The Expedition reaches Marrakech

Very early start to get to Marrakech (400 miles of Autoroute) in a day. We are warned by Abdel to stick to the speed limit (120km - 80mph) as there are lots of Moroccan Gendarmerie along the way. We get away with it for at least 300 miles and we start to get a bit cocky - blatting past radar checks with no effect. Big mistake. With John in the lead I spot a policeman with a radar gun cunningly hidden under a bridge support. Half a mile later and his colleagues are standing right in the middle of the fast lane waving John down. He manages to screech to a halt from a, shall we say, 'swift' speed. I pull up behind him and watch with some amusement as John has to produce all his documentation and a wad of Dirhams. After ten minutes of gesticulation and pigeon French (being unkind to pigeons) - the Gendarme kindly decides to hand everything back to him, including the cash, admonish him and wave us both on our way - saluting us as we get back onto the road. Our sensitive riding doesn't last long and we soon throw caution to the wind and ramp the speed up again, surviving all the way to Marrakech without further interruption. Upon entering Marrakech we stumble across several camel trains, and finally a little bloke on a scooter who riding beside us promises to take us to a hotel he knows. Slumming it for £25 quid including breakfast, we check in to the Redouane Hotel, a short taxi ride from the Medina.

After a very brief freshen up (cold shower only) we head into Djemaa-el-Fna, the square in the centre of the Medina where snake charmers, belly dancers, artisans, food stalls all vie for trade. Thousands of people, lots of noise, lots of hustling. Claustrophobics should give it a miss. Before we get to the square however, we witness a couple of unusual events - firstly a horse pulling a cart collapses and dies on the road, then a bus which has hit a taxi causes a full scale punch up between the drivers. Our own taxi driver stops to try to separate them, which he does successfully after 20 minutes of negotiation.

Back to the Medina - John decides it's time to have a shave and heads in to the casbah where he finds a small barbers who brandishes a cut-throat razor, and whilst watching the local football match on the TV, flashes away at John's stubble. An expert job completed for Dhs 30 (a couple of quid).

Up to the rooftop of a local restaurant for a beer, and a great view over the square, we are disappointed to find that the whole of the square is 'dry' - alcohol-free beer only.

Head out of the square to find somewhere to eat and a bottle of wine - we end up in Les Jardins De La Koutoubia - a 5 star hotel where we wished we'd checked in to! On the toss of a coin we decide dinner, Indian or Morocca, John's double head coin chooses Indian!

Heading up into the High Atlas mountains tomorrow - if the car and bike are still at our flea pit when we get back there.

Into the Labyrinth

John's addicted to mint tea. He even has it instead of coffee at breakfast. I need my injection of caffiene to wake me up, then it's into the Medina with Abdel, our new friend from yesterday. Before we enter the labyrinth, we visit the Royal Palace where the King of Morocco stays when he's in Fes - 160 acres of stunning architecture surrounded by an enclosing wall and an ornate gate.

Then up to south hills to visit the south castle - one of two fortifications protecting the Medina in the years gone by. We are both immensely impressed by the artisans creating intricate ceramic mosaics up in the pottery cooperative where clay tiles are shaped, baked, fired, coloured and broken up in to tiny fragments which then make up stunning designs as tables and fountains.

Heading in to the Medina is like walking back in time - it's a cliche, but an apt one - this 9th century walled town as 9,500 streets, some only wide enough for a single person to walk along at a time - dark warrens where it would be all too easy to get lost, and vendors selling everything from pomegranates to jewelry, clothes to meat.

At one such place we watch while chickens are despatched, plucked and butchered with expert precision. A highlight for us both is the view over the tanneries of Fes - the famous vats where animal skins are prepared, coloured and dried read for making in to leather goods. We are warned about the stench as we climb the steps to the roof for the vantage point, and are each given sprigs of mint to hold over our noses. We pass a couple of Americans on the way down who warn us to keep them pressed to our faces at all times. Rising to the challenge, we goad each other in to seeing who can last the longest....our true grit carries us through and we survive the ordeal without the need to cover up. The stench is pretty intense though and I recall a National Geographic article on the "10 worse jobs in the world" - the "tannery boy in Fes" was high on the list!.

Lunch in a classic Moroccan restaurant in the Medina - great food and ambience, then off to be true tourists to buy a Fes hat each, and I succumb to a cashmere "jellaba" - the Moroccan cloak - simply because I want to be Obi Wan Kenobi from Star Wars.

Visit a Moroccan herbalist who promises he can cure John's snoring with a strange black herb which you use like smelling salts - almost knocks our heads off when we inhale it. No doubt i'll see if it's worked on the ferry back to the UK.
Tomorrow Marrakech - only 400kms away.

