Boarding the plane last year had tears for what I was leaving behind, and trepidation for what was ahead.

From the same boarding gate as then, this time I felt mostly resignation. The rucksack was on, I was committed, I was capable, but for what?

Both were steps into a relative unknown, the previous year as I’d never travelled to that extent before, but this year was on an instinct, with only a faint idea on where I was going and what I was going to do.

Morocco

“Agadir is a weird place”, was written following the briefest of visits, now enroute for Anza. I hadn’t blinked on the bus ride from the airport into town, attention held by dusty suburban streets, gigantic markets, an unusual number of sheep roped atop of cars and not a white face in sight, leaving me a little concerned as to how much I may standout at my first destination. Then; hotels, hotels, and some more hotels, an entire city of faded Barrhead Travel ads. The potential tourist capacity was considerable and in stark contrast to the number of people in sight.

It looked like Tenerife on the decline, and I supposed factoring in that the booming Islas de las Canarias are just across the water, this former all-inclusive hotspot wasn’t the place it used to be, and the hospitality catastrophe that was COVID appeared to have dealt a harsh blow.

I felt happy to be leaving it then, in favour of Anza, although I still hadn’t seen a fellow traveller since the last of my companions from the airport had stopped off at their hotels. The 15-minute local bus journey was rough and the building standards looked even rougher. I know by now that superficial appearances are far from the deciding factor on the conditions of a place, but as it is with stepping into the unknown, my mind was throwing up some bad-case scenarios, and I was conscious of the need to hold my nerve until there actually was something to be concerned about.  

Which was wise of me, as what I did find was a relaxed coastal village, where everyone was working at their own lives under the sun and cared not for yet another backpacker strolling by.

Anza

The hostel was immediately promising. Occupied but not busy, it boasted a stunning 4^th floor terrace equipped with three large seating areas, two in the shade and one in the sun. These terraces are my favourite aspect of Moroccan architecture, perfect for relaxing, socialising, working out, the aesthetic of being at high level and having a view offers both peace and inspiration, essentially a multipurpose space. Both surfing lessons and desert tours were offered for excellent price, (surfing is the life and blood for most travellers to the area), and the volunteering staff seemed more like fellow residents than workers.

I unpacked to some degree and locked away valuables, a new concern to my travel routine as I chose to bring my laptop for the first time to keep up with writing. I strolled out to get cash, water, and then to message my Moroccan friend and guardian angel, Ihssane, eager to inform her that Agadir is weird. She is wonderfully fun company, equipped with an abundance of knowledge and experience to share that has inexpressibly benefitted my experience in the country. Now I think of it, it’s really all her fault that I’ve ended up here.

As if on cue, she informed me that Eid al-Adha was beginning, an Islamic holy day in celebration of Ibrahim and his son Isma’il. The Prophet Ibrahim received a dream from Allah, demanding the sacrifice of his son to prove his love to God. Ibrahim obeyed, however as he prepared to strike the blow, Allah intervened and, since pleased with his commitment, gave a lamb to sacrifice instead. The event is now a day to celebrate love to Allah, and amongst prayers and family time, those who can afford it will sacrifice a sheep or goat in his name to be suitably barbecued and served amongst feasts, hence all the woolly vehicles from earlier.

I was looking forward to witnessing such a special event so soon after arriving, however a negative was quickly and harshly discovered as I settled down for some well-earned sleep in reparation of the meagre 3 hours from the previous night…

“Bahhhh”.

The nights air was filled with the cries of livestock, either aware of their impending doom or simply alarmed by the change of scenery but in any case, loud. As if more was required, a young dog that acted as doorman to the hostel joined in the cacophony, his horribly piercing bark still yet favourable to the thought of closing the windows in the humid evening. The noise (and concern I had for the welfare of one of my friends at that moment in time) made sleep a far-fetched fantasy, so I joined a large group from Alicante and one of the volunteers, a Swedish girl named Ella, to chat on the terrace. I was a little grumpy, in all honesty, and upset with my friend, so it was quite reluctant socialising but preferable to tossing and turning and I gained some peace of mind in the conversation. Come about 1:30, it was time to try again, however an hour between about 4:00 and 5:00 and another between 6:00 and 7:00 ended up all that I could muster.

I therefore awoke and rallied with mindfulness, changing into laid-out running clothes and going to the terrace to stretch and prepare. Ella joined after a while, and the light-hearted chit-chat helped beat back sleepiness before I set-off, only really aiming for 2km-3km, but happy to be beginning one of the many habits I aimed to engross on the trip. It was still humid but the sun remained repressed behind a wall of cloud and the occasional sea breeze pleasantly cut through the warmth. I realised, to my satisfaction, that I’d never went a run along a sea front before.

I found a good route on the first try: a straight line alongside the sea until between a local football stadium and an old dolphin park, before 100m or so at intense gradient up to the main coastal road, then turning right to come back towards town for a bit until right again for a similarly steep downhill run, back along some of the beachfront and back to the hostel.

Following a shower, and again feeling satisfied with the chosen hostel, next was a café for something to eat. My plan had been to delete social media at times along the way, starting from today, but it was kept for a day longer.

The first dip in the sea was at peak sun and amongst surf boards. Anza’s beach is a surfing haven, as is much of the Moroccan coast thanks to sublime Atlantic conditions and all of my roommates factored the rest of their day around that surf. I was tempted to take on the offered lessons, as I had only surfed once in my life as a kid, but I felt more focused on taking it easy and on starting these new processes.

