My lunch partner in Copenhagen is American Rob. He’s a fascinating chap, now living in the Windsor area, and full of bonhomie today. We meet romantically on a street corner in a drizzling rain. Our jackets and umbrellas form puddles at the restaurant entrance – it’s a super eatery above the old telegraph station – as we settle down to a magical fish tapas…and business.

‘What about teaching English?’ suggests Rob. I’ve explained that rock ‘n’ roll trucking ought to have a shelf life, and that with me it’s been reached. Actually, it was reached in 1998 but it’s easier to bumble along than change careers. The industry has changed so much, you see; as I’ve said before, no one even snorts lines off  flight cases backstage any more. It’s just not like it used to be. And, remember, I don’t actually like driving.

Which country?

So, teaching might not be a bad idea. But where? Rob is thinking of a country in which I find the women attractive – simply to cushion the move. ‘Pretty but not black?’ asks Kirsten, bluntly. Christ, did she really just say that? Oh sorry, I forgot to introduce Kirsten. She is a Danish girl, one of Rob’s numerous old flames, and she’s struggling to get a word in edgeways. Four words, as it turns out, is to be her lot. She tops up my Chardonnay.

Now, let’s talk about attraction. If a white girl prefers black guys to white guys, nobody bats an eyelid. There is no problem; it’s not deemed rascist. Indeed, if a black guy fancies black girls, and not white, then that, too, is fine. So why is it deemed bad form for me to admit favouring the English Rose over an ebony beauty? It’s ridiculous. But Rob wants  – excuse the pun – black and white answers.

Coffee?

‘So how far down the colour scale do you go?’ he enquires. Well, it’s hardly a question of going, Rob, old thing; it’s simply a matter of what I’m attracted to. (I mean, we may as well contemplate ginger people if this conversation gets any more absurd.) So if we don’t count that intoxicating dalliance in Mombasa with a masseuse… ‘Latte?’ he prompts. Heavens, this is controversial – if they invented an award for enfant terrible of the blogging medium, it could surely go to nobody else.

‘Salma Hayek,’ I mumble, desperately hoping other diners aren’t eavesdropping. ‘What about Arabs?’ he replies, tact abandoned entirely now. Crumbs, I’m uncomfortable. The onslaught continues, but Rob is only trying to establish geographical boundaries. The restaurant begins to close. Lunch is taking four hours.

Not too big, though

I exclude only one category in the end: spherical. After all, I’d hate people to think I have a roving eye. India is mentioned as a possibility – what goes on underneath a sari is pure mystique – but it’s those dashed arranged marriages that are such a nuisance. In the end, we decide Venezuela could be worth a shot. ‘The women are spectacular in Venezuela,’ says Rob, ‘a variety of hues and colourations you won’t have seen before.’ Rightho then, that’s settled. But perhaps I could squeeze in a long weekend in northern Finland first.

Soporific from wine, and feeling fruity from thoughts of complex undergarments, I visit the park. The sun has come out now. Alas, it is still too early in the year for topless secretaries. Blast! Just when I needed one most..

Hello, Barnaby’s father here..

I’d just like to apologise to you on his behalf for the stream of insufferably arrogant drivel that he writes in this journal. It all comes from his mother’s side of the family, of course.

So, Barnaby, switch off that computer now; have a wee-wee, clean your teeth and off to bed. Lights out at 10.30 and let’s have no more nonsense about Leipzig or wherever – otherwise you might get a disappointment on your birthday next Wednesday..

[The cherubic face pictured is indeed me as a small boy – The Editor]

‘I say, your engine’s nice and tight,’ says Surfy Steve. ‘And the steering is sensitive too…but that might just be the used tissue on the drive axle. Did you leave that there on purpose as a talking point?’

I glance over at this pie-faced young perisher in the driving seat and groan inwardly. This is looking like an awfully long journey; earplugs can drown out only so much.

‘Shall I write a guest blog?’ he continues intractably, oblivious to my monosyllabic responses. ‘It would be brilliant. I could write about this journey…Oh hang on, we’ve got an incoming prick. Some Johnny Foreigner overtaking, don’t you know. Good Lord, it’s a burly woman driving – she looks like she could wrestle a thousand apes.’

