The Pillars of Hercules

The entrance to the Med is dramatic. The Rock of Gibraltar stands proud on the European side. The Atlas Mountains in Africa. Together they are, as tradition has it, the Pillars of Hercules. Sailing across the busy Straights we head for a new continent - Africa.

Interestingly the Spanish get very upset at the English ownership of the Rock, yet there, 15M away, a spit of land juts out from Morocco, into the Med. It's the Spanish enclave of Ceuta. A tax free zone, governed by Spain! I wonder how the Moroccans feel?

Flying fish scatter in all directions as we hug the Moroccan coast down to Smir, a big marina, exuding wealth and prosperity. Customs stamp our passports, and we hire a guide, Ahmed, and a taxi, to take us up into the mountains to Tetauen.

The city of Tetauen is a mix of impossing new build, with banks and highrise apartments, but up on the hillside is the Casbah, the old town, and the souks.

The streets of the old town, 5-700 years old, are narrow, winding, cobbled lanes, are roofed over. Natural light breaks through only where the street is open to the sky so that you can see the Minnerette of one of the many tiny Mosques. We pass several stand pipes, each set in ornate tiles - the only source of water for most of the houses! Wide, but low, wooden doors, studded with heavy bolts, and with medeival sized keys, hid the interiors of the houses from our view.

Donkeys, traditional beasts of burden, carry logs up to the baker. The only source of fuel for his oven.

Ahmed takes to the house of Abdul, the carpet sellor. We sit, drinking mint tea while he displays his wares. With great flourish, carpets of all sizes and colours are spread before us. It was inevitable - we had to buy! So then the bartering started...

Re-emerging back into the dimly lit streets we found them transformed. The souk was in full swing. Doors had opened to reveal tiny workshops, everything was on sale. Fresh (?) meat and fish, shared the little space with second-hand shoes, vegetables, and recycled household goods. Spoil from the slabs was washed into the street to create a memorable smell to the noise, as people bustled about their daily business.

Morocco is clearly changing, forcing its way into the modern world.

We had to leave Morocco for the posh Spanish resort of Estapona, in the Med, to refill our gas bottles - the only place for propane since England. Then it was back to Gib for Jim to fly home.

We knew we were back in "England" - it pissed down!