1. Spanish

“I will learn this gran p*to idioma, if it takes to the day I die”.

It’s such a powerful urge, in both the positive and negative sense. Of the doors it can open up, that I can join in the conversations with my Spanish-speaking friends (I am blessed with many), the potential to move to Spain someday. Or of that insecurity it brings, how I feel it is a hole in my life and personality, my regret for missed opportunities in the past, like being able to talk with the pensionista who asked me to join him for a drink in Amorebieta. Then also of the principle I have such belief in, where if I know there is something that is right for me but I won’t take the necessary steps to reach it, then I am failing and betraying my future self, especially if all that is holding me back is a basic lack of effort.

I have been teaching myself Spanish in my spare time, a classic mixture of Duolingo, TV shows and music, however always on the side of work and other commitments, and it has been slow-going. Now, in this environment, I realistically have swaths of time to practise providing I can allocate it correctly, and the opportunity to advance my learning closer to that competency I crave is very much in my hands.

• Fitness

Far from unfit, it feels more of a realisation that with the nature of the area and life, the opportunity to improve fitness is ideal. Runs in the morning, workouts throughout the day, the usual light eating done while travelling, swimming in the sea, it’s all so nicely setup, and would provide welcome breaks from Spanish study and other mental activities, such as…

• Writing

I began travel writing just a few months prior to this trip, the desire to give it a go myself built up following years of reading the genre. Up until then, I’d been writing pieces about places I had visited and publishing them to a blog. I aim to do more of the same, and as can hopefully be proven by the fact you are reading this now, also write a larger piece (dare I say book??) to summarise the entire experience. This was the key to risking having my laptop on me, so I could keep up as I went, the emotions as fresh in my mind as possible to work with my diary notes, providing the truest recollection.

In the evening I was engrossed in some eager conversation with a very well-travelled Englishman (alas I never wrote his name), who was on the end of the same trip I was aiming for but in reverse, going from north to south. With both of us having grown up in the UK, we could relate to cultural differences and find common ground in our experiences so far, and I found a very keen mind to discuss subjects of Moroccan life.

He’d had an intriguing experience on a night train heading south to Marrakesh, when he got chatting with two Moroccan men in their early 30’s on their way back from their third deportation from Europe. This attempt had been their most fruitful of the three, where rather than the boat/swimming route somewhere at the narrow Gibraltar Strait and being caught on the beaches, they had traversed eastwards over land and up through Turkey. From there, they had successfully navigated across the Balkan countries, picking up odd jobs here and there until finally, having reached Italy, a drone had spotted them sleeping in the middle of a field and that was that, they were nabbed by the authorities and sent back across the water.

They were open to the Englishman’s questioning, and the reasoning as to their determination was simple: a better life. To them, Europe was a promised land, and the Englishman described them as obsessive with their dream to live there. They desired the better structure, functioning services and, crucially, the better wages and worker’s rights in comparison to what they described at home. While it’s not realistic to assume that all workers in Europe obtain the legal wages, it is also true that the minimum wage in Morocco as of 2022 equates to roughly 300€ per/month, below anything legally allowed in Europe from those that have instated a minimum wage, even in the notoriously cheaper Balkan countries. Just over the water in Spain, for example, you can find monthly incomes in the comparatively lofty heights of ~1300€, a sure temptation within dream’s reach. You might argue of the differences in cost of living, and it’s a worthwhile consideration but I can assure you immediately having now spent significant time in both countries, it is not an equal subtraction and a person would be far wealthier with a Spanish minimum wage than a Moroccan one. Not to mention that, especially for the traditionally nomadic Amazigh, many humans contain an inner desire to travel, it is in our nature, and the desire to travel in search for a better life is as strong as any reason, especially with the extra incentive of benefitting family.

Such a relevant topic of discussion in modern European politics (in fact, the European Parliamentary Elections had taken place just a few days earlier, resulting in some resounding success for right wing momentum with more hardline immigration beliefs). I valued the firsthand source of opinion and information rather than the theatrical circus found from a lot of mainstream political media.

Aside from his experience of excessive alcohol/drug use on the streets of Essaouira and Casablanca, the rest of our conversation about Morocco was highly positive, and the two of us were so far finding it easy to see the good side of life here. In particular, we were both enamoured with the strength of community in the villages, and on the eve of Eid al-Adha, that admiration would only grow stronger throughout the religious festival. Food quality was high, we felt safe and welcome on the streets, had ample opportunity for exercise and physical activity, essentially a closeness to the rudimental factors to a healthy life.

Awakening

With no memory of disturbances throughout the night (poor sheep), I was awake and keen to move. Ella had made breakfast as she prepared for her new role of volunteering within the hostel and so I showed my support by postponing my morning run until after I’d had a bite. Instead though, I was met with Claudia, another of the volunteers, a Quebec-Canadian girl whom I’d had the briefest of conversations with on my first day while I went in search of my lost jumper.

To begin with the end, she is a very powerful and astute woman, who has found great clarity and understanding on many aspects of life and emotion. I could liken some of what she spoke of to my own practises, using different wording and metaphors, however I found myself nodding in total agreement as she concluded a multitude of notions and thoughts that I had never even considered to make concise into wonderfully complete sentences. She has led an action-packed life thus far, and perhaps with a bit of recency bias, talked much of her latest trip to Nepal where, noticeably, she talked of her survival rather than her travel.

