Saturday the 10th of April: THE FINAL BLOG . . . !

Jackie Mac reporting for the last time on the the Doris Despatches, Part 2. We are back; a week earlier than we intended, but safe and sound after four horrendous days, nursing Doris home from the Spanish/French border.

It proved to be ‘one too many mountains’ for our poor old van, whose screaming brake linings (or lack of, more like) advertised their parlous condition, with embarrassing regularity, at traffic lights and junctions. Piggy negotiated, with skilful ‘engine braking’ to hardly touch the brakes at all for most of the journey, but it was a teeth gritting, seat gripping rollercoaster of a journey that I hope we don’t experience again. We had to abandon plans to go on any detours to visit friends; just aimed Northward and prayed that Doris wouldn’t seize up completely, before we made it back to the UK; and breakdown cover.

But, to start with, just a short aside on our trip to the Guggenheim in Bilbao. We parked Doris for the day at Camping Portuondo, Mundaka, which is set on a promontory above the beach and accessed via a steep winding drive from the road. When we booked in, Pete had to hold Doris on the one in six incline, while merry campers wandered back and forth in front of her bonnet; blithely unaware of the possible danger.

So, Sunday morning saw us utilising the excellent local bus service to get to Bilbao, and a stroll along the river brought us to the Guggenheim. At first sight a bit more tarnished than the glossy photos suggested; but an iconic building nonetheless. However, maybe Piggy and I have no understanding of ‘modern art’ because we found the whole thing a bit of a let down. Huge amounts of gallery space were given over to a few artists, as separate exhibitions; which was okay, but there was no ‘meat’. No general gallery space, of just one or two works, by a wider variety of artists. Piggy came away, quite annoyed that he hadn’t been able to scoff at an Andy Warhol! We liked the two pieces outside best. A spider by Louise Bourgeois and ‘Puppy’ by Jeff Koons.

Back to our journey. Monday morning; we escaped from the campsite and headed for the border.It became evident quite quickly that Doris’s brakes were getting worse.The drive was not too bad until we got to Biarritz, where we got lost trying to get out of town during the evening rush hour. By the time we got to Parentis en Borne, a municipal Aire stop, it was dark and we couldn’t find it. So drove down the road to the Lac Biscarosse and parked up on a sort of jetty affair, right beside the huge lake. In the morning we noted the ‘Camping Interdit’ sign at the side of Doris; and found the real Aire just a few hundred yards down the road.

The next days driving was less stressful; but not relaxing. Another Aire and another days drive brought us to Dieppe for the five pm ferry to Newhaven. An uneventful crossing preceded our return to British soil; and it was dark and gently drizzling. We hoped to get to a lay-by near Salisbury for the night but we hadn’t been driving for more than half an hour when we noticed Doris’s battery light hadn’t fully gone out. Were we about to experience a major electrical failure? on a busy major road? We had no choice but to stop in the next available lay-by for the night; where we spent many hours trying to get some sleep, as the heavy traffic of the A27 thundered past; inches away from Doris, who rocked back and forth in their wake.

We woke early to a damp and foggy morning; drank tea, waited for a while,for the fog to lift, which it didn’t; and eventually crept hesitantly out into the morning traffic. But Doris had one more shock for us. Her wipers malfunctioned, getting stuck on the side of the windscreen. As Piggy said, through gritted teeth, the journey was turning into ‘a bloody nightmare’. The rain was a steady drizzle and, before we made it to a supermarket car park near Salisbury, we had stopped many times to release the wipers. It was time for a break and we treated ourselves to breakfast and coffee before venturing back on the road.

The weather cleared briefly, but, by the time we had reached the environs of Bristol, it became more of a steady rain, which, perversely, was easier to see through than the misty drizzle of earlier. Pete developed a cunning technique of ‘nearly’ turning the wipers on, which usually kept visibility as an option.

There were cheers as we crossed the Severn bridge and passed the Croeso y Cymru sign; and we only had to turn into one more Services for wiper release before the sun came out. By Swansea, rain again, but dry in Burry Port, where we stopped, briefly, to see Donna and brood. As we drove through Pembroke the rain was lashing down; at Freshwest the waves were crashing onto the rocks and we arrived home in a proper Atlantic drenching; like we’d never been away!

So now we are home; and glad to be. We’ve had an amazingly good time on this trip. Doris has struggled against enormous odds to get us home; and taken on some pretty awful terrain. She has been a haven and our comfort zone; a bit smelly at times maybe; but, hey, isn’t that why you lose your sense of smell as you get older? One of nature’s compensations you might say.

Hopefully she will be sorted out over the Summer and ready for another trip; probably not till late 2010; although we might just sneak a short look at Portugal in there somewhere! Thanks all of you for reading the blog. It’s been fun. Piggy and I extend warm invites to all those, who feel so inclined, to visit during the Summer. As most of you know, we are not having an anniversary ‘do’ this year; but next year is our fortieth and we hope lots of you will come and give us the benefit of your combined years of experience to make it a brilliant bash. Until the next time. . . .

NB: Doris’s windscreen wipers behaved impeccably when we turned into the heavy rain just past Pembroke! What a machine.

Just a quick update on the blog to follow. It’s Monday morning (6th) and I am writing this, in the sunshine, at Camping Portuondo, a campsite in Mundaka near Bilbao. We leave here today and go into France; at least I hope we do, because the entry road to the site is extremely steep and narrow. Piggy and I are both praying that Doris will have enough oomph to get up to the top!

Yesterday we took the excellent local bus into Bilbao to ‘do’ the Guggenheim; which was nice, if a trifle disappointing. Anyway, that’s our culture bit done. On with the next bit.

