Holiday in Marrakesh

 Holiday in Marrakesh.

It was almost midnight in Marrakesh and it was all very atmospheric and electrifying. It had been our holiday of a lifetime. The horses were galloping across a sandy arena in deepest Morocco and it felt as if the whole of this Middle East paradise had come alive, loud and proud, deafening and powerful but entertaining, a night to remember. But your eardrums had been blistered by the raucous sounds of experienced horsemen who had probably performed this same ritual for as long as any of us could remember, blasting out gun fire, smoke billowing into the sultry Middle East air. 

Then we heard screaming women with those anguished cries that, to those who were not in the know, sounded pretty terrifying and deeply disturbing. But then again this is the way they do these spectacular horse shows in Marrakesh, a reminder of a historical past that goes back ages and centuries. After a meaty dinner in what can only be described as the most palatial marquee you could ever hope to see, a stillness descended and the show burst upon expectant tourists who were gathered here to witness a stunning display of controlled horsemanship with hugely disciplined rows of beautifully jingling and jangling, shining and caparisoned horses.

This was our last night in magisterial Marrakesh, a location so deeply exotic that it almost felt as if you'd been transported to some far and distant land where Aladdin once floated on a magic carpet. Our hotel, called the Diwane, was a wondrously impressive testament to architectural perfection. The Diwane was just a towering edifice, rich in all of those Middle East furnishings, stunning marble columns wherever you looked and the wealthiest looking chandeliers that hung almost effortlessly from a domed ceiling.

Outside the hotel of course, was the obligatory swimming pool complete with sun drenched loungers and sun umbrellas, the kind of parasols that tourists from all over the world have come to expect. For much of the day, the umbrellas just remained defiantly upright as a protection from the baking heat. Temperatures were nudging 100 degrees Fahrenheit almost every day and as you gazed blissfully into a blameless blue sky, the sensation was one of complete pleasure.

For a while, Lawrence of Arabia analogies could hardly be avoided. But then, Peter O' Toole always did know how to handle those magnificent looking camels. But back at the hotel, all you could see were those memorable, brown turrets around the edge of the roof, castellated ramparts that reinforced the impression of a medieval castle that once belonged in the Middle Ages. Once settled on a day of relentless sun bathing, you couldn't help but imagine that you were in some Hollywood movie. There were bare chested gentlemen, women in suitably clad bikinis and those with Kindle literature in their hands or the good, old fashioned, conventional books you could feel as if they were precious stones.

Throughout, my lovely wife Bev and delightful daughter Rachel lay prostrate on our sunbeds, shadows of light glancing across the pool, shaded in some corners and then there was a blazing sunshine that bathed the whole of Marrakesh landscape in a luxurious, sweltering heat. It was hard to believe that here we were in the middle of September, tanning ourselves rapidly, our faces now handsomely varnished and now scarcely believing where we were, still in holiday mode at the beginning of Autumn.

Every day we ventured out to explore the varied and seductive charms of this multi cultural and cosmopolitan country. On all the streets and street corners, there were elderly men riding horses and carriages, pitifully begging for their next meal and then a multitude of both camels and donkeys desperately jostling for space on the roads.

As is often the way, there were also blatantly commercial homages to the world famous Macdonald's. There was  KFC chicken and chips shop, a thousand stalls selling colourful spices and hot lemon tea always poured from a great height. And we shouldn't forget local tagines accompanied with yet more spices, pungent flavourings of everything that was indigenously Middle East. We might have been dreaming this whole experience but this was really happening to us. We pinched ourselves and this was a fantasy we were not hallucinating.

By the evening, a relaxing meal of tangine and potatoes provided the perfect end to an impeccable day. We had enjoyed the ultimate tour of Marrakesh, the souks and market places bartering and haggling, stall traders holding out valiantly for the right price. There were narrow, twisting and meandering, cobbled alleyways with tiny selling spaces selling opulent jewellery, gleaming rings, necklaces and watches imported from every part of the globe. But wherever we went, the locals were invariably delighted to see us, dark, brown and swarthy faces wreathed in smiles and utter contentment.

During one of our visits there was the Medina, a glorious garden of wild flowers and plants. Your breath was caught by thick clusters of cacti, sharp green and yellow plants, small outcrops of palm trees and the kind of greenery that took you right back to Mother Nature. Out of the corner of your eye, you couldn't help but notice wandering stray cats softly padding up to cafes and restaurants in the hope of finding a cheap dinner.

Marrakesh is rather like any busy or bustling city in the world, cars, buses and lorries honking their horns almost incessantly, a Middle East orchestra that had every kind of percussion and woodwind instrument conceivable. You had to understand that, in Morocco, everybody is in a permanent hurry, motor bikes and cycles buzzing around in the darkness intrepidly, wives, husbands, girlfriends and boyfriends clutching hold of each other as if their lives depended on it. Even children who couldn't have been any older than about seven or eight, were tightly gripping hold of mum and dad's waist.

And so our holiday to Morocco drew to a close. We had seen everything the Middle East is somehow synonymous with. Shortly after our evening meal, we all headed to the entertainment on offer during the evening. Now this had to be the most familiar sound we could ever hope to find. Three gentlemen wearing fezzes and the most exquisite grey silk coat plucked on their violins and what looked like an ancient dulcimer or maybe it was just a cool looking guitar. Next to these wise and venerable men was a member of the trio, banging on his bongo over and over again. The songs themselves sounded as if they'd been played in every mosque in every town, city and village across the wide expanses of Morocco.

We were now on our way back to Gatwick airport and another unforgettable family holiday had concluded in the way they normally do. You walk into the local airport and embark on a marathon, through seemingly endless and rigorous security checks, passports refusing to accept your best pleadings and entreaties and grabbing hold of your suitcases as if determined to milk every moment on your holiday, quality time with your lovely family. How good it felt and always will be.