Combining this conversation with others I’d overheard, she’d set off with several others to practise ‘survival’ in the jungles of Nepal, and I must stress the word survival, as with nought more than some bags of rice and basic equipment, they lived in the jungles to as much as they could surmount with their own two hands and ingenuity. Her non-meat diet gave extra task (which she admitted she’d change if doing it again) and therefore hers was a purely foraged diet. While her mission was a success and the group lived for weeks in this manner, her weight loss was sufficient and I felt myself doubting if it would be something I’d want to try myself (an opinion much changed, I’d love to try it). An inspiring action, in any case, and her admiration and love for Nepal as a whole felt concrete.

Throughout some teenage years, Claudia developed an astute and quite vicious CFS/ME (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome/Myalgic Encephalomyelitis), a diagnosis she doesn’t really agree with but nonetheless caused great challenge on her life up to now. She described her illness more accurately as a failure to set boundaries and manage both her physical and spiritual workloads. The diagnosis in fact followed her discovery and eventual adaptation and process of dealing with the above. She found expression and compassion the key, projected via art, mediation, empathy to all life around her. This helps her be able to listen to her soul and body and recognise their current state and needs.

The statement that stayed most memorable with me following listening to her was that “people’s actions aren’t what make them who they are”, something quite contrary to standard belief, think “actions speak louder than words” etc but from the context she’d already given and her following explanation, I could go along with it.

I have to stress too, how intently I was listening to her. I was with a person fully open to the world, fully within her own travelling mindset while I myself felt closed, tentative, cautious, and quite disconnected to much conversation with my own body and soul.

She is an artist, and a well-rounded one, the first of her arts as a tattooist and, as I shouldn’t have been surprised about, there was great detail behind this too, in that she will never tattoo what someone directly asks her for. Now, this seemed strange to me, but I’ve since been corrected that it is actually fairly common. The question she asks everyone beforehand; “Do you want a tattoo that perfectly symbolises a time in your life now, or one that will stay relevant even 40 years in the future”. I gave that some contemplation, found validity in both but leaned towards the former. Her reasoning was complicated but it essentially stems from great emotion felt in permanence, why someone wants the tattoo, and the spirituality within the action. After showing me a few of hers, one enchantingly abstract on her foot done by another artist whom she gave total freedom of expression, she told me a story of a template drawn for a guy in Nepal, where similar to this one for her foot, he had also given her total expressive freedom.

So she went ahead with what she sensed of him, of the energy and colours she could envisage, expressed that into a design and sent it. She described it as a maze of lines, going all sorts of directions. There was no response. For 18 hours, he had read the message and hadn’t responded, leading to the possibility he probably didn’t like it. However, no.

He finally messaged back, and told her after seeing and studying the design, he had entered into the deepest of long sleeps and had remained that way a full 18 hours. Upon viewing, he’d felt he was seeing the last 20 years of his life summarised, in some way or another, and was entirely moved by the whole thing.

I thought of the little Camino scallop shell I was wanting to get on my arm, and of the unalome I had on my wrist, the significance of which I had embarrassingly been unaware of until she pointed it out. Very different ideals.

Another art? As a published author. The books topic? Her Camino.

She had walked the Portuguese route, I think a year prior to now, and wrote a short book on her experience, “My Camino: Live in Love or Live in Fear”. I was sadly unable to order to Morocco else face a £30 shipping fee and possible one month wait so it was ordered to my Scotland address for whenever I am back there, and if my experience talking with Claudia Dorey is anything to judge by, I look forward to the read. (Note: since read, thoroughly enjoyable with a unique style).

Following this, she was anticipating her return home and thusly preparing mentally for the jump back into Western Culture, surely no easy thing after 10 months mainly without it.

The conversation held great value from what I received from listening to her, but also as a test of my own openness to my travel as I felt it difficult to speak openly with any conviction. My inner self was still well under guard, protected behind high walls and thick gates, protected from harm. It was a familiar feeling and it didn’t worry me. I knew that it would just take some time and care to coax that into courage and security to be fully present amongst others.

Rather freakily, she mentioned how she can sometimes feel people’s energies through necklaces. My own necklace had been given to me by another spiritually adept woman from Quebec, and the protected inner self felt a little relieved I wasn’t wearing it at that moment.

Following the conversation, my run, some reading and the beginning of the Eid celebrations, I could feel myself opening further and further. Going to watch the sunset was the first time I’d left the hostel without my phone or my books, and watching the families down by the beach, spending time together, taking photos, multiple generations dressed in beautiful colours and range of garments, I felt the first significant feeling of tranquillity since I’d left. With this scene, the sea, the colours, the life all around me, I couldn’t imagine the existence of any sadness. In that moment, sadness was suffocated and snuffed out, just as a fire cannot burn with no oxygen, sadness could not exist amongst such life.

This was my first sunset over a western sea since Muxia, over a year ago, but that fact was felt with positive happiness rather than any remorse, happiness that I had manoeuvred myself into being able to see it now. From there, I went for a crepe and some tea before returning to the hostel, complimenting families on the size of their sacrificial sheep this year (a sure way to gain brownie points) as they hauled away different cuts of the carcass to be barbecued, and discreetly catching my breath at how strikingly beautiful some of the Moroccan girls looked in dresses and loose black hair, confident in the festive night air.

I’d came to the realisation that for my days in Anza, I had been healing.