It’s Friday evening, (3rd) and we have got to the haven (despite two very loud bangs from the garage across the way) of a Spanish Aire, just south of the Picos de Europa. Have driven today from Astorga, the town of the indestructible Loaf, across the Cordillera Cantambrica.

I warn you; I could run out of adjectives now. East of Leon we climbed up over 1600 metres; out of valleys green and springlike to snowy peaks and towering rocks. The stones, first brilliant green with lichen, through all the stages, to huge snowdrifts lying in every crevasse were awesomely, fantastically overpowering. Wow factor times what you will.

I think we have given our hearts a good test today; as we have negotiated the screwdriver bends, up and down; and Pete has managed to restrain himself from taking his eyes off the road as huge raptors soar in the peaks around. The villages west of Potes were luxurious looking country residences; everything spick and span; but from then on, going south east, the villages suddenly fell into disrepair and potholes appeared in the road; something to do with the Basque thing? We do not know.

And yesterday, as we drove out of Portugal it was straight into the Serra de la Cabrere Baja. rolling hills covered in purple and pink heath; all perfectly enjoyable on a fine example of new Spanish road building.

Then across the plateau to Astorga; even more raptors and acres of conifer and poplars interspersed in tracts of wild heath. We saw a Montigue’s Harrier, who flew alongside Doris as we bowled along at a steady 30 miles an hour; a deserted road I hasten to add, in both directions.

So here we are; and tomorrow we are on our way to visit Bilbao; finally, after missing out for the last two visits to Spain. More of this later.

This is a second attempt to update this blog. Just as I was about to publish the last one, I lost my connection; so now I have to start over. Bloody irritating. Piggy is probably wondering when I will be returning!

I am writing this from the bar of the campsite Camping de Parc Natural de Monfrague, a few kilometres north of Trujillo. The park is a beautiful place; famous for it’s wildlife; particularly large numbers of raptors and black storks. We arrived here yesterday; after being told by a park warden, very politely, that wild camp ups were not allowed. So we have taken the opportunity to catch up on washing etc.; even having another shower!

This site has a large contingent of British; mostly very friendly; although some seem to spend a lot of their time moaning about their satellite reception! But there are several like minded birdwatchers here. This morning, while we were breakfasting al fresco, azure winged magpies were as numerous as the many sparrows competing for our leftover bread; and one was building a nest in the branches of a tree a few feet from our table. Various twitchers crept up to take photos; perhaps we should have charged admission fees!

Tomorrow we leave here, to spend a day in the park, hoping for views of the aforementioned storks, vultures and eagles. Then we are popping back into Portugal for a few days, for more lazing about next to barragems; a pastime that we enjoyed while with Pat and Pedro. The pace of life in Portugal is more relaxed than Spain; a halfway house between that country and Morocco. We intend to explore the countryside much more thoroughly on our next expedition out of Blighty.

While I have been writing this a young Senorita has been chatting away to me at top speed; despite me having to admit to ‘pocito’ Espagnol. She didn’t seem to mind doing the talking for both of us though, and she has just left my side to have a scrap with her younger sister, on the bar floor.

After the barragems, we must turn, reluctantly, homeward. I just hope that the good weather follows us to Wales. That’s all for now. Wish you were (all) here; and see you in April.

So here we are, by the Barragem de Odivalles in Portugal. The sun is shining; cistus bushes by the hundred are full of their papery flowers; cork oaks and pines all around and, in front of us the still blue water of the Barragem.

Evidently there are over 140 barragems (barrages, or dams as we call them) in Portugal and they are used as a leisure facility; by Portugese and tourists alike. This being the weekend, cars full of locals have been turning up, enjoying picnics and generally having fun. We have just been lounging about and generally chilling out, after leaving Tarifa on Thursday the 19th. The difference between travelling on Moroccan roads (10 k. an hour on ‘country’ roads) and the speedy advance along good Spanish roads is extremely marked. We did miss the cheery waves and smiles of Moroccan passers by though.

We have met up with our friends Pat and Pedro again; in fact this blog is being delivered via their internet facility (dongle) and it’s very pleasant to sit here, looking at the lake, and trying to remember what has been happening the last few days!

All too soon now, we will be wending our way home; and hoping that some of this marvelous weather will have arrived in Pembrokeshire. There’s not much more to say for now. Just time for another little wander about, flower and butterfly spotting, before dinner; a barbecue, courtesy or Pat’nPedro. Life is not too bad!

Just a short update to the following blog entry: We are back on European soil; and it’s still very very windy. We sailed from Tangiers yesterday; but the Tarifa Jet, which only takes 35 minutes to skim across the 18 miles separating Africa, was not operating, due to the extreme ‘vente’ blowing down the Mediterranean. So, after a lot of hustle and complete unhelpfulness from Moroccan officialdom at the port, we managed to get aboard a Euroferry. A much larger affair, which finally sailed about three o’clock; and didn’t dock until after eleven o’clock at night, European time. Pete and I spent the whole sailing time chatting to a young German woman, who was leaving Maroc for just 24 hours, to renew her visa. She had been doing this for eight years, as she had lived in Morocco for this time. A strange lifestyle.

We travelled the few kilometres to Tarifa and managed to get into Rio Jara Camping before they shut up for the night. After a long stressful day, we were asleep before our heads hit the pillow.

THE LAST DAY . . .

We have arrived at Cap Spartel; back on the windy Atlantic coast. Parked up at Camping Ashaker for tonight. And tomorrow we leave Morocco; assuming all is well for ferry sailings. We were going to indulge in the luxury of a shower. How queer! as I wrote that Piggy announced that he is going to have a cold shower; the only option on this site and one I shall not be taking up. For those readers of ‘a shower a day’ persuasion, make sure you are sitting down when I say, we haven’t had a shower since the 10th of February; close on five weeks!

