the buses to start running to take us, in stages, to a small town called Loutro, which in those days had no roads, so the last bit was done by boat. As we sat in the dark, waiting for the sun to rise, I was intensely aware of how different it was. Not just the sights and sounds, but even the air smelled different – warm, exotic to my nose. Maybe, before the traffic started, I even smelled wild thyme from the mountains. All I know is I was struck to my core by how other it all was: the voices speaking Greek, as the waiters began unpacking the tables and chairs to place outside their restaurants; the stray dog that attached itself to us, whose coat was dusty and coarse; the light, when at last day came, was a yellow I’d never seen before; the landscape, the shape of the buildings, the cars, the colours – everything – was just… other.

I fell in love with the differentness then and I’ve been searching for it again ever since, because like a junky who needs a bigger and bigger hit to get the same high, nowhere else in Europe was ever quite as new to me again.

But Morocco. It is utterly fresh and unusual all over again. The only thing I recognised was the hippy-style decor – hand-knotted rugs in earthy colours, piles and piles of cushions, candles in punched-metal or glass containers, tiles and terracotta, old-blood-coloured walls – but the hippies obviously took their cue from this country, not vice versa.

Some of it is so magically beautiful – like the resort we stayed in, Le Jardin des Douars, about 15 minutes' drive out of town –  and don't let the word 'resort' put you off. That's just shorthand for adobe-style houses with individually furnished and decorated rooms with their own private terraces set in the most incredibly lush gardens, so that every bush, vine and plant is a flowering variety, creating wonderful splashes of colour everywhere you look.

Then some of it is heartbreakingly dirty or small or desperate, like the man with the popcorn stall who had only about two bags worth of the stuff to sell. Either he didn’t want to waste the precious kernels by popping any that wouldn’t be sold or he hadn’t more to pop. That’s the sort of thing that makes me come over all tearful. Or the piles of pre-worn plastic sandals and flip-flops for sale, a cat sleeping incongruously among them. And then there was the ‘auction market’ as our ad hoc guide* called it, which was a walled square – or maybe just a space where a building used to be – filled with heaps of broken toys, old clothes, bits of cups… Rubbish, you might think, and everywhere a terrible smell, of dirt, excrement, who knows, because the mind doesn’t really want to take it in. But this was a market, a place where presumably someone might want to buy something or need to make a sale. I imagined, because of the rotting heaps of fabric, that what wasn’t sold just became part of the general debris…

And then there was the beautiful 11km-long sandy Mogador Bay, where for 150MAD (about £14) you could be taken for an hour’s camel ride, all the way to Castle Rock, alleged inspiration for Jimi Hendrix’s Castles Made of Sand, which he (again allegedly, but let’s go with it, for myth’s sake) wrote after spending three days here in 1969. If you’ve never ridden a camel over sand dunes, well, it has to be done. Alternatively, you could have a ride on one of the extraordinarily beautiful horses (though as small as ponies), each one with perfect confirmation – arched, muscly neck; rounded hind quarters; large brown eyes and flowing manes and tails. Probably bought for a song, but would fetch a good price back in the UK or USA, I couldn’t help thinking. Arabians or something like them.

Or the streets of the medina, some looking like a bombed-out war zone, others as if the scenes hadn’t changed for centuries. A picture I took, when given a ‘noir’ filter, looked as if it could have been taken circa 1950, maybe even earlier. Heaving with stallholders selling heaped-up piles of fresh mint, stacked round bread, a machine that stripped the sweet contents out of sugar canes, the liquid harvested in a glass to be drunk by the customer. No paper or plastic cups here – far too expensive. Likewise sacks: I saw a woman, squatting on the ground, selling thin-to-the-point-of-transparent plastic carrier bags. A man carrying a tray of cookies wandered up and down, hawking them with the words, “Fresh made”. It made me think of photographs I’ve seen of New York City’s Lower East Side from the turn of the last century. Hordes of people, always, moving up and down, shopping, going home or to work, or visiting or coming from school or going to mosque or… Just being out.


Then there was the fish market, on a pier, the Atlantic rollers hitting one side hidden by a high wall, ships unloading their catch on the other. All along, stalls selling everything from sardines to sand sharks to eels to dorade and more I didn’t recognize. Or you could buy them charred straight from the grill. Underfoot was a black squash that didn’t bear too much looking at; and I envied my companion’s lack of a sense of smell. It didn’t even smell fishy, but of something unspeakable. Rotted. Shit, maybe. But so much hustle and bustle. Bicycles and half-motorcyle, half-cart vehicles weaving through the throng. An 18-wheeler being loaded with ice-packed crates of small fish…

Does it sound ugly? There was ugliness and a certain disgustingness, but also an excitement. Everything – every thing – was unlike any thing else I’ve seen before. And? It was fascinating and alive feeling. And beautiful and amazing and… I’m already looking for the next hit.