Not over a certain event as such, but over the last year, as so much had changed in my life. The month before leaving had revealed some real cracks beginning to show, and another tearful breakdown two weeks ago while returning home following a fun night of drinking with friends was pretty conclusive evidence that my alignment was no longer correct.

No, it wasn’t over a certain event, but parts of me that had been hurt or hadn’t been given enough attention were repairing and coming together again in light of the peaceful and well-mannered way of living. When I compared it to… well, we shouldn’t compare.

It made sense though. I hadn’t had this much time on my hands… ever? All my travelling before had been driven by purpose, responsibility, goals, pressures. Now, it was all as far and fast as my wallet and ingenuity could take me. I was beginning to wake up to it. I felt ready for it.

Recognising itchy feet, I booked a hostel for two nights in the following village of Tamraght, and once again got up and ready for the morning run. I felt I now had a safe place to return to if I desired, a base to explore the rest of Morocco and where I felt I could quite safely entrust my rucksack if I desired to take a lighter trip elsewhere.

Come evening there was some talk of getting a taxi to a skatepark in Taghazout, third in the line of villages I’d planned to see. I agreed to it automatically, and so we were on our way there, the Alicante group having been replaced by two UK-living Italian girls, a pretty Dutch girl, a tall Australian guy and then the three hostel workers; Ella, Ana and Claudia.

The site of the skatepark was staggeringly beautiful. Up atop a steep cliff, you could see all the way to Anza and perhaps further to the outskirts of Agadir. The sun was low but without obstruction, meaning the golden-orange dusk colours were ours all the way until it fully set below the sea. The rest of the hostel had walked down the steep hill into Taghazout for water and food but having already found a comfy spot, I remained to enjoy the high quality on display, quickly finding a favourite in ‘knee-pad guy’. I’d loved skateboarding for a couple of years as a teenager and found peace as a spectator. Additionally, I was made to feel so welcome in what was a genuinely friendly and warm community. Greetings between the regulars were heartfelt. Two local guys in particular made effort to get to know me (skateboarding can be a universal diplomat) which in turn generated questions for me to ask. The park was not even a decade old, and according to them had been a collaborative project of a group of skaters backed by the Levis brand. A little different from the few parks I’d been to before, it seemed to flow with long turns and tests of balance at gradient rather than lots of grinding bars and tricks. I was told this was a by-product of the surfing DNA of the area, and therefore purpose-built in this way.

The roster of skaters were mostly natives, aside from two Belgian guys now living in Switzerland, the one I spoke with most named Adrian. The crowd was a mixed group though, many Europeans and Aussie/Americans. One woman in her fifties or so had rallied into the car park in a tall dusty red converted campervan, dirt and stones swept into the air by spinning wheels, swaggered to a seat with her little Jack Russel dog in tow and, without a word, sparked some hashish and began pumping out French rap from a speaker.

“I’m glad I came,

and glad I stayed.

Skatepark night”.

Finally I felt awake. Eyes open. Mind open.

I could talk with emotion, with sensation, answer truthfully to questions and find the words needed to express what I wanted to convey.

I felt comfortable to randomly create conversation with those around me, like I did with Chris (Australian guy with camera and long hair far inferior to mines) and his partner Julia (Barcelona born living with Chris in Sydney), and with Mahmade (I’m taking a guess with that spelling), one of the local guys in his Hawaii shirt, sunglasses and cap, looking somewhat like a GTA NPC.

The same with the hostel guests I’d taken the taxi with but hadn’t yet spoken to; the two Italian girls now living in the UK, the tall Aussie guy with good humour and knowledge and an amiable awkwardness, the tall and pretty Dutch girl, in a dark red long-skirt, from 40 minutes outside of Groningen, a sailor with her own boat (The Tardis), who reminded me a little of an old crush from high school.

We walked down the steep unlit hill and into Taghazout, the group of us aiming to get a taxi back to Anza but we were one person too many. I offered to stay and wait until Ella came down and Claudia decided to stay too, despite it evident that she wanted to go home (it had been her wanting to leave the skatepark in the first place). We had a terrible omelette and some tea as Ella joined us, where a cat decided she was a climbing frame. Once in Anza, Claudia drifted off and Ella and I walked back ourselves. She has a special talent for expressing her energy, and I found it easy to feel her excitement when she was talking of starting her volunteering at the hostel. Being able to feel someone’s happiness and connect with that is a wonderful conversation skill, not to mention a positive for one’s own health, and I enjoyed sharing in that. Just before the hostel I could hear music in the air. and thinking of Eid, I suggested we go take a look.

What a decision that was, as we entered a celebration in full swing, people dressed up in great shaggy sheep coats, prancing around and yelling with painted faces, great horns and crowns on their heads, long belts or even bones (usually the leg of a sheep) being used to whip and hit people on their backs and shoulders. All those dressed were male, but some of the designs took on quite feminine looks, almost appearing as if they were in drag. The atmosphere was jovial and strong in the sense of community, and I felt it was the community that benefitted, especially for the generations of men present.

To start with, the younger boys, who had an absolute blast with the whole procession. They were given such attention by the costume wearers, those who in this village would be their role models and idols, their examples of what it is to be a young man and how to act as one. In this case, the example was a positive one of responsibility and action to benefit the community and celebrate religion, of putting in effort for the betterment of others. This was not some half-arsed event; it was a fast-paced and full-blooded encounter of singing and photo-taking and charging to all corners of Anza. Visualising the viewpoint from those younger boys watching on, I couldn’t help but think of the inspiration and idolism they’d surely feel watching their older peers.  