But we are not smelly; no, honestly. Strip washes and hair washing as a regular routine suffice perfectly well. And our immune systems are in perfect working order, having been left to their own devices, without depletion by chemical bathing products on a daily basis.

We were hoping for a shower at Midelt. Last year, although the campsite looked ramshackle, there were hot showers, for free! But this year the site is in the process of being ‘done up’ and there were no washing or toilet facilities at all. But the guardien is a charming bloke, who kept reminding us that all would be in perfect working order ‘l’annee prochaine’. But we did have electricity (hence the last mammoth blog), we could see the High Atlas to the west; and there were storks nesting on the nearby communications tower, clacking their bills in a never ending love fest. For three nights, and electricity, we paid over the princely sum of 100 dhiram ( about £8.50 ) and that was including a generous tip.

Piggy has just returned from his shower, truly invigorated, if a trifle wild eyed.

To continue: some Moroccan encounters. . .

We bought a large box of excellent dates in Midelt. The shopkeeper had persuaded us to buy the best, after assuring us they would survive the trip home; indeed for several months. As he was expertly packing them, I tried to make light conversation, explaining that we intended to give some as presents once home. Upon hearing the word ‘cadeaux’ he immediately assumed that I was asking for a ‘cadeau’ as a small return for my purchase! Despite my embarrassed protests he presented me with a very tasteful place mat of coloured raffia. For a few minutes there I knew how it felt to be a Moroccan on the cadge. It reminded me of the Welsh custom of ‘luck money’ when you sold an animal at market. The purchaser would invariably come up and claim their ‘cadeau’
prior to your departure.

On Friday the 13th, we parked up on a little plateau overlooking the Barrage Allal el Fassi. All day Pete had been feeling a trifle ‘off’, with a bad headache and a slightly gippy tummy. This site had stunning views over the barrage and gorgeous scenery all around, of olive and almond trees, barley fields and the ubiquitous carpet of flowers in every available patch of earth. We settled down for the night, Pete crashing out almost immediately after a light supper.

Around eightish I heard footsteps approaching and there came a sharp rap on Doris’s door. I peered into the darkness to see two soldiers standing there, who, perfectly politely, told me that it was ‘interdit’ to park where we were and we were going to have to move; (we should have known, after not being allowed to take photos at barrage Youssef Ben-Tachfine, near Tiznet on our last visit. Moroccan officialdom being very touchy about their public works ). But, there was no way we could move, seeing as we don’t ‘do’ night driving (as explained in last blog).

“Non; pas possible” dit I
“M’seur est mal. Il avais le mal de tete et etomach.”

This flummoxed them a bit; and then Pete woke up and confirmed the ‘mal de tete et etomach’ bit. Whereupon one of them got on his walkie talkie and, a few minutes later, a carload of smiling soldiers rolled up; one in plain clothes who appeared to be in charge. After a bit of a chat, and when they had realised that we were not international terrorists planning to damage their lovely barrage, but just two slightly batty old people on holiday, we were allowed to stay, subject to supplying various official details of documentation. Hooray! Two hours later, just as we had got settled down for the night, the smiling crew returned to our door, to get even more numbers and names off official paperwork.

It was all done with the greatest cordiality and friendly repartee. With apologies and ‘bon nuits’ on both sides they left us to sleep. In the morning, as we drove across the barrage bridge, the soldiers all came out of their hut and shouted goodbye, with many smiles and waves.

On the road from Midelt to Sefrou, the snow, which has been prolific this winter, lay all around. At a popular water source we saw a Moroccan family throwing snowballs at each other. It looked very strange to see a mature Moroccan woman, in turquoise djellabah and white headscarf, energetically lobbing snowballs at a man who, I assume, was her hubby.

At a wild camp up in Tassaka Parc Naturel ( more of this later) a Moroccan family, who had been having a Sunday picnic, stopped where we were parked and said hello. The wife gave me half an orange as they left; another cadeau!

Yesterday we drove through Fez. It was hot and muggy. The huge city was crowded with traffic and people; and we were trying to find the road out of town towards Meknes. This necessitated driving through centre ville, which was jam packed. Cars, lorries, vans and buses continuously hooted and parped as we all crawled along at a snail’s pace.

A Moroccan gentleman in the car inching forward alongside us, carried on an intriguing flirtation with me. He repeatedly pointed to his eyes, then to me, then smote his heart and did a thumbs up! I naturally burst out giggling. So, smiling broadly, he pointed to his arm muscles and then again to me, conveying what I really could not tell. And even Pete, who was concentrating every nerve on avoiding collisions, cheered up and waved cheerily at my new admirer! Although my pragmatic partner did rather deflate this old girl’s newly inflated ego by saying he was probably on the lookout for a gullible European woman to act as gigolo for. But it brightened up a stressful interlude.

As did an exchange of looks with a Moroccan girl, riding pillion on one of the weaving scooters. She shouted at the driver, as he squeezed through the minuscule gap between us and the outside lane of traffic. He ignored her of course and, as they passed, our eyes met and she raised hers heavenward, as if to say ‘men!’ I responded with a suitably sympathetic ‘woman to woman’ kind of smile, and she grinned back as her driver managed to find another gap in the motorised melee ahead.

We finally found our way onto the right road, with the help of a very efficient, friendly policeman, who pinpointed exactly where we were on the map and sent us on our way; which happened to be the route past the King’s palace; a palatial estate indeed, that seemed to go on for ever, with armed sentries in little boxes, every few hundred yards.

Before I finish this last Moroccan blog I must just tell about the Tassaka Parc Naturel. This is a circuit from Taza back round in a loop west, coming out on the main road again some 30 k. west of the town. Once again, an incredible place. We have seen waterfalls every bit as good as at Ouzoud. Mountains that rise up over 3,000 metres, the highest being Djebel Bounaceur, are in the far distance. The rocky road has the usual twists and turns through stunningly beautiful countryside of cork oaks, juniper, and other deciduous trees. Here and there we came across small bleak upland plains where a few hardy souls scratch a living from sheep and goats.