I bury my ears further into the duvet and feign a light snore; there’s a limit to the dross a sane man can take. But to shut him up, I do agree to publishing his highly self-acclaimed masterpiece. Bear in mind he’s using this medium principally as a means to meet girls, though. So, should you be the sort of delicious creature that loves a well-schooled, rugged, charismatic adventurer, then email me. Whoops, I mean him. His address is budesurf@hotmail.com. As P.G. Wodehouse would have said, I’d love to give two fond hearts a leg-up..

“It is a glorious day. Spring has sprung, and I’m on the road again, heading south to Madrid from Paris with the venerable Barnaby Davies. I, Steve Maclure (surfer extraordinaire) am here in Barnaby’s truck –  also known as Hotel DAF – to help (or hinder, depending on your view) navigate ourselves and Taylor Swift’s equipment to Spain. Then we’re off northward to Blighty – to the dizzy heights of Birmingham for the first of her UK shows (yes, Taylor is a she).

At this point in the guest blog, I must point out that Barnaby has to suffer my company for six days; the suffering is in the form of listening as I happen to talk quite a lot. In fact, almost non-stop. Hence some of my nicknames past and present: Chatty Steve, Jibba Jabba, Talk A Lot, Jackanory etc. So I’d like to take this opportunity to thank him for his patience and hope that his blood-stained ears heal up quickly.

So, where were we? Ah yes, on the road to Madrid. It’s been a smooth and event-free trip into Iberia. {Well, why fucking mention it, then? – The Editor} My only complaint is that Barnaby’s truck suffers from ‘American Steering’. You know, how you see the movie stars constantly steering left to right just to go in a straight line? This thankfully is giving me something to do on the tedious plains of Spain – namely, steer non-stop to keep us off the rumble strip to avoid waking the sleeping Barnaby who doesn’t like to drive outside daylight hours. Subsequently…”

Me again. Well look, it drones on like this for a bit longer and doesn’t go anywhere at all. And even the above I’ve had to tidy up grammatically. Sorry Surfy, I know you’ve already heavily edited, but better luck next time, my old silver tureen. Tell you what, though, I’ll promote your new, all-speed-no-limits “vehicle movement and management” website instead – it’s worth visiting, folks! See you in Belarus on Shakira…

Half of the attraction is the chase – at least, from the man’s point of view.

The uncertainty of whether a woman will melt into his embrace is an adrenalin-pumping rollercoaster. Isn’t this a little unfair, though? A woman simply needs to turn up naked with a beer…and the deal is sealed. Well, that’s oversimplifying, of course – I prefer wine, myself. Seriously, though, Ivana’s appeal is growing as she coquettishly reminds me that the Croatia of today was born as recently as 1991.

‘It’s the same bullshit about joining the EU,’ she says, removing another troublesome pebble from beneath her bum. ‘Slovenia is blackmailing us, wanting some coastline back. In return, they’ll stop blocking us from joining. But there is not a single map showing Slovenia ever had more coast than it has now.’ Between furious scribbles in my moleskin notebook, I look fondly at the way her hair curls round her ear.

Serbian/Bosnian Troubles

Her eyes are bright pools as she passionately concludes her monologue on the region’s recent turmoil. ‘There was no war in Serbia; it was only on Croatian/Bosnian soil. The Serbs are the invaders.’

If not forgiving, Ivana at least seems tolerant of the Serbs. Not so with the older generation. While she happily came to the AC/DC show in Belgrade earlier this year – coincidently a tour I was working on – her dad remains staunchly adamant. ‘My father would rather shoot himself than go to Serbia,’ she says poignantly.

I hope we’ve established that Ivana is not one of my blonde bimbos? That’s right, she’s a brunette…and she’s now slipped into that ravishing red dress mentioned in Part One. Over a late-night beer, calculating how easily that dress would slip off, I ask whether I should update my Couchsurfing profile.

Internet Profile

There is a section in which the member is invited to tell other users something interesting, and another section where the member would like to know something in return. One needn’t necessarily grapple with a great, unsolved enigma of the universe…but I did. ‘Why do men wake up with an erection?’ is what I wrote.

Wondering if this might be unsuitable as an opener to people who don’t know me, I seek Ivana’s opinion. As a European woman – and therefore infinitely more erudite in these matters – perhaps she will tactfully suggest: ‘why can’t we tickle ourselves?’, or something. She takes a long swig of beer while pondering this weighty dilemma, all the while maintaining eye contact. ‘Keep the erection thing,’ she coos. Matters, at least beneath the table, are looking up.