*Wandering down one alleyway, we came to a shop selling medicinal herbs. The man whose establishment this was stopped us by asking about the book my companion was carrying, then was very insistent that my companion sniff crushed nigella seeds and, finally, giving us no choice in the matter, led us across an empty fish market, down this alleyway and that, further and further from the more-visited main streets, until we were getting nervous and on edge. Where were we going? Where was the promised ‘women’s co-operative’ making argan oil he was sure we had to visit? But finally, finally, we went through a doorway, in and out of the first room, to a windowless back room where an old woman sat on the floor cracking open argan nuts. He talked us through the process to oil, showing us the handgrinder, then took us back to the front room where another woman sat and offered us some half-eaten bread, which we declined, saying we’d just eaten (we had) and then we said thank you very much and scooted. It was all very… odd. We’d both, my companion and I, had the sense that anything might have happened: a robbery, maybe, or worse. But nothing did and so it has become a story… And perhaps our 'guide' was just showing us these women after all and why not? But that is Morocco. Random moments, acts of kindness and great hospitality, along with something unknown...

Castle Rock

Majorca in September

When the directions for finding our villa ran to three pages, a wariness took hold. I've been on many a trip that's started out so well – flying along a motorway, watching the klicks add up, making great time – only to lose it all and plenty more crawling along dark country lanes at night, trying to find the 'tall cypress tree just before the bins, then turn into the small lane on your right...'

I needn't have worried. Our destination, in the north-east of the island, in beautiful countryside between Pollença and Port de Pollença, was exactly where described. We arrived in 55 minutes with no kerfuffle of lostness and there it was: the wrought-iron gates, the wooden sign to the side, Finca Cuxach, and the key where we'd been told it would be.

Finca means farmhouse and Cuxach retains all of its rustic, traditional charm – bare stone walls, whitewashed inside, which are an arm's length deep; beautiful sandstone blocks for windowsills and doorways; tiles underfoot; ceiling beams and a terracotta roof; along with pretty still-life arrangements on mantelpieces and table tops – think earthenware bottles of varying sizes, a row of ladles along a wall, a mounted blue-flowered bowl and plenty of scatter cushions.

There are three bedrooms – one double upstairs with its own en suite bathroom – two down (one double, one with twin beds), along with a second bathroom all off on one side of the central entry hall/sitting room. To the opposite side is a large room with kitchen, dining and living space, so that, from the outside, the house looks entirely symmetrical.

Along with all the rusticity is fast wifi, satellite TV, CD player, microwave, dishwasher and all the usual kitchen gadgets and appliances, plus more than enough airport-bought paperbacks to keep you going for years if you forgot to bring anything to read. Outside is an enormous, shaded terrace with two eating areas, so you can mix it up or choose whichever is getting the darkest shade.

I've saved the best for last: a crystal clear, delightfully clean and sparkling-in-the-sunlight pool. It's the sort of amenity that has you saying, wherever else you may visit, "Shall we just go back to the villa?" when presented with possible ways of spending the rest of your day. Because it's quiet, peaceful, private. I literally had a moment when I felt the stress leave my body, lying on a lounger, listening to the nearby cockerell crow and realising there was nothing to do but just be.

Cuxach isn't in the middle of nowhere, but in an area of both working farms and high-end villas, some restored fincas, like ours, others more-recently built, but clearly with a lot of money. We couldn't see our neighbours, though we knew they were there, which is fine.

You might be thinking that, as we came in September, it would be cooler and this is the case at night, when you wake up searching for the sheet, but daytime temps were hovering around 30-31°C (that's upper 80s for you fahrenheiters), which is hot enough. We made it out of our domain every day and these were the highlights I'd recommend:

1. Formentor Lighthouse. Yes, everyone does it, but there's a reason for that. The winding road takes you past astonishing vertical drops and views that make you reach for your camera.

2. Port de Pollença. For the waterfront promenade, for the ice-cream kiosk at the Yacht Club Roundabout, for the people watching from a harbourfront café and probably for dinner one night. It's also the place to pick up one of the many boat excursions. We went on a half-day trip with the Maria Isabel, which promises no more than 12 guests and is a beauty of an authentic Majorcan sailboat.

3. Pollença itself. Probably the most beautiful of the Old Towns, with lovely squares, an astonishing church – it looks deceptively plain from outside, inside it's more heavily painted and ornate than Westminster Abbey – little one-off shops and plenty of dinner possibilities.

4. Alcudía, which made me think of a mini-Avignon with its castle-ly fortifications. The street market, which we found on a Tuesday, was a jolly affair and there was plenty of delicious fresh produce which is bound to tempt.