Our night park up was actually a designated Aire de Repos, with stone tables and benches set under the cork oaks. And, in the wood behind, we found a dear little stone cottage, all locked up and, presumably, a warden’s pad when the season starts. Absolutely idyllic. Thank goodness it wasn’t for sale!

And that’s about it for the Moroccan stage of this journey. Assuming we do sail tomorrow, I shall post this blog in Tarifa. Then it’s on into Portugal, a country we have not visited before. We have no phrase book and don’t speak a word of the language. Should be an interesting, if confusing, interlude.

Are you sitting comfortably? . . .

This next bit is very long, being the conglomerate account of events from Friday the 6th, to Monday the 9th of March. I know blogs are supposed to be short and chatty but I can’t seem to get the hang of it. Also, as you will know, Piggy and I like wild camping, miles from anywhere, and I have to write things down every evening, to allow for those senior moments, and knock them into shape before the next internet stop. Enough explanations.

JOURNEYS; IN THE MOYEN AND HIGH ATLAS

1. from Ouarzazate to Demnate

“New experiences I’m sure” said I; in ’smug mode’ in the last blog. Well that’s for certain. I think even Pete’s passion for B roads, preferably going up mountains, will have been (nearly) sated by the time we get back to the relative sanity of European travel.

We left the hot arid plain of Ouarzazate and turned North onto a B road (supposedly equivalent) towards Demnate, about 130 kilometres away, on the other side of the High Atlas range. It started well, despite being all climb and hairpin bends and we both, foolishly, hoped that the surface would stay good.

But, gradually small holes gave way to bigger holes, often filled with water to hidden depths. There were unsafe road edges, with a thin eroded tarmac overhang. And all the time the scenery became more stupendous as we rose higher and higher. The snowy peaks got nearer; and the road got worse.

We saw evidence of rock falls that had been hastily cleared; we came upon several small road gangs and one machine clearing snow from a small avalanche. Snow melt from the higher slopes rushed down the mountain side and over the road in many many places, gouging lumps out of the surface, as it fell to the river, red with sandstone, thousands of feet below, (about seven and a half thousand, for those who’d like to know).

At one point the road was blocked by a broken down lorry, which was being used to move the stones. There were several workmen and one or two small boys, lolling at the side of the road (steep drop side) while the driver/ mechanic did his stuff. A small queue built up on both sides; ours consisted of us and an Austrian campervan, the driver of which we chatted to while we waited. Waiting to come down the mountain was a minibus and a pick up truck.

“How long?” said Pete to the Moroccan layabouts; and made them laugh when he told me three hours, with a straight face, after being assured that ten minutes should see it done.

And then there were the locals; lots and lots of them; usually with donkeys, sheep and goats jumping casually from side to side of the narrow road. Colourful and well wrapped up, ruddy faced and weathered; they looked a hardy lot; if a trifle wild. Most stared, some smiled as we passed. The little children ran alongside, begging for anything, as we tried to negotiate mudslides and potholes. Local transport rushed towards and past us. And I did involuntary isometrics as every aged muscle tensed at each bend and bump. The vocal chords got a bit of a workout too.

Bizarrely, every now and then, we would come upon a road sign featuring a solitary cow. Where these cows were supposed to appear from I cannot imagine. Any pasture was way down in the valleys and, if such creatures existed among the stony scree, their owners would have had them very firmly tethered for sure.

And all the time the scenery was incredible. rocky, barren; awesome ravines where the red river flowed far below; occasional patches of cultivation alongside the river; almond trees and barley; brown stone built houses clinging onto the side of the mountains. The snow capped peaks, not so far away as before.

As we came out of, what we took to be, the last major pass, we saw a sign for Demnate. Only another 53 k to go. We were only just over halfway! From then on it was just hair raising. Poor Doris was more in 1st gear than any other. The worst moments were climbing round steep bends, the narrow road made even narrower by muddy stony sediment and brown water from the cliff face. I didn’t dare look down into the valleys; my every nerve centred on Piggy as he steered us ever onward.

Never have I been happier to see habitation; in the form of Demnate. As we descended, the barren snowscape gave way to wooded slopes of cedar and pines. It was very beautiful. Olive groves, almond trees and green, lovely green everywhere.

That night we wild camped a few k out of Demnate, in a little lay-by just off the road; as did the Austrian campers, who followed us all the way down.

Note: I have just read the last entry to Piggy, who says I haven’t captured “the true horror” of the experience. All I can say is, okay. Glad we made it; but never again. Give me the touts of the Dades valley any day!

Before the next journey; an idyllic interlude:

The fields are alive . . . .

Saturday (7th of March) Tonight we are parked on a patch of bare ground, on the edge of a vast plain of barley, which grows as far as the eye can see on both sides of the road. Again, the usual drifts of wild flowers, which now include poppies, small irises, adonis annua and a form of pungent salvia are all around.

To the North we can see the snowy peaks of the High Atlas; scene of our travails yesterday; only now, in the sunset, they are a delicate tint of icing sugar pink, with a lilac sky behind.

The plain looked deserted, except for a few low brown stone houses in the distance. But, as the lights started coming on, a ribbon of twinkling points spread all around; and it was obvious that this seemingly deserted plain was full of people.

Earlier we had discerned black dots, moving, spread out all over the fields; presumably engaged in the never ending forage gathering. People on donkeys trotted by and distant vehicles sped to and fro from the settlements, now shaped by lights on the near horizon. Behind them, the hills before the mountains; a gorgeous vista.