‘Let’s stop for a beer,’ she suggests, as we reach a vantage point over the Cathedral. For a slim young troutling, Ivana drinks an extraordinary amount of beer. Perhaps she’ll blossom when she reaches thirty in a year or two, but for now she sups carefree from the neck of a Staro Cesko bottle.

English Grammar

‘There are less cars up here – it is a beautiful view,’ she coos from her wicker chair. She is close to me now. A waxing moon broadly illuminates the amalgamation of two settlements – Kaptol and Gradec – that became known as Zagreb from 1094. Illuminated, too, is a visceral magnetism between man and woman.

‘You mean fewer cars, not less,’ I tease. ‘Car is a countable noun.’ She nudges me in the ribs playfully, but she is nonetheless grateful. Ivana speaks half a dozen languages, all to an elevated level of competence. Sadly, any aspirations I had towards linguistics proved quixotic years ago. I’m ashamed of it, since you ask. After travelling almost incessantly for fifteen years, I’m rather a damp squib when it comes to foreign languages.

My schoolboy French – and an occasional Castilian lisp when ordering a beer in Spain – pales woefully in comparison to Ivana’s dexterity. But if you’re going to do one thing only, then do it well. As serendipity would have it, my English is still a little better than hers.

Zagreb’s Treasure

We chat for hours and she tells me authoritatively of the famous Zagreb mummy here, inside the Archaeological Museum. ‘It is a body that was found in Ptolemaic Egypt wrapped in a book! This wrapping paper,’ she says, ‘is the world’s longest Etruscan text.’ And did I know that Zagreb is home to the world’s shortest funicular railway, with just 66 metres of track? I order another beer.

‘I’ll never get bored of your British accent,’ Ivana purrs, provocatively. She plays with her hair, crossing her legs demurely. This is unmistakeable flirting. We ask a Japanese tourist to take a photograph, forcing our proximity further. Her cheek touches mine as she pouts at the camera, and my hand lightly brushes her hips. The picture is blurred, the red dress and her smile distorted. But the memory is still clear.

We walk hand in hand down ancient steps at one o’clock in the morning, without trace of awkwardness. And it sets me wondering whether we behave differently when travelling overseas. At home, there are social consequences; we tend to make shy overtures, not daring to unveil our attraction too readily. But on a sultry August evening in the Balkans, anything could happen..

(Top & bottom pictures are courtesy of http://www.dreamstime.com)

(A little something I wrote in 2009)

I’ve always liked travel. Come to think of it, I’ve always liked women, too.

I happen to be in Zagreb, Croatia…and the ravishing Ivana is my city guide. The situation could hardly be improved: the city is beguiling, and Ivana’s sleeveless red frock swirls tastefully, tantalisingly around her thighs, appreciably above the knee. Her bob is rakishly tousled, and her lustrous eyes sparkle with intelligence.

‘Cherry liqueur?’ she asks, uncorking a bottle of homemade moonshine. Now we’re talking..

Couchsurfing

I’d contacted Ivana through an online travellers’ network called Couchsurfing.org. As a red-blooded male, with a healthy interest in attractive women, her profile picture had caught my eye. Now the site is by no means designed for sexual encounters, yet if I am faced with a choice of meeting a guy or a girl, which am I going to go for? Duh! And while I’m about it, I may as well message women a little younger than me, and easy on the eye.

I’d explained to Ivana that I was touring as crew with a rock band – U2, if you must know – and that I had a couple of days in Zagreb very soon. Could she enlighten me on the situation in the Balkans? And might there be a snog? (I kept the last bit to myself.) ‘Bring me some beer when you come down from the gig in Poland,’ was her paraphrased reply. ‘And did you know that Croatia invited the necktie?’ Hmm, interesting girl..

Beauty and brains: the perfect combination. Well, not if you spoke to some of my truck-driving colleagues. Ok, yes, of course I’ve had deplorable nights – both at home and overseas – when the latter has fallen by the wayside on a one-night stand. Oh, very well, and the former. But in general, when lust hasn’t reared its beastly head, I really do thrive on intelligent conversation. If a girl spouts streams of platitudes, or has a ghastly, grating accent, then I’d rather go home alone.

Lake Bundek Swimming

Ivana, however, fits my criteria to a tee. She proves to be a mine of Balkan information as we skip gaily along a smog-choked dual carriageway towards Lake Bundek. ‘The Croatian Parliament’s official language was Latin until the mid-nineteenth century,’ she says, and pauses. A beach pebble is digging into her bottom now. ‘I don’t know how to put myself,’ she fusses, jostling a buttock and smiling.

