Marrakech, Morocco
They say the camera never lies but do not be fooled by the rooftop 'glamour' of the terrace on which Coman and I take breakfast today. The glorious sunshine makes everything look better through a lens but in real-life casts everything in an even more unforgiving light than yesterday.
As we munch on stale cornflakes with hot milk and try and find the few pieces of bread that have not had either flies or birds alighting on them in the corner of the roof that's been designated their cafe, we look around at the tired white vinyl of the daybeds and the sun-faded drapes, the dust-caked sun loungers and the rickety stools, the peeling paint of the bar and the unclean waters of the pool and thank our lucky stars we've made other arrangements.
Despite the comfiest bed of the trip and the truly delightful welcome we've had from the staff, the life left this hotel years ago and even the cats wandering around trying to scavenge food on the terrace seem to have lost the will to live. If ever a place was crying out for a visit from Channel 5's 'Hotel Inspector', then this is it.
With no sign of Paul we try and relax in the sunshine but as the clock creeps towards midday I decide to check on him, and lo and behold, it seems the dreaded bug has got him. Who knows if it was the hefty dose of raw meat he'd tackled last night but it transpires he's been suffering at both ends for a good few hours.
When he's finally fit enough to manage the twenty minute journey back to civilization we all jump in a cab and check into the Suites Novotel. Both our rooms overlook the Sofitel, reminding us, "Here's what you could have won!". Ah well, at least we now have a pool, a bar and all of Marrakech's treasures within easy reach.
Paul tells us he'll join us by the pool shortly but that's the last we see of him until breakfast tomorrow as once he gets to his room he takes to his bed for almost fifteen hours while the bug works its way through him. It's not pleasant.
Coman however wastes no time in grabbing a sun lounger, slapping on the sun cream and making the most of the blazing weather. He's been waiting for this moment ever since he arrived and earphones in, sunglasses on he's basking like a cat for a good few hours. And then, around 5pm, we venture into the Medina and with the heat of the day starting to cool to more manageable proportions we get a chance to do the whole tourist bit.
After photos by the Koutobia Mosque I point out where we finished the bike ride some 48 hours ago and then we cross the road and, passing the green horse-drawn carts lined up to take sight-seers around the city, enter the fabled square Djemma Al Fna; a magical, noisy, mystical place full of snake-charmers and dancing monkeys, palm-readers and astrologers, dancers and storytellers, orange-juice stalls and souvenir shops, pickpockets, crooks and guides who'd sell their grandmothers to talk you into buying their cousin's rug for "bargain price, genuine fakes, honest my friend!!"
We take it all in, dodging the chaotic weaving of motorbikes through the crowds and enjoying the fabulous assault on the senses, before diving into the narrow rabbit-warren of streets that comprise the souks selling silver and ceramics, spices and leather, elaborate enamelled furniture and wrought-metal lamps, tagine pots and handbags, slippers, paintings, mirrors and repeated whispers of hashish at every corner.
Surprisingly it's far less pressured than the other North African souks or Middle-Eastern markets I've experienced and seems pretty good-natured. We're encouraged to look and offered mint teas and conversation while hands are shaken and "best prices" offered, but it's obvious we're merely looking rather than intending to buy so our hosts are just friendly and entertaining rather than desperate conmen shouting insults when we leave or dragging us further and further into their Aladdin's den of dubious treasures.
After a few weaving alleyways and charming little squares we find ourselves back in Djemma Al Fna with merely a couple of fridge magnets and a small, yet beautiful, arched wooden mirror, inlaid with pearl and inexpensive gemstones, as our only purchases.
By now the sun is setting so we find a seat on the Terrase Panoramique of the Hotel Cafe de France and watch the dying rays with a glass of mint tea. Below us the square changes from its daytime march to the more exotic rhythms of the night. Magicians ply their trade, hawkers lay out their wares, young kids fire glowing saucers high into the sky and food stalls appear from nowhere, great tables seating hundreds of locals and tourists alike as the smoke and fire from the makeshift ovens drift pungent smells and eye-watering clouds across the crowds.
We opt not to eat from these fantastical kitchens but return to the hotel. Tomorrow will be a day of pure relaxation but tonight and the next evening will see us eating at two beautiful restaurants, which seduce us into loving Marrakech even more.
The first is Comptoir, conveniently located just two minutes from our hotel and Coman and I have a table for two with our name on it. Fully restored now and in the mood for a proper high-end taste of Moroccan cuisine I order harira, a traditional Moroccan soup with beef, lentils and chickpeas, while Coman goes for a goats cheese and almond roll with aubergines. He has a Berber tagine with vegetables, Moroccan truffles and Argan oil for his main and I plump for chicken cous cous with onions, raisins and orange water. It's fantastic but far too big for me to finish.
The opulent surroundings of Comptoir are matched by the following night's destination. With Paul now back in action we meet a few others who have stayed on in Marrakech after the end of the ride and head to a riad inside the Medina, the Villa des Orangers, where two fellow cyclists have booked themselves.
It's an exquisite place with sumptuous furnishings, gorgeous architecture and an incredibly romantic pool where we enjoy a glass of wine, wishing we had the means to stay in such an amazing riad. It sure beats the hell out of the one we left and towers above the cut-price, basic-rate Novotel we're now in courtesy of Hotels.com.
From there we walk through winding streets and unmarked alleyways until we find, hidden down a secret passageway, a non-descript door announcing Pepe Nero. Once through its doors we gasp in awe. What an incredibly beautiful treasure lies before us. Fountains, courtyards, trees and fabulous petal-strewn tiles and flower-scented breezes guide us to our table.
The food is magnificent, the atmosphere electric and a wonderful night with the hardy souls who have remained ensues. We toast the success of the bike ride, the hundreds of thousands of pounds we've raised and the truly intoxicating spirit of Marrakech and Morocco, hoping one day to return and sample its unique delights again.
But all things must pass and so I close this chapter, writing these words on the plane back to an autumnal England. It's been an incredible experience and something I'll remember for many years to come. If there's one thing left to say it's dust off your bike and ride... it'll change not just your life but possibly the lives of those less fortunate than you too.