And; not quite so idyllic:

Friday evening (6th of March) This park up was not very salubrious, being a rubbish tip for the nearby village. But it served it’s purpose as a haven of repose after our horrendous journey.

On Saturday morning two young hustlers did their best to put us off Moroccan youth for life.

“Donnez moi un dhiram,
donnez moi une stylo,
donnez moi un bonbon,
donnez moi argent!”

After a prolonged period of persistent hustling they produced a dog; on the assumption that all Europeans’ hearts melt at the sight of man’s best friend. Then a donkey appeared and gazed mournfully through the door of Doris, as we tried to ignore them and finish our breakfast. To play on our heartstrings they explained they had no home, their mother was dead and they were completely poverty stricken. These were two healthy looking lads, in clean clothes, with gelled hair and a transistor radio. Also supposed to be tending a flock of sheep and goats; if the sharp words coming from an older shepherd on the hill above us were anything to go by.

2. from Demnate to Beni Mellal; Sunday the 8th of March:

We left our field park up in the morning, after watching the local populace emerge into the fields, with donkeys, sheep, goats and cows. They all waved and smiled as they passed, in family groups.

A short aside. Sunday seems to be the day Moroccan families have an outing. They can be seen, picnicking, or strolling in the country or by the seaside. A bit of quality leisure time.

So off we set towards the east, aiming to reach Midelt within two days, with a wild camp up on the way. First though, as we were so close, we decided to ‘do’ the cascades at Ouzoud, a famous tourist attraction. The experience was much as expected. Lots of tourists, both Moroccan and European, and the attendant touts and shops. Swarming with people generally. Several campsites, but none that appealed; so did a quick foray to the Falls, fending off the many ‘guides’, who told us how ‘dangereux’ it was to venture forth ’sans guide’.

‘Twas a bit like a red rag to the proverbial, saying such words to survivors of a journey over the High Atlas; and many walks along the Pembrokeshire coast path! The falls were okay, although we much preferred the ‘Pont Naturel’ that we had seen the day before, just outside Demnate; a natural stone bridge with a fast stream flowing through a deep ravine below. Under the arch choughs and lesser kestrels banked and hovered round their nests on the rocky faces of the ravine.

Then off we set on our way to Midelt. And another ‘B’ road, which, although it was still a stunning ride up hill and down dale, was nothing too daunting. We drove past the Bin-el-Ouidaine barrage and cut across country to find a wild camp up somewhere south of Beni Mellal. But, unbeknown to us, somewhere we took a wrong turning and couldn’t find out where we were. We kept seeing milestones to a village called Tagleft, but it was not on our map.

We were getting a bit concerned as there was barely an hour of daylight left and a narrow mountain road, in Morocco, in the dark, is not an option. We had to find somewhere to park up. And then we found the promised Tagleft. From an empty country road we drove straight in to it’s only dusty street, which was packed with people, as every village and town is at that time of day. The road ended at a small square of shops and cafes, all full of customers, with lorries, cars, scooters bikes and donkeys playing dodgems round the throng of pedestrians.

There was no option but to turn round and go back, but we didn’t know where we were going. We had to stop and ask. Almost immediately we were surrounded by an ever growing crowd of smiling faces. This was no man’s land for campers and we appeared to be the main entertainment event for the evening. Amazingly, at the front of the crowd appeared a cheerful chap who spoke perfectly good English. He and Pete pored over our map, but couldn’t decipher our position at all. The best he could do was point us in the direction we had come as the way to Beni Mellal.
After a pleasant, if claustrophobic, quarter of an hour full of noisy suggestions as to our course of action, and much laughter, we went on our way; not before our new friend had offered to put us up at his house. But it was obvious that we wouldn’t get any sleep if we stayed, so we promised to return if we got stuck again.

We drove about ten k. back the way we had come and, with only minutes to spare, found a small pull off overlooking a green valley in a hollow in the hills; managed to get pretty near level and settled down for the night. It was a beautiful spot. Just over the low roadside hill we could see the High Atlas; again! The moon was nearly full and from the valley basin rose the echoing sounds of cicadas, frogs, possibly toads, and dogs barking to each other, probably of our suspected presence.

In the morning the usual stream of people passed, going down to the valley on donkeys and coming up with sheep and goats. Most waved and smiled. Grand taxis and lorries drove past. Nearly all waved and hooted. They’d probably seen us in Tagleft the night before.

We retraced our steps to the last known map point and took the road north. Another amazing ride down to the plain of Beni Mellal, along a winding road. As we descended the vegetation grew more lush and, all along the hilly road side, were cistus bushes covered with papery pink flowers. Soon we were on the N8 and approaching Beni Mellal.

3. from Beni Mellal to Midelt; Monday the 9th of March

It felt strange to be driving at more than ten kilometres an hour on a two lane road with fast traffic. Doris enjoyed the luxury of being in top gear, through Beni Mellal, Kasba Tadla and nearly to Khenifra. We turned south onto another B road towards Zeida, via El Kebab, which is only twenty k. north of Midelt; our destination for the night.

As navigator I had dismissed an alternative route, on a B road, some miles before, in favour of this one, because it looked shorter and not so winding. How wrong can you be! It followed the river Serrou, which I thought might be the pretty way, The road was built on the soft red sandstone prevalent in the area and holes started appearing almost immediately, in the middle and along the edges. The many little streams that ran into the river caused muddy slips and hazards; and then we started to climb.

The country grew wilder and more barren. Greenery gave way to wild upland moorland. After a slow slog upward we came across the isolated Berber village of El Kebab. It was Souk day and it seemed as if every available body from the surrounding countryside was in town.

