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Chefchaouen, The Blue Pearl Of Morocco
It’s funny how habits change when alcohol is taken out of the equation. With no bars to explore or beers to imbibe, our evenings come to an earlier end, and, as a consequence of bedtime creeping forward, morning comes round more quickly too. I wake around 5:15 on our second morning in Chefchaouen, darkness still edging its battle with dawn. A distant call to prayer drifts up from the town below, within minutes joined by many others, muezzins at different tones, discordant yet haunting, mournful yet evocative, echoing off walls and off the mountains themselves, growing in number until it’s impossible to work out whether I am listening to five…
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Legal Aliens: Englishmen In Resort
Day 3 at Camp Sunshine (not its real name) brings an increase in the sea breeze and the nations’ flags between the restaurant and the beach are flapping furiously – though there’s not a Union Jack or a St Georges anywhere to be seen in the collection. Colours are to the fore: the deep brown suntans of those Germans presumably nearing the end of their stay clashing with the frighteningly red raw faces and shoulders of the newcomers who’ve done too much sun too soon. They must be suffering. There’s also the sky blue – not the sea or the sky but the shiny sky blue of our wrist bands…