Behind my suggestion of visiting the lake was an underlying motive. In August, the temperatures are pretty fierce in the Balkans, and just a little sticky. Perfect, in fact, to be in skimpy swimming costumes. Ivana, though, in a display of poor sportsmanship, decides she is remaining dressed, and does nothing more than paddle at the shore. Boo!

As we loll back at the lakeside, I playfully drop stones down her top, wondering idly how the evening may pan out if I play my cards right. You can see why I stick with these rock and roll tours..

Here you are already skim-reading – you may not want to travel to Marrakech – just in case I’ve written something saucy. Well, I haven’t.

So why have I written three blogs on Marrakech, without so much as a token toilet joke? Well, because my notes were originally intended for Wanderlust magazine – an On Assignment project down in Morocco with Lyn Hughes. And it seems a shame to waste this remaining material that didn’t make it into print.

If it doesn’t interest you, I totally understand. Don’t worry, for the next post we’ll return to flippant analysis of the rock and roll industry – something safe like persecuting poor old Namibian, perhaps. See you there instead.

Marrakech Photography Course

Learn how to capture photogenic Marrakech with Suzanne Porter’s Photo Experiences. As a rule, Moroccans don’t like to be photographed…so Susanne will take you on a three-hour guided walk explaining how to respect the culture whilst still taking great shots. She can offer as much or as little technical advice as you require, as well as introducing you to characters you’d never meet on your own.

Prepare to traipse through pigeon poo at the leather tanneries and duck through arched doorways to discover Tardis-like bread ovens. You’ll also be loitering on specific street corners, gradually blending into the background so that the locals become used to the camera lens. ‘Keep your eyes open,’ says Suzanne. ‘Or you’ll miss something interesting happening down an alley. And never think, I’ll come back for that photo. Take it there and then.’

Suzanne is flexible with the tour; she’ll tailor more history/ points of interests or photography tips according to group requirements. Having lived in Marrakech – and travelled extensively in North Africa – she has oodles of relevant stories. By the end of the tour you will have a more rounded knowledge of the medina, and some killer portrait shots. And Suzanne will probably have a camera bag full of fruit – she tends to trade rather than give money for photos.

Marrakech: Where Can You Drink Alcohol?

For a licensed restaurant on Djemma el Fna (the main square), the only choice is Le Marrakchi. The food is a little more expensive than its competitors, but worth it if you want a bottle of wine with dinner. Definitely reserve beforehand (pop up the stairs during the day) – Table 6 in the window is impossibly romantic. At this candlelit table for two, overlooking the nightly spectacle below, you’ll feel like film stars.

On the top floor there is live entertainment in the form of drumming/singing, and sometimes belly dancing later on. The menu is in French but outside it is also in English…so have a good look before you head up the stairs! The tables (apart from 6) don’t offer a view of the square so you’re paying the extra for the chilled ambience and alcohol.

The Marrakech Dining Experience

Very few things in life are ‘must do’, but dining al fresco at one of the nightly food stalls on the main square comes pretty close. Tourism is such a huge draw here that hygiene is paramount; you needn’t worry about unclean food. The biggest concern is which stall to eat at.

‘117 – Straight to Heaven,’ calls one canny vendor. I swivel and smile. ‘Yes sir, air conditioned. Five Star Michelin,’ beckons another. At Stall 42, the cook, wearing a sprig of parsley in his ear, gives me a killer smile whilst ladling steaming couscous. He’s got us; we can’t resist. The adolescent waiter starts laying the table and setting out flat breads before I’ve even glanced at the French menu.

Most stalls sell a similar selection of fish, meat and vegetables but there are a few surprises in the middle for those with more adventurous taste buds. And if you order too much, offer your surplus bread and uneaten sausages to one of the beggars walking past the tables, or one of the cute little children selling packets of tissues. Heady, insistent drumming accompanies the rising plumes of barbecue smoke – you’ll never forget the experience..

Well, strike me down with a lipstick. Watching Michelin Mat’s brother, Nick, order a meal is like witnessing the build-up to penetrative sex. He deliberates agonisingly over the menu, fingering the page as though silkily caressing a woman’s thigh – the slow, erotic preliminary to the certainty ahead.