Piggy’s driving skills were further tested getting in and out of a ‘restricted’ access to a gazole station, having to ignore the suggested hand signals of a smiling Moroccan driver, who showed scant disregard for the retention of our wing mirrors. We crept at snail’s pace through the milling crowds blocking the narrow sandy street. Traffic passed both ways, continuously beeping to get through, when it was quite obvious that slow to dead stop was the optimum speed.

I very much doubt if any other campervans had come this way; and we were very glad of Doris’s ageing and shabby appearance, which seemed to cause curiosity but not hostility. In the main people looked friendly and acknowledged our smiles and ‘bonjours’. Some of the women, very colourful in their all covering robes, looked disapprovingly at my uncovered European head.

Finally we made it through the seething melee and out of town. We drove on, aiming for a place called Kerrouchen; the last outpost before the road joined the main road to Zeida.
But the journey got steadily worse. The road (more piste than road) was pitted and holed nearly all the way. We crawled along, averaging twenty k. an hour, and ever upward we went, the snow covered peaks of the Moyen Atlas drew nearer; and country folk stared as we passed; probably thinking we were completely bonkers.

At last we passed the turning for Kerrouchen, but there was still 74 k. to go to Midelt. And we were still going up. As the final insult to Doris’s gallant efforts, just before we went over the top, we encountered a ford, with fast rushing water over large boulders. Pete took it reasonably fast, to avoid getting stuck in the middle, and poor Doris suffered some nasty bangs to her undercarriage as we wallowed across.

With nerves strained to breaking point we climbed steadily for several k. and Doris’s temperature began to rise; only settling back to normal when we put the heating on full blast. We were worried that something dreadful had happened as we crossed the ford, but had to keep going. And the weather gradually got worse, with angry black clouds gathering all around.

At last, after passing substantial snow banks alongside the road, we started to descend. Still a dreadful road but, far in the distance, we could see the main road to Zeida. As we hit the junction with the main road, the heavens opened and sheet lightning split the sky. The thunder reverberated round the hills, and even the Moroccan drivers put their lights on!

Then Zeida; the junction of the B road 503 and the N13 to Midelt. We nearly took a wrong turning here but, finally, we were driving South to Midelt, with only twenty k. to go. The rain was still lashing down and the thunder and lightning pyrotechnics lit up the sky. But we made the campsite and parked up in the nick of time. When we fell into bed that night we thanked our lucky stars that our Doris is built like a tank and took everything we threw at her with relative ease. There is a hint of damage to one ofof the exhaust joins, but, apart from that, she appears unscathed. What a wonder of a machine!

We left Tafraout on Monday, the 2nd of March; rather reluctantly it has to be said. Everything the camper van explorer needs was there; a great wild area to park up, a town within walking distance, where you could buy delicious macaroons from the patisserie, savour exquisite juices at our favourite cafe and, for three days, we had the bonus of the Festival des Amandiers. Amazingly we actually saw Bassekou Kouyate & Ngoni Ba perform on Friday evening; the last time we saw them live was at Womad, 2007. A great band and a great evening.

But, all good things have to come to an end and Monday morning saw us climbing out of the steep road out of Tafraout towards Igherm. We had travelled this road last year; and a barren but beautiful journey it was. But this year the rains have turned it into a carpet of green with startling swards of colour from the myriad flowers. Knee high barley covered every available space; to say it was breathtakingly stunningly fantastic is to underestimate the vista spread on every side as we drove. As it got higher (the highest point is about seven and a half thousand feet) the green gave way, a little, to almond trees in leaf. It augers well for a good harvest; to be celebrated at Tafraout again we hope.

The culmination of this flower fest was our park up for the night. About 30 k from Tazenacht we pulled off onto a gravelly open space, between the road and a dry river bed, backed by overhanging rocks. The whole area was a natural wild garden, stunningly overrun with red, pink and purple bugloss, asphodel, yellow brassica, mignonette, marigold, an enormous fennel like plant and lots of orange flowers that reminded me of the corn marigolds we get back in Pembrokeshire. These were just the ones that i could identify. Frustratingly I couldn’t find any others in my wild flower (of the Mediterranean) book. But that didn’t stop our enjoyment of this magic little spot.

Two girls with donkeys stopped to gaze and giggle. They spoke only Berber but still managed to ask for some chocolate! And in the morning, three of their friends turned up; and depleted our store of chocolate even further.

We left there the next morning and aimed for the wild campsite where we are now parked up. It’s about 30 k from Ouzarzate (home of the Moroccan film industry) and we found it last year. A rocky open plateau with the oued Ariri running through it; just a large stream really. And the wind blows continuously, whipping up the sand along the riverbed. In the distance, to the West, the snow capped tips of the High Atlas can be seen. Yesterday Pete climbed the hills on the other side of the road to get a better view. Pretty amazing evidently. For interested twitchers he saw a blue rock thrush up there; and yesterday evening we watched as two booted eagles soared and wheeled along the orange cliffs that back on to the river.

Tomorrow we leave here. We have decided to avoid the Dades valley, with it’s many touts and tat, and are aiming for Demnate. A new place for us. And new experiences I’m sure.

From this intenet cafe I can see the flags and food stalls of the almond festival. The sun is shining and there is rumoured to be music from Senegal and Mali, plus Moroccan of course, sometime during the four days of celebrations.

We arrived in Tafroute last Sunday and parked up at the wild camping as we did last year. No where near as many campers as then; and less hustlers, especially the kids; Carol and Phil please note! The have had rain, even here, one of the driest areas of Morocco, and, what was a stony quartz scree, is now covered with what first appears to be grass; but if you look closely it is tiny flowers and herbage.

We had only been there for about half an hour when Hassan, (another Hassan) the gofer for Maison Troc (carpet shop) arived, all smiles, to renew our acquaintance. Despite our assurances that we would not be repeating our extravagance of last year he turned up not much later with Mohammed, salesman superieur, who greeted us as old friends; but we stuck to our guns and told them we had not the money; and also we had to find a mechanic to look at Doris.

