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!