To those young men themselves, some of whom Ella and Salah (one of the native hostel workers) were friends with, who were exhausted but elated and taking great pride in their performance, posing with everyone, chasing all to make sure they got their customary hit on the back, thus leaving no stone unturned and no person left out. It’s not too difficult to imagine what else a big group of young males could be up to on a boring Tuesday evening but they weren’t. They were here, and I found it so… hopeful.

In turn, they gain recognition within their community for their work and perhaps more importantly, they practise the invaluable life skill of taking responsibility, something that can serve so well in all other aspects of life.

Finally, for the older generations too. It is easy to imagine, such is the way of village life, of how many of the elderly men had been born and raised here, lived their whole lives in and around the area and witnessed the changes of time in an ever-advancing world, yet were seeing this tradition live on. The reassurance, surely, of seeing their sons and grandsons repeating the same customs they carried out when younger, the pride in the generations they helped create and raise, a legacy left behind when they are gone.

Leaving Anza                               

My pack was a little too heavy for trekking but I decided to walk to Tamragt anyway, after saying a couple of farewells, ordering Claudia’s book and leaving behind another that I wasn’t enjoying. Google maps had it down as mostly road walking along the side of a dual carriageway, which is criminal over long distances but perfect for a couple of hours and perfect for my mood, as I fancied a bit of nitty and gritty.

The time flew by and walking with that rucksack under the sun felt like reuniting with an old friend, so familiar, even after some time without.

I turned off the road on the outskirts and took a ‘shortcut’ across some dunes and a dry riverbed. There were some local men riding camels, but otherwise I was alone amongst the sand and litter, sadly a very common sight. I bought an espresso from one of the miniature van/coffee shops parked along the roads in Morocco, something to tick off the bucket list. I briefly chatted with another customer, our common ground being both having experience with Czech girlfriends. Tamraght was windy and the dual carriageway arrowed straight through the town so both cars and weather worked in conjunction to throw great gusts of dirt and sand into my eyes, teeth, face. I found the hostel and was greeted by a gorgeous Moroccan with big eyes and an innocent face. She showed me around the hostel, much larger than the previous, the terrace especially a standout quality along with Wifi strong enough that I could trust it with my first online Spanish lesson.

I treated myself to a pizza (not the one I ordered, but it was still good) before awaiting a bus that never showed up back to Taghazout skatepark, hence a taxi there and back, midway of which I bumped into Adrian and his friend again and with them watched some football: Scotland 1 v 1 Switzerland. The taxis were expensive, and I learned that I need to be stronger and harder with my haggling. Returning to the hostel, I was met by the owner, who was visiting from his home in Hamburg with his sister. He was very well-spoken, polite, very intelligent and cared a great deal for his hostel and other enterprises. He invited me to have dinner with him and the other workers (three in total), which I accepted. The lamb was sublime, one of the nicest dishes I’ve ever had, chunks falling from the bone at the slightest pressure due to its tenderness. Afterwards, I retired to what ended up a private room due to the lack of guests and slept a disturbed sleep.

I followed up the next day with a lot of laptop work, having another Spanish lesson, and wrote for hours on this project in effort to catch up with time. I also signed up to WorkAway, seeing volunteering as a potential avenue to go down in order to find new experiences and places to see (plus keep costs down). I messaged the friend, whom I was missing. I keep referring to her as my friend but, with growing certainty, that wasn’t all I felt for her by this point.

Come evening, a few new guests had come in and then gone out again. I relaxed on the terrace until nightfall, sometimes in the main seating area, sometimes in the hammock on the upper level until 23:30, when I felt comfortable enough to sleep.

I hadn’t slept outside in ages and, noticing two of the hostel workers doing exactly that, I went inside for my Baja hoodie and a blanket and back to a spot on the terrace. The pretty girl was over at the length of couch to the front 10-15 metres away and one of the guys was up above in the hammock.

I settled, sort of, and fell into this odd half and half state, part of me sleeping or elsewhere, part of me still awake and aware of sounds around me. The night felt weird. The conscious part of me kept reassuring myself that I was comfortable and safe, putting the weirdness down to different surroundings. I heard the girl talking in her sleep, although in Arabic so I didn’t know what she was saying. Time moved strangely, erratically, until brought back to earth by the doorbell sounding, the main light coming on and the guy in the hammock going down the flights of stairs to open the door. I awoke quite tentatively, slowly scanning my surroundings. The girl was there, lighting a cigarette and talking quietly with the third worker who had been sleeping indoors. I felt I didn’t want to be outside anymore, so picked up my things and started walking indoors. As I moved, the girl seen me, and the look she gave me…

A face of fear. It still gives me chills to think of it, the way she looked at me. Not in the sense of surprise that I was there, I’d been out on the terrace since at least 18:00, but unnerved by my presence. The guy looked too, their conversation paused. I was sleepy and tried a small wave and smile as reassurance but it wasn’t really reciprocated, as I now a little hurriedly went indoors to my bed. I didn’t want to be outdoors anymore. Once under the sheets I suddenly realised how burning hot my body felt despite the breeze and colder temperatures of the night, particularly my legs, that soon kicked off the sheets again in effort to cool down.

The rest of the night passed and I joined the other guests for breakfast without considering much about it. When I went to pack and begin moving, she came down into the dorm. Two of the other guests were there and joined in with light chit chat but it seemed she wanted to speak directly to me, and when they left, she did, and asked me if I’d felt an energy last night.