Pushing On South

Stupidly we forget that Morocco is an hour behind Spain (and on the same time zone as the UK) and wake up earlier than we need to. Conference over breakfast about where to go has us deciding to head South to Fes. Hit a new piece of toll road for about 15 km’s as we skirt Tetouan. The fast road runs out all too soon and we are on winding, narrow, poorly surfaced mountain roads – spectacular views but pretty slow – we reckon it’ll take us around 6 hours to cover the 186 miles to Fes.

Saw our first camel train shortly after starting out; lots of overtaking manoeuvres as we attempt to get a push on, and the usual amazed stares as we hit each small village and town. We latch on to a lorry that’s picking it’s way up the mountain range, as he indicates when it’s safe for us to overtake – this we do about four times as we keep stopping for photos coffee and petrol – each time we pass him he let’s out a blast on his air horn and a wave of the hand. At Loukous, a small settlement, we pull in for a well earned drink and are immediately mobbed by fruit sellers who take a fancy to the Atom. One of them sits in the drivers seat and rewards John with a couple of pomegranates.

Carry on for a further hour and come to the crossroads where the Meknes and Fes roads diverge and a work crew are putting up dozens of Moroccan flags on a roundabout. John nearly plucks up the courage to ask if he can buy one from them.
Fifty miles from Fes we stop for more photos when a car pulls up next to us. The driver, Abdelilah, tells us he is with the Moroccan Tourist Agency and promises to show us the best place to stay and eat in Fes, his home town. The road surface is so poor in parts that it’s subsiding along the edges and the Atom grounds out on several occasions. Finally arrive in to Fes at 4pm after 6 hours of hard riding, and check in to Le Merinedes hotel (where Abdel negotiates a 50% reduction on our behalf); the views over the old Medina are spectacular.

Abdelilah meets us in his car and drives us to a perfect small Moroccan restaurant where we eat the best food of the trip so far – taguine of lamb and prunes, followed by the obligatory Shisha pipe, with some strong Moroccan coffee. Decide to stay in Fes another night and relax to take in the sites tomorrow – with Abdelilah as our guide.

Into Morocco !

Nigel overslept alarm. Finally left Cordoba at 10 ish with lots of admiring and jealous glances at the bike and the Atom. New roads cause confusion for the Tom Tom and we eventually leave the city and head South. A few races with locals in Seat's and VW's along the motorway and we are heading for the coast. Hit Marbella and wonder WHY ANYONE wants to live here! Too much construction. Find a coffee shop selling tickets to Tangier from Tarifa (not Algeciras) on a catamaran that takes just 35 minutes to cross to Africa.







Head down to the sea wall (in Tarifa) to take pictures of the Mediterranean and the Atlantic coast before heading for the ferry. A small group of divers decide to strip naked in front of us as we are taking photos of the coastline. Head for the ferry and John gets chatted up by a buxom German woman who lives in Casablanca and gives him her address in case he is in town. We are convinced that she's promoting a swingers party - either that or his Atom has worked some magic. Within the hour we are setting foot (and wheel) in North Africa. Nearly 2 hours of administration and we are heading out of Tangier port and on to the roads to Tatouine. John spots a car on fire having been filled up too much with fuel at a gas station. It's starting to get dark as we head over the mountain passes from Tangier to Tatouine and dicing with lorries and locals in blue Mercedes taxis. Finally arrive in Tatouine and it seems like a million school kids are on the streets to ogle the strange Brits in their unusual modes of transport. It's dark by the time we eventually get to the Sofitel Hotel along the coast in Northern Morocco and we pay over the odds for hotel rooms - albeit pretty top quality rooms - in order to sleep the night. I have visions of us sleeping by the side of the road in all our gear to keep warm so the hotel is a welcome respite from donkeys and women selling flowers by the roadside.

Dinner is the best we've eaten so far - a classic Moroccan tagine. Studying the maps for tomorrow - decide to head to Fez - some 200 miles away. More wine (Moroccan Caberbnet Sauvignon - very good), then bed.




First photograph in Morocco.





Just for the record 203 miles in Spain today, and 53 in Morocco.

Day 2 - the Long Run to Cordoba

A big day ahead. 400 miles to Cordoba. Alarm at 7am, curtains open and yet more rain and low cloud. Down for breakfast which we then find isn’t served until 8am. Could have had 30 minutes more in bed. Set off and the sun actually starts to shine! Riding for 15 minutes on beautiful roads and at speeds, which, shall we say, challenges the local speed limits, when we are pulled over by Spain’s finest officious “National Guard”. Fortunately all they are interested in doing is taking a look at the Atom and sticking their thumbs up in gestures that suggest they are impressed. John’s pigeon Spanish and hand gestures help to ensure we are waved on with what borders on a round of applause from the boys in green.