5. Palma, under an hour away – we did it in 50 minutes without breaking any speed limits – is definitely worth a day trip. Take a walk past the marina to gawk at the super-yachts, wander the Old Town streets, visit the Cathedral if you must, then collapse at a pavement café.

The best reason to go in September though, is that the summer crush has gone home to school timetables and jobs, and while there are visitors here all year round, it's simply that bit emptier and quieter, but totally still feels like summer.

Our villa came through TravelOpo. It sleeps six and prices start from £850 pw.

Oh, one last thing you might want to do here: look at the stars...

Island hopping near Athens

Das Boot

Have you ever thought, "This can't be my life – I must have stumbled into someone else's"? That's pretty much how I felt for the entire long weekend I went with a small group of friends who'd hired a ginormous (motorized) catamaran that we picked up in Pireas, the Greek capital's port.

Did someone say hot? Was like being steamed. Walking became syrupy, water was drunk like, well, water. We spent one night in what was likely the red-light district – but was a perfectly decent hotel – then stocked up in the morning with food and drink and set off...

Once out of the harbour, the ocean breeze took the heat off. First thing was getting the far side of the shipping lane, next thing was heading to Poros, an island on the other side of the Saronic Gulf from Athens, so not too far a ride – maybe 90 minutes?

We moored in a lovely bay with a taverna on the beach and some of us swam in for a coffee, while others of us just swam off the boat and generally lazed about in the sun. See? Whose life could this be? Surely not mine...

Poros Town

Next stop was Poros Town, where we docked with much instruction from the local restaurateurs hopeful for a large party for dinner (sorry!) and then a walk-about. Back came the full force of the heat – boom – like a heavy cloak, so that every step felt a little too far, but what a pretty place. The stone-cobbled street that ran one block in from the touristy-tat-filled harbourside had bakeries run by mom and pop, the fittings installed back in the 1940s or 50s still in place. Like stepping back into a movie set of old-time Greece.

Mandraki Bay

Me trying to tie a bowknot

Next day, we had to wait for all the boats that had moored up against us – three or four deep – to leave before we could – though to be fair, it didn't really hold us up. Today's sailing was to Hydra, a long skinny island just around the mainland from Poros and maybe a 45-minute ride further. Here we moored again, this time in a smaller bay, called Mandraki (population 11),  but with the requisite taverna and this time I swam in with the others. How unutterably perfect is it to climb dripping out of the sea, sit down at a pretty wooden table under a grape-vine-clad trellis and order feta-cheese topped salads, eating while you dry off? None of the simple ingredients – tomatoes, cucumber, green bell pepper, oregano – ever taste so good anywhere else but in this setting.

Hydra

In the evening, we took a water taxi from the boat round into the next bay, where Hydra Town itself is. For over 300 years, Hydra belonged to Venice (almost until the end of the 16th century) and you can see this in the style of the pretty townhouses. There are also a number of notable mansions here and fortifications left over from the Greek War of Independence from the Ottoman Empire. Rumour has it that Leonard Cohen has a place on Hydra. We ate dinner at Zefyros, which was cheap but delicious – choose lots of mezze plates and share. It's just down the furthest-left-hand street that leads off the harbour if you're standing with your back to the water.

Goodbye Hydra

One more thing about Hydra: there are no motor vehicles, so the only way to get around is by horse, mule or donkey. Oh, and by boat...

What? We have to go back to Athens and fly home? In that case, please let's leave it to the last possible moment. Yay, everyone else feels the same and so we pootled on from Mandraki Bay to Egina, the island closest to Athens and so naturally a little busier, for a last swim in to a beach taverna, a last fizzy drink under a canopy while the hawkers come by trying to sell everything from watches to solar phone chargers. One of our party had a look at everything and
eventually just gave one of these men €10 but didn't buy anything –  to the man's initial confusion and then gratitude.

Hello again, Athens. Maybe next time I'll get to see your sights (but only if it's at least 20° cooler...).

Athens in the distance

24 hours in Barcelona

Shhhhhh. Top secret. That's the way on film sets. So I'm afraid I can't tell you what I saw (except that it was very cool) or what was being filmed, but I can tell you that I was sent to Barcelona (orginally*) for just one day, flying in first flight, leaving on last, to write a behind-the-scenes piece on the making of a TV advert.

Wait, I'm being given a round-trip ticket to Barcelona? Does it matter then, when I use the return? No? Then I'll come back the following evening, thanks very much. Oh, and can I review a hotel while I'm there? Yes? Fabulous! That means I'll have 24 hours to explore the city.

The filming took place inside a huge exhibition hall-type place, right by the bottom of the steps leading up to the National Museum of Calalan Art. A hefty climb up in the summer heat is worth it for the fabulous views alone (I can't vouch for what's inside, because I didn't have time to go in) and if you walk around the back, you can see the park and buildings left over from the 1992 Olympics. Yet more tantalising possibilities for exploration, but for another day...