I told her I had, and that’s why I had went inside. She said she felt she’d been talking in her sleep, and I confirmed it. She said she’d had many strong, strange dreams, but that she can only remember snippets of them.

She next asked if I’m spiritual, and I shrugged and responded that I felt in touch with that side of me, sure. She then asked ‘when’ I am spiritual, a question I wasn’t really sure how to answer, and the only response that came to my mind was of a spirit animal, of which I’d always felt a connection with and that whenever I see one I feel closer to God, the Universe, and a reassurance that I’m on my path. It felt the only direct thing I could tell her, as spirituality in my experience is felt through action and feeling in conjunction with other things and happenings that go on through my observance and openness to the world around me.  

Not quite satisfied, she asked of my writing, specifically in the journal I had with me, and so I opened it and showed her. By now I wanted to reassure her, so I took her through parts of the last few days, of Anza and Morocco and the various thoughts, events and emotions. I write about almost everything and everybody, and having spent some time talking together, a recent page had some rather poetic thoughts on her. It seemed to settle her.

She said she’d felt I had a certain energy, that I was “something”.

But I had no answers to give her. I’d definitely felt an energy too during the night, but I’d aimed to go to sleep and was as disturbed by it as she was.

I wish now that I had asked her more questions, as at the time I only asked if the dreams had made her nervous, which I don’t really remember her reply to. Otherwise, we chatted a little more about other countries that I’d been to, about where I should go next and I sent her the link to some writing I’d put online. She was called to go help with something, and after coming back down with some money I had overpaid, I slipped out and went to try and plan my next move.

Which was hard, as it was about midday, and I didn’t have anywhere I wanted to go. Anza was fully booked and would have been a lazy choice anyway. Taghazout was technically next along the line, but I’d visited twice and didn’t really feel the desire to stay. The girl had recommended Imsouane during our talks this morning and so after a quick google search, I booked a bus there from Taghazout for the following day and stayed another night in Tamraght.

I stood by the side of the road and waited for my connection bus. And waited. And waited.

I had company however, as two bored teenagers came over to chat with me and practise their English. They were good fun, acted like dumbasses but in a good natured way. When I eventually gave up on the bus, they recommended ‘Berber Taxi’, a phrase I’d heard coined around but didn’t really know what it meant. It turned out to be easy: essentially hitchhiking, although they said some Moroccans drive common routes purposefully looking for passengers, and that the whole thing is a very common practise. The two boys hailed on my behalf and told me to pay no more than 10Dirham as a battered green Citroen pulled to a stop after roughly twenty seconds of hailing. I’d pay 20Dh (tourist tax).

I didn’t need to, but I gave the two boys 10Dh each as I got in. The information of the Berber Taxi was invaluable, having paid comparatively extortionate amounts for private taxis back and forth from the skatepark. It felt fair.

In Taghazout, it was a 30-40 minute walk to the ‘bus stop’, a slightly enlarged hard shoulder by the side of the N1 dual carriageway I’d walked along from Anza to Tamraght. The bus was a modern, fully air-conditioned single decker in the hands of Moroccan public transport veterans and to my delight it didn’t even stop moving as it pulled over, requiring a running jump to board as it crawled along the side of the road, the haste presumably to win back precious seconds from the 30minute delay. The single spare seat at the back gave prime viewing to the changing environment, dirt turning to sand as we crossed into dunes, the blue lines Google Maps claimed as rivers and streams no more than long divots in a barren land.

The bus pulled over in a layby and as I’d began to suspect, wouldn’t take me right into Imsouane. Some private taxis were there instead, and I jumped in with a few others, handing over a haggled 38Dh. The vehicle then magically transformed from a 38Dh private taxi into a 5Dh Berber Taxi as no less than 10 people crammed in on our way to Imsouane. I felt glad I hadn’t attempted to walk as the breathtaking views were only made possible by gradients far too difficult in the high 15:00 sun.

Imsouane, where I planned to learn to surf, where I had laid a hostel deposit for three days, which didn’t have an ATM… which what??

I hadn’t even thought to check but having happily unpacked in my hostel and connected to the Wifi, the sudden fear was realised. There was a CashPoint but with it still being Eid, it was shut over the weekend (this was by now a Friday evening). Gutted, I went down to the seaside, passing by a number of surfers on their way to or from the pristine tide, officially the beach with the longest distance waves Morocco has to offer. Having only had the customary omelette this morning, it was necessary to part with some of my remaining 200Dh for a meal, buy enough water for the evening and hope the hostel would accept Euros for the night. Well, they’d have to as I had nothing else to give them, unless some Scottish Pounds were accepted.

So with my Imsouane plan in tatters, it was a trudge back to my accommodation. It had a bit of a domino effect, in truth, and it set up my hardest night so far.

‘Solo travel’ has a particular nature and the first word of it can be a bit of an up and down affair, more complex than I think worth expanding into minute detail, as its entirely bespoke to every individual situation, person and place. As can be imagined, however, loneliness is a factor, and lonely is what I felt.

Unfortunate timing then, to be in a hostel with no other guests, and although the obvious solution is to go out and find people… well, I didn’t want to. I wanted to face it, the loneliness, as I am fairly skilled at doing, and find a solution by myself, even at the cost of suffering.

One solution is to write. Putting feelings onto a piece of paper helps give me clarity, and dulls the edge of loneliness, perhaps as I can talk and think them through with myself.