‘The portion is very big,’ says the affable German waiter. Nick gives a breathy, approving response, then champs at the bit while the waiter scurries off. When the colossal dish finally arrives, his eyes goggle, aflame with gluttony, as though a troublesome brassiere clasp has finally broken free to reveal unfettered splendour. ‘Diet starts tomorrow,’ he lies, and he plunges in unreservedly.

So what are we doing in Hamburg, you ask? Well, two drivers have returned from bumbling up to Oslo in my truck for a Taylor Swift show up at the Spektrum. And now they’re back again. It seems I have time for a sociable snifter – mulled wine with Amaretto – before toddling down to Oberhausen for Taylor’s next concert. Oh dear, as though I didn’t have enough to drink in the Cotton Club last night.

Sneaky Cigarette in the Restaurant

‘Roll me a fag, would you Kev,’ says Surfer Steve, another double driver, from across the table. ‘Is it Golden Virginia tobacco?’ Nick is up to his larynx at this point – gorging himself and beginning to look worryingly pregnant – and can barely voice an objection to smoking at the dinner table. (Germany seems to be overtly flouting the smoking ban in this particular restaurant.)

Kev passes Steve a pre-rolled cigarette from his little gay case. ‘Amber Leaf with a charcoal filter,’ he boasts. ‘My missus rolls them with her thighs.’ Steve recoils momentarily, yet exercises laudable self-restraint and talks wildly of rounding off the evening with a hot chocolate. He’s caffeine-free, you see, and jolly proud of it, too.

Redbush Tea

‘Caffeine-free is definitely the way to go,’ says Kev, bald as a coot and squinting through his spectacles. ‘I’ve drunk Redbush tea for ten years now and look at me.’ Hmm, I’m not sure he’s even joking; he looks expectantly at us. Nick simply basks in a blissful afterglow, a man sated and ready to turn out his bedside light.

Cockney Russ, a man with the voice of a Billericay bulldozer, suddenly puts down his fork and delivers the killer quote of the evening: ‘The only red bush I’m interested in is attached to a six-foot ginger bird.’

You know, I’ve almost missed these chaps over the winter. Almost..

Chilling may well seem like a pipedream whilst threading your way through the hubbub of Marraech’s souks. But here are five places to totally relax:

1) Head to Terrasse des Epices and stressful thoughts of haggling and bustle will soon evaporate. This rooftop terrace restaurant, catering well for vegetarians is a veritable oasis above the markets, and is beautifully lit at night. In fact, it is an institution – it was featured in Easyjet’s in-flight magazine as an essential place in Marrakech to have coffee.

There are airy, cushioned snugs to relax in, or open-air tables with parasols. The owner, a charismatic entrepreneur named Kamal who speaks at least six languages fluently, also has two other establishments within the medina walls. “I started with a small guesthouse serving tagine and tea,’ he says. ‘But I thought, why not serve food outside? So I opened a café, and then this restaurant.’

2) His Café des epices is smaller than the Terrasse, though it is spread over three storeys. From each floor, you have a great view of an open-air market, selling everything from carpets to tortoises and chameleons. This is the place for a simple sandwich, a juice…and a rest.

Outside Marrakech’s Medina

3) Marrakech is just as much about the New Town as the medina. So check out the Grand Café de la Poste for some serious slouching – on leather cushions and footstools galore. With myriad candles casting a soft light upon the terracotta-potted palms, it’s hard to believe this was once a sorting office, built in the twenties during the French Protectorate.

A blend of smooth jazz wafts as breezily as the stunning, demure waitresses that are on hand at all times. But don’t doze off – the buffet table downstairs, comprising exceptionally generous nibbles, is included in the price of your drink. Top tip: if you sit on the chairs outside, you won’t be served alcohol.

4) Just round the corner is Azar, a well-recommended restaurant doubling as a nightclub. Beautifully lit, this is an up-market establishment offering Lebanese and Moroccan cuisine upstairs, and live ‘Oriental’ music downstairs nightly from 10pm.

Above the sofas in the nightclub, a row of black camel heads, like sphinxes keeping vigil, are fixed to the wall. Fatima’s Hand hangs from each collar, and every head quirkily bears a fez.

On the night we visited, an infectious fusion of chromatic jazz floated over a bed of synthesised Moroccan pop. This is the perfect place for a mojito and a sheeshah. The attentive, black-clad waiters replace the coals in the dark, almost without you noticing. It is a high-class joint, dripping with chill factor, and very safe for women without men.