My kotch for the night was Room Mate Carla, on  Carrer Mallorca. It's cool, calm and quiet downstairs, with a very sensible noon check-out, so you can totally take your time over the vast, help-yourself-buffet breakfast. Best of all, to my mind, was the room. Huge, with heaps of storage (if only I were staying that long!), a comfy sofa, a big bathroom with heaps of lovely smellies to wash, scrub and moisturise yourself with and – oh joy! – a balcony overlooking the street with a side-on view down to the spires of the Sagrada Familia.

In case you don't know, this was to be architect Antoni Gaudi's masterpiece. A drip-sand-like castle of a cathedral he started building in 1883 and had not finished by the time of his death 43 years later in 1926. A great unfinished masterpiece which, though construction continues to this day, "will never finish", or so said my taxi driver with a mixture of affection and ruefulness.

In the morning, after a delicious sleep on the enormous bed and filling up on croissants, eggs and fruit, I left my bag at reception and walked to the cathedral. I didn't go in – too many people and I'm not great with heights, but it's worth a slow walk around and I found my new favourite tree: jacaranda. These are the astonishing purple-flowered ones throughout the little park square in front.

The best way to see any city? On foot. And as I love architecture and the unusual, Barcelona is perfect, with so many beautiful buildings by Gaudi which he did, thankfully, finish. It's an easy city to walk around too, because much of it is on a grid. I took off in the general direction of Casa Batllo, which Gaudi didn't actually build, but did completely re-fashion.

Along the way, I came upon one of Barcelona's many covered markets. You've probably heard about La Boqueria, the huge one just off La Rambla, but I actually preferred this smaller one. For a start, it wasn't rammed and it also had the feel of a neighbourhood place, where folks were picking up food for their families, treating their young children-in-tow to a freshly made fruit drink. I had a cup of strawberry and coconut for a euro, which I drank as I walked around admiring the displays of food.

Then back out into the fray and on to Passeig de Gràcia, which is heaving with tourists and the now-ubiquitous selfie brigade. Here's a thing: when I was growing up, we were given to understand that it was somehow a) not cool and b) not dignified to be so into oneself. Now it's perfectly acceptable. But you knew that.

There are actually two Gaudi-re-fashioned buildings next door to each other here. Casa Batllo is the one on the right and was the private home of the Batllo family, so inside are a number of private apartments for the different members. The audio guide tells you there are no straight lines, but I did spot a few. It also tells you about Gaudi's influences and passions. You can spend as long as you like inside, which makes it worth the fairly hefty entry price, but if you're only going to visit one paid-for thing while you're in town, I'd choose this. Also, though the city was crowded the day I was there (a Saturday in early June) it really wasn't too bad inside. 


As well as all the obvious things, like the tiles and the glass and the woodwork, I was struck by the simpler, plainer details, like the air/light vents along the corridor on the top floor, which served as servants quarters and the washing rooms. There was a lovely, very simple wardrobe in one room too. 

One could go on and on about how interesting all the bits of this house are and I could easily fill this whole blog with pictures of it, but best is to go see it for yourself. 

From here I walked down to La Rambla – of course. You sort of have to and, anyway, if you ignore the tourist tat, there are some interesting buildings and it takes you down to the much revamped harbour area. The last time I came down here, it was all a bit dingy and seedy. Now, million-euro yachts moor and a whole floating addition to the city has been constructed called Port Vell. 

This is where I stopped for some perfectly decent tapas and to recharge, before walking on past a different sort of market selling clothes, as well as plenty of Africans selling counterfeit sneakers and sunglasses on the pavement.

Eventually, I made it to my goal: Barceloneta, the man-made beach, created in time for those Olympics, and what a great idea. The city clearly needed this beach and it's very popular. It sits just off the area where the fishermen traditionally live and there's clearly a bit of annoyance at the hipsterfication of the old neighbourhood, as evidenced by the signs hanging off the apartments. Still, I doubt they'll stop the spreading crop of quinoa-salad cafés, bicycle shops and coffee places that have taken root here.

I had just enough time to dip my toes in the water before walking lickety-split back to Room Mate Carla, picking up my bag and catching the train to the airport. Phew! All in good time, though I'd walked a good 18km, according to my iPhone anyway.

But what's this? My flight's been cancelled? No way! Yes way. We got put up in a Novotel midway between the airport and Barcelona, fed almost-tasteless pizzas that had clearly been bought frozen by the dozen. What a come down after the lovely Room Mate Carla and my fascinating day! Still, there was a camaraderie of sorts between my fellow detainees, and all was well that ends well, as the next day was Sunday and nothing, really, was lost. Ah, yes, that *. So, I lied: I was there longer than 24 hours, but you get the idea...

Barceloneta