As I knew they would they recommended someone straight away and, within the hour, he was delving under Doris’s bonnet to ascertain the problem.

On our way here we noticed that Doris had developed a bit of a cough; it sounded like fuel starvation; and that’s just what it turned out to be. The mechanic returned the next day, on foot with a tiny toolkit, nowhere near as comprehensive as the collection Pete had packed, and sorted the whole thing out; having to return to his garage to get a new filter halfway through the operation. It cost about fifty quid, which was probably a bit over the odds but, despite some teeth sucking from Piggy, was worth it; in my opinion.

Since we have been here the residents of Tafroute have been straining every muscle to prepare for the festival; an event that has not taken place for many years (from 4 to 20, according to who you ask) Road laying has gone on day and night. Painting of any available surface has filled the air wih fumes that fight for predominance over the usual diesel and exhaust; and in the main square a stage has been erected and many little tented stalls surround the open area purveying snacks and the inevitable tourist tat.

But yesterday it looked as if they might have a problem. In the night the wind reached gale force dimensions and the rain lashed down. All day we were huddled in Doris, wondering how the electrics were holding up down at the square.

But today all is sunshine and the music sounds great. As soon as I have finished this entry I will be joining Piggy outside to take it all in; and get some photos for the blog.

Mind you, only an hour ago all was doom and gloom. We needed to draw some money, for babouche and other purchases, but, despite trying the only two cashpoints in town, several times, we couldn’t get either to pay out. The bank staff were completely unhelpful, insisting it was our card at fault; even appealing to the manager elicited no response. There was only one option left, other than leave town and hope for better luck elsewhere, and that was – call on Mohammed and Hassan at Maison Troc.

We just wanted them to test our card on their machine, to confirm the probem wasn’t at our end; but as soon as we had explained our dilemma Hassan offered to do a money transaction, after verifying that there was no problem with our card. Ten minutes later we left our favourite carpet shop wth the cash needed and promised to return next year to buy another gorgeous floor covering. What it is to have contacts!

So that’s all for now. The sun is shining and the music calls. But first we must buy babouches. Until next time

To my right a party of French campers are celebrating one of their number,s birthday; to my left the prolonged and hypnotic sound of Friday prayers is drifting over from the local mosque. The sun has just gone down behind the palm trees and a light wind is  stirring the  branches; and the sand.

We are at Hassans. A Moroccan we now count as a friend, after meeting him in Goulimine last year, when he lured us back to his newly opened camp site with promises of showers and proper sit down toilets; which was nearly true, although the water supply to both was a trifle intermittent.

But Hassan was the genuine article. He loved company and talking, listening to music and generally enjoying life. So we have returned to see how his campsite project is getting on; and I am pleased to report that it appears to be a great success.

It is about 10 k south of Goulimine, in the village of Asrir; and is set in the middle of an extensive palmery, with orange mud and straw houses dotted among the trees; and fertile little gardens growing barley, olives and vegetables, fenced around with palm leaf pallisades.

Hassan’s camp site is full! He has finally got his mention in a Moroccan camping guide, (with GPS identification) and the French campervans ,especially, are beating a path to his door.  When they get here it is to receive the warmest of welcomes from their host, who does everything possible to make their stay a memorable one. Whether it is his benign influence, or he just attracts a better class of camper I don’t know, but all the campers have been remarkably friendly and chat quite happily to all their neighbours, be they French, German, Dutch or English; something that doesn’t usually happen in other camp sites we have frequented.

This morning Pete decided that Doris’s handbrake needed tightening; an essential bit of maintenance if we are to tackle the lower slopes of any of the Atlas mountains. This necessitated himself crawling about under her back wheels with the appropriate spanners to tighten up things, (and that’s as technical as it’s going to get). This soon attracted a small audience of fellow campers; who are ever on the lookout for things to get interested in. They addressed his legs, as the only visible contact, questioning the seriousness of the problem.

“Pas de problem” said Pete to these enquiries. Naturally enough his audience wanted to know why he was lying under Doris.

“Vous dormis?” one asked.

“Il est mort?” from another.

And so it went on, as Pete’s legs threshed about tightening the aforesaid things. A very jolly interlude.

I would add that we are the only English here; as is the case in most of Moroccan campsites. Hassan strolls about beaming and chatting to all his flock with no difficulty; he does speak French, English and German, Arabic of course and his local language; I didn’t quite catch what it was, plus a smattering of several others; so, pas de problem.

His mother, sister, brother in law and their two small daughters live in another house next to Hassans; a much smaller, traditional affair; unlike Hassans, which is built more in the Spanish style; a country where he lived and worked for some years. His two little nieces get spoilt rotten by the campers. Their teeth will be ruined even quicker than Moroccans in general; most of whom can’t afford to pay dentists.

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Several hours later . . . . . . .  We have just returned from an impromptu dinner party in Hassan’s house.

At a long table in the living room were several French couples talking nineteen to the dozen with plenty of beverages to keep the repartee from flagging. We had all brought our own plates, spoons and glasses, as requested only a short time before. In no time at all Hassan and his brother in law came in bearing steaming platters of cous cous with chicken and vegetables, cooked by Hassan’ sister. Absolutely delicious; and great company too. We happened to be seated next to Jean Michel and Chantel. Jean Michel spoke as good an English as we did Francais. So we made ourselves understood and we all rubbed along very well.

Peter and Jean discovered each other’s fishing interests very soon on into  the conversation. We spoke of children and grandchildren; the joys of living by the sea (they live in La Rochelle) work and play;and general chit chat. A great evening; made more so because of it’s unexpectedness. Hassan was beaming with joy, that so many of his charges were seated at his table and enjoying his hospitality. I predict that his campsite will be one of the most popular ever. Certainly one of the most authentic experiences of Moroccan hospitality that Pete and I have come across so far.