“I feel lonely, I miss female company, I miss sharing my enjoyment, I miss a city and things to do, I miss not thinking of money, I miss some more purpose.”

It didn’t solve my problem, nor eliminate the loneliness, but addressing it felt healthy and it kicked in other mindfulness processes; appreciating where I am, all the options I have, the reasons I had come here, and most importantly, to always stay in the fight.

So I made my way back to the beachfront, found a café with a terrace and sipped a bang average espresso while the sun disappeared over the horizon. I wrote some more, aligning myself. At one point I noticed myself thinking, “I might just f*ck off”, an idle threat I used to make when I was upset with work or with my life at that current moment, but aware that I wouldn’t really do it. Until this time, I suppose I did.

Then I laughed, at the hilarity of that. I was in some backwater surfing village in Morocco, holding about 6€ cash total in my pocket, watching an African sunset, the ocean to my left and great big chuffing hills to my right, no idea where I was going to go tomorrow nor how I was going to get there and with no responsibility to anyone but myself.

How much more f*cked off did I want to be?

After contemplation, perhaps the answer was more. I had found volunteering all over the world; New Zealand, Ghana, Guatemala. There were quick-cash jobs in Australia. Then there was home, Scotland, my family, a place I know to contain happiness and life, even if it’s working for more time to decide what to do next. There’s no small amount of f*cking off I could do, that was for certain.

A little better, I went to the hostel, looked over old photos, messaged a friend that I’d fallen out of touch with and then eventually fell asleep, still lonely, but at least aware of where I was going tomorrow.

Essaouira

The escape from Imsouane was great fun. I spent a portion of the last of my money on some nuts and a small water and began trekking the hills. If anything they looked even steeper in person, but I gave a good ten minutes of walking before trying to hail a Berber taxi. It was a first time success again, just like Tamraght. I’d seen the car had a family with young kids so lowered my hand quite quickly thinking it inevitable they’d keep going but the driver stopped, the kids hopped in the back and I was allowed in. All could speak either French or Arabic, so my English and Spanish was pretty useless but we made do. I couldn’t help but think of the roles reversed, the unlikeliness in the UK that a young family would stop and give a ride to a shoddily dresses Moroccan backpacker in the middle of nowhere, and I wouldn’t blame them, for its surely a risk to avoid. I certainly wouldn’t have blamed the father if he had driven right past me. This is Moroccan hospitality for you, right up the point he refused my meagre 12Dh offering for the ride. “Good for my children, to see you”, he told me, with a hand on my shoulder.

Buoyed by the good faith, lack of phone-time and active movement, I reached an inner peace, all loneliness forgotten, awake once more to the travel as I waited for the bus. I developed a snack-based game as I sat, throwing stones at a road sign approximately 15metres away, awarding myself with a nut every time I managed to hit it. My bus showed up just 10minutes late today, which must have been an acceptable delay to warrant the actual stopping of the vehicle to allow me to get on and even put my bag in the luggage area, the same small guy in the same beige jacket and blue cap as yesterday helping me in. There were no seats whatsoever so I plonked myself on the floor and put a podcast on loudspeaker, my backside enduring roughly 30-40minutes before a couple of passengers disembarked lugging a washing machine to the village down the hill, and I could have a seat.

Essaouira was instantly likeable, the ‘Artists City’ displaying a prettiness far superior to Agadir and cleanliness superior to Marrakesh, even in its busiest medinas and streets. I enjoyed the city walls and markets before going to the hostel, ticking of another bucket list item in buying one of the delicious fresh bread loaves for 1Dh (10 pence). The hostel sign-in form was a tad draconian in its detailed questioning but otherwise the place was beautiful, brilliant colouring across all floors of the multi-storeyed building, traditionally open in the centre all the way up until the terrace. I had let the flow take me wherever today, and an invitation to join a Swiss and German girl on their way to watch their respective countries play in the Euros tournament was accepted, though the subsequent heartbreak as Scotland did Scotland things vs Hungary put a downer on the end of the day.

Over the next two days, Essaouira effortlessly placed itself right at the number one spot on my list of Moroccan cities and towns. It is both busy and quiet, authentic and touristic, friendly, clean, pretty, artistic, just a perfect balance even including the less appealing, I was offered just about anything from prostitutes to opium. I felt that I could stay for another week very happily. Alas, the Gnaoua music festival was on the horizon and absolutely everywhere was booked out, so I would quickly be forced to move on.

It was a tranquil few days though, dipping in and out of art displays and antique shops that were more like museums than stores, purchasing a dolphin necklace for my mother and a small pendant for my friend which I’d send taped to a postcard (it got stolen), sipping coffees and making new friends, the loneliness of Imsouane left behind. As it so often can be, I found football was my universal friend maker, as I frequently donned my Raja Casablanca football shirt, the item obtained when losing my bargaining virginity in Marrakesh’s famous Jemaa el-Fnaa square. The ghurayb in the Raja top was to the delight of many as Raja appeared to be a popular club in Essaouira, and I even exchanged numbers with a shop owner who invited me to his house to watch the upcoming semi-final. The best interaction however was with a motley crew of fishmongers and waiters outside a seafood shop/restaurant I’d eaten at. All Raja fans, the guy with the best grasp of English was left exasperated as his coherent conversation was drowned out by his colleagues, who felt saying the same thing louder and louder in French was the only way to get it understood to me. One heavy, bearded guy showed me photos and videos of the stadium across the years, stopping after every couple to double-check I was sure that I didn’t want to trade my top for his navy, fish-smelling Lacoste polo. They constantly laid into each other, and me, and my cheeks were sore from laughing when I eventually said farewell. I’d been given an address of a bar that’d show the upcoming match but it would turn out to be a dud suggestion, as the long walk along the beach led to a hotel pub filled with English tourists watching their own final group stage game. Despite being top of their group, they looked about as depressed as I had been with Scotland two nights ago.