Pamper Yourself In Marrakech

5) Eleven kilometres out of town is the immaculately-cultivated Beldi Country Club. Run by Frenchman, Jean Dominique, and his daughter, Geraldine, this is a complex oozing relaxation.

Here you can enjoy a hammam in the spa area. Allow yourself to be doused in warm water on a marble slab strewn with herbs and rose petals. The ubiquitous black soap is then applied before your skin is scrubbed with a black mitt. Guys can wear trunks or the offered nappy-like covering; girls go naked – hooray!

Soothing pianoforte is piped throughout the rooms whilst you relax afterwards in a dressing-gown, sipping sweet mint tea.

Within the resort, there are two swimming pools – one for hotel guests staying in the buildings made from mud and straw, and one for day visitors. As a non-resident, you can lounge beneath the olive trees, beside a long, rosemary-flanked pool. The only sounds are birdsong and the occasional snip of shears from a straw-hatted gardener.

Lunches are sumptuous, served on rose-filled tables and tended by genial staff. The accompanying Moroccan breads can be dipped in olive oil made on the premises – from the enveloping olive trees. Alcohol is available here.

There are cooking and pottery classes on offer, too, as well as boutiques, tennis courts and a home cinema. Geraldine also organises ‘picnic chic’ (a picnic excursion in the medina), plus parties at the big lake out the back.

‘This way, sir – lubbly jubbly.’ Amid the tumult of helmetless motorcyclists riding pell-mell through a gaggle of school children, a phlegmatic babouche seller catches my attention with his snappy badinage. Armed with my rehearsed ‘Salaam-Alaikum’, I falter. But we shake hands and smile as an imperilling, throttle-zealous wrist passes within two inches of a child’s eye. ‘Bonjour. Salut,’ call the beaming brown-eyed kids, insouciantly disregarding any threat of maiming.

Unguents, spices and two-stroke fumes needle my nostrils; slippered women saunter effortlessly amongst the throng, exotically bedecked in vibrant, hand-embroidered finery; the sun’s rays peep through the rusty slats of corrugated iron sheltering the street. The medina’s enrapturing assault on my senses temporarily overwhelms me…and I need tea. I’m in the right city for it.

Nice Cup of Moroccan Tea

Beneath a carpet of satellite dishes, I watch, transfixed, as the ornate teapot is lifted higher and higher. Despite pouring from a height of half a metre, the café owner doesn’t spill a drop. Steaming, urine-coloured liquid, laced with enough sugar to warrant an imminent visit to a dentist, splashes into a small glass, forming a frothy head. “A tea without foam is like a Berber without a turban,” says Jamal, my tour guide. “But the tea has to be strong enough.”

Lounging on Moorish leather cushions, I reflect for a moment, with a cat atop an elegant footstool for company. We sit together awhile, watching the magic of this beguiling arena unfold before us. Rickshaw drivers loll in their carts beside listless mules; a boy of no more than ten cycles past, precariously balancing a huge basket of bread between chin and handlebars. His knuckles narrowly miss a heavily-veiled woman on the back of a scooter – encumbered with an unwieldy wooden cabinet, she clings on for dear life. It is a delicious chaos.

Enjoy Getting Lost in Marrakech’s Souks

Butting on once again through Morocco’s biggest market, I begin to understand the minutiae of daily existence here. Rather than fleeing from salesmen’s patter, wary of protracted haggling, I start having fun with them and bandying pleasantries in schoolboy French. I nod to the artisans fashioning chess sets and backgammon boards in the streets. And I peer behind intricately carved doorways into a veritable Aladdin’s cave, stacked with gorgeous Arabic lanterns. This is a working medina, not a film set designed for tourists, and every nook and cranny is bursting with interest.

And then, like thousands before me in these labyrinthine passageways, I realise I’m lost. I fumble inexpertly and fruitlessly with a map, searching for clues on how best to reach my riad.  As the muezzins call last prayer from the minarets, my colleague, Gwen, happens to pass by and points me in the right direction. ‘I knew I’d missed the turning when I got as far as the goat’s feet,’ she says, laughing at our hopelessly improbable landmark. I know now what Herman Melville meant in Moby Dick, when he wrote, ‘It is not down in any map, true places never are.’

For more on this trip to Marrakech last November, click here.