Mind you, we did have a similar experience at the camp site we stayed in outside Goulimine, for two days before we came to Hassans.

After leaving the Oued Assaka on Tuesday (17th) morning we went in search  of water; and realised that we had been travelling around with our eyes closed, both this year and last. We had been told of public taps in Goulimine by campers at Plage Blanche, and found these just on the outskirts as directed. Once we’d seen one lot we realised we had seen many, but not realised they were for all to use. While I was shopping in Goulimine Pete saw a man taking a drink from a pottery pitcher; left for the purpose outside a shop, with a handy cup tied to the handle. When you think of it, it’s quite a necessary service in an area where water is such a precious commodity.

We found the campsite 2 k out of Goulimine on the Agadir road. It was a huge square of ground, fronted by a cafe/ restaurant; with a small separate toilet block and wash area. Behind the buildings the park up spaces were divided by flowerbeds and bushes, with little bamboo huts with concrete floors, sprinkled here and there. It was very decorative, in that haphazard Moroccan way and I liked it very much.

Two young Moroccan lads appeared to be in charge; neither very pushy but perfectly friendly. It had no showers or electricity, which explained why it wasn’t heaving with campervans. Indeed we were the only punters on this couple of acres; except for a modest French van that arrived late in the evening and left very early on Wednesday morning.

Despite the lack of showers, we both had a thorough clean and tidy up; and I did all the washing. It was an intriguing place. We decided it must be a leisure facility, Moroccan style. During the two days we were there several carloads of Moroccans rolled up and used the cafe. Many just walked round the gardens, heads bent in earnest conversation; and, in the evening, some prayed, kneeling on the dusty ground, facing towards Mecca.

Tomorrow (Sunday the 22nd) we leave Hassans, possibly aiming for Assa, a 100k from here; and then off to Tafroute; where we will try not to be tempted into buying another carpet!

Will this be the last time we will park up on the bank of the Oued (river) Assaka? I fear so. Followers of the first Doris blog may remember that we were very taken with this little patch of solitude, some 15 K outside Goulamine on the way to Plage Blanche. We arrived here last Thursday, after following a newly tarmacked road out of Goulamine, only to find our original entrance blocked off; the road having been diverted slightly as it crosses the river.

But Piggy discovered an alternative way in and we parked up a bit further down the bank. It was as lovely as we remembered, only better. The rains have produced flowers in great profusion and the barren scree of last year now has a carpet of acid yellow brassica, lilac stocks, desert shrubs covered in tiny white and pink blossom. Even the Tamarisk shows green among it’s normal yellowing foliage and the rushes along the bank are green and prolific.

By the road is a makeshift shelter where a Moroccan youth guards a pump. It is being used to fill up lorries with water that arrive at regular intervals during the day and drive off with their loads, (we assume it’s something to do with the road building) quite a lot of which sloshes over the sides and returns to the river from whence it came.

There was a noisy burro  tethered across the river from us when we arrived. He wasn’t collected until near dark, when a woman, who had been sitting waiting at the top of the hill, slipped down to spirit him away.

In the morning, a large herd of camels passed, growling and groaning; the drovers waved and shouted greetings; and then a substantial flock of goats, with little kids leaping and running in high spirits along the rocky terrain.

Outside, in the evenings, the frogs and cicadas compete for volume control, while inside, the battle between us and the mozzies  rages. Last year we managed, after much searching, to buy some fly swats; which we inconveniently forgot to pack. And, again, the search is on for another. Moroccan traders look bemused when you ask for such an item. Perhaps it’s not the done thing to kill annoying insects.

For the twitchers among you, the birds we have seen here include marbled ducks (quite rare apparently), hoopoes, ruddy shelducks, the white wagtail and trumpeter finches; and many other more common species.

We, reluctantly left here yesterday, to top up with much needed supplies. We also are in dire need of a fill of water (and the washing is building- again!) so a campsite was a necessity.

After a shopping trip into Goulamine we made for Plage Blanche, 40 K up this road, to see if last years rumours of huge hotel and holiday complexes had come to fruition. A stunningly beautiful drive through the flat plain. Carpeted with flowers up to and over the hilly slopes to either side. As we neared the coast it became more rocky and hilly; and in every little valley and ravine were flowers. Pink, white, yellow, lilac, red and orange swards were a feast to the eyes. In the distance, to West and East, were the low rounded hills, all flower and forage covered, and, further away again, were the slate blue slopes of the start of the Anti Atlas.

We passed several large flocks of sheep and goats; and small settlements of tidy pink houses; often with a mosque. A magical drive done at a stately and relaxing 40 miles an hour. Doris likes that speed too.

Plage Blanche looked much the same. The huge windswept, sandy, stony plain above the beach had the usual contingent of campers; the owners lounging in the sun; and wind of course. Not long after our arrival an English couple, who had seen Doris at Sidi Ifni (where we camped for one night after Plage d’Aglou) arrived at Doris’s door to say hello.

During a chat over a cup of tea we decided to revise our plans of stopping at the campsite at Fort Bou Jerrif, (for those interested, refer to previous blog ‘Doris in the desert’) for the aforementioned water, showers and washing, when they told us that it now cost 90 dhirams a night (about £8 50), the showers were rarely hot and the leccy (not included in the tariff) very intermittent.

There didn’t seem much point bumping poor Doris’s ancient springs down the 9 k sandy piste to this outpost; so we decided to have one last night here. Today we go in search of another campsite, rumoured to be a few k out of Goulamine, and then we will look up Hassan at Asrir (again, refer to previous blog). Hopefully I will get this blog posted at Goulamine. Until the next time folks.