400 miles of fast motorway and mountain passes goes by in significantly less time than the TomTom suggests the journey should take. 100 miles south of Madrid and John loses his rear number plate which shatters down the A4. I need to get used to John’s rapid breaking which leaves me nearly running into the back of him – I have tried to explain that a bike can’t stop as quickly as a car with four wheels in contact with the tarmac!

Both the bike and the Atom are running on fumes by the time we reach Cordoba and the first attempt to re-fuel takes us to a petrol station closed for refurbishment – sod’s law. Finally finding a Crespa Station downtown, we then turn our attention to finding the Parador Arruzafa, some three kilometres from the centre of town. Another excellent find with rooms the size of basketball courts, we check in and take a well-earned shower to wash the grime of the day off. Just to lower the tone John hangs the Atom cover from his balcony for it to dry out - talk about old Mother Hubbard!

Locking up the bike, we take the Atom into Cordoba to visit the Mezquita Cathedral/Mosque – an event which makes us the main tourist attraction with hordes of Spanish school children swarming around the car taking photos on their phones. John very magnanimously allows them to sit in it for better shots. A taste of what’s to come in Morocco no doubt. More Rioja and local cuisine before retiring for a well earned rest.

Mezquita Cathedral/Mosque - taking a look at the mosque/cathedral whilst John entertains the local schoolkids!

Local shop front is a taster of what to expect 150 miles away in Tangier!

Tomorrow Morocco.

Day 1 - Santander to Soria

Stopping beside the N232 near "Ona" after a very rapid blast out of Santander - the only dry spot of the day!

Descending from the clouds on the N111 north of Soria - John's quote of the day "I didn't expect to suffer from hypothermia in Spain!"

Rex Harrison got it completely wrong. The Rain in Spain does not stay mainly in the plain - it's endemic across the whole of the north, certainly when John and Nigel are in town, and it's November. Headed off the boat into a rain swept Santander, and the rain stayed with us virtually for the entire 220 miles to Soria in Rioja country. But before we get to the destination, the adventure saw us executing some "near-miss" overtaking moves past lorries, cars, and pretty much anything that got in our way; climbing up through the mountains in dense cloud and rain (at 1700 metres); negotiating tight hair-pin bends with no room for error; almost losing it on a particularly tight bend and greasy road with the prospect of a few hundred metres of drop to negotiate. One of those long days of gruelling riding where you feel you will never get to the destination - and you feel yourself salivating over the first glass of Rioja at the hotel......oh, and we hadn't booked anything, so didn't know whether there would be any room at the Inn anyway. Finally arrive at Soria in pitch darkness. The Beemers headlight has also died so I am riding with main beam only - something to get fixed in Cordoba tomorrow. John's most stressful techinical hitch is that his driving boot-lace is about to snap. Writing this now in the Paradoras in Soria after a lovely meal and a couple of nice bottles of Rioja makes it all worth while. Will sleep well tonight.

Already engaged on the first date!

Day of Departure - 28th Oct 2007

Appalling weather to start the trip. Lashing rain and high winds make the journey to Plymouth an expedition in it’s own right. John nearly aquaplanes in the Atom on the A30. I can’t see much through the spray. Still we survive the 200 mile blatt and check in at the port. Seems to take an age to get the bike and car loaded, and I have the guys in the loading bay tutting at me for insisting I lash the bike down myself. Their alternative is to place a massive ratchet strap over the saddle and crank it down. Not convinced that this will hold it with a rough crossing, so I use my own straps to crank the suspension down on all four corners. Find the cabin – had booked a four-berth to give us a bit of space and walk in to a room about 9 foot by 6 foot. Feeling in the mood for a debate, I raise the issue with the staff who inform us that it is indeed a four-berth cabin – two more berths fold out from the ceiling! It’s going to be a cozy night. Head to the bar to find it already packed with humanity downing lager and cocktails (it’s 4pm). Going to be a long night too.

Just as the ferry leaves Plymouth I (John) remember I have not put the hand brake on!! I rush down from level 8 to 3 only to discover the car decks are already locked. Back up to deck 6 to ask at the information desk how I can get to my car. I’m sent back to level 3 to an entrance at the stern where the kennels are. After fighting my way past 20 dogs and their owners I get onto the car deck and from the stern I have to walk half the length of the ferry to find the car. I put the hand brake on and stick it in first. What a close shave, it would have been very upsetting to return to the car after 20 odd hours of it rolling backwards and forwards resulting in cracked front panels and bashed / scratched rear end. Then back up from car deck 3 to 8. Exhausted already, time for a glass of red!

Dinner pretty reasonable, lots of seafood and a couple of nice bottles of red wine between us. Walk around the deck in the cold and wind before retiring to the palatial cabin for lights out and John’s volcanic snoring. Ear plugs needed at 3am.