On the flip side, the bar had a beer tap, the first I’d seen in Morocco, and feeling compelled to oblige I had my first two pints of the trip to accompany some happier contemplation of the travel, my life, and the growing question of what to do once I reached Tangier.  

That contemplation served me well on the next intercity bus when questioned, quite literally, as to why I am here by Izelle, a Russian model, who’d lived between Essaouira and Casablanca for two years with her Moroccan boyfriend.

It was a question that I’d glossed over a little and left in my subconscious, probably because I wasn’t particularly keen on the answers. It started when returning from my first trip to Morocco, over a month ago, of which I wrote about in my blog when concluding the experience:

“A lot parallel to what I find ideal, and it would make sense for me to walk away thinking – “it’s nice, but not the place for me”.

But I didn’t want to leave.

As I progressed through the airport and sat there on the plane waiting for take-off, something was nagging at me, pulling at my attention. Something didn’t feel right about leaving Morocco. It wasn’t a negative, it’s not that I was reluctant about going back to work or upset that my trip was over. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go home. No, it was a positive thing. My heart wanted to stay. Strong instincts were telling me that there was something worthwhile for me here, something important.

I struggled to understand what I was feeling. I never find it difficult coming home, as I’ve always accomplished whatever I travelled for, and only by coming home can I bugger off again. Yet here I was, really wrestling with a pull that felt quite possibly strong enough to deviate me from my current course. I struggled to make sense of it all, until after a very unsettled two weeks, it became clear.

I believe I felt a door open right in front of me, right in the moments of that last day. A door that opened to reveal a visible pathway, at a cross in the road, and I could choose to take that path. I wanted to take that path.

Once coming to that conclusion, I anticipated that the emotion would fade as I resettled but other than achieving full acceptance for where I am, the dilemma is far from resolved. As I felt on the plane, I cannot put my hand on my heart and say with conviction that remaining on my current course is worth more to me than going back to Morocco to try follow the path that so strongly appeared. My financial situation isn’t perfect but is strong enough to go. My relationship with my current job is deteriorating due to some important factors that don’t look like improving soon. My main focus and passion at the moment is for developing and practicing travel writing and one year on from the Camino, my instincts for freedom are as strong as ever. So why am I staying?

Honestly, I’m not 100% sure. My future plans are probably the most important anchor, as if I was to quit work and travel again, I would further postpone the opportunity to live in Madrid, a dream I feel set on achieving. Otherwise… fear?

I’m mostly taking it day by day, as it won’t take much to push me over the edge to go. I understand why I didn’t rush forward with the feeling and I forgive myself, as I feel responsible for my position at work and my personality is naturally more prone to calculated decisions than leaps of faith. Yet it’s my duty to myself not to shy away from the hard questions, and consistently check that I am using my finite time here in this world effectively, and as close as possible to my true way of living. Making mistakes is perfectly acceptable, but it is a tragedy if I hold myself back via simple negligence to live as I feel I should. 

It is with that dilemma that I end my Toubkal trip, at a crossroad where either path I take will bring me great happiness and success, I only need make the decision that only I can decide.”

Which created a spark, and thus set fire to the below:

• I’d fallen out of love with my life.

As easy as that, I wasn’t finding love in my day to day, and it was visible through my appetite for hobbies and projects. Gym habits deteriorated, Spanish study virtually disappeared, mornings became lethargic, phone time skyrocketed.

Worryingly was the lack of selfcare I felt, for my own wellbeing and in truth, for my life. Being alive or being in danger, being heathy or unhealthy, none of it mattered. I no longer cared.

Some aspects of my personality that had been quiet for a substantial time started to return, old feelings and reactions I remembered from previously in my life, when in hindsight I can recognise that I wasn’t happy. Fun nights out resulted in tears and sadness once out of earshot, as before.

All signs: I wasn’t fully happy.

A positive in the above was that it all felt very natural, a simple realisation that the world and environment I’d created was no longer serving me.

It makes sense to me, that the needs of a thriving and everchanging human are capable of outgrowing the environment they live in.

Putting this into something that you can casually explain to a stranger on a bus was difficult but manageable thanks to the previous night’s contemplation, and I was able to summarise effectively. Bus’s became places of peace, the tranquillity of watching the world go by in a quiet air-conditioned haven. The interior villages and towns were fascinating, I wanted to visit them all, discover their individual quirks and histories. The farm-life seemed both enticing and claustrophobic, groups of isolated people in the middle of nowhere, working with aged equipment and machinery. Wildlife was even scarcer than I imagined amongst the shrubs and dirt; packs of stray dogs, a few hawks, a half-eaten cow carcass indicating that there were herds somewhere. The most populous animals were sheep and donkeys, the former extraordinarily well-camouflaged in the sparse scrubland unlike their white woollen cousins in Scotland’s moors.

I said farewell to Izelle at my stop in el-Jadida, her request of a big hug goodbye and to let her know how my travels go made impossible as she never followed me back on Instagram. It appeared a charismatic place, run-down compared to the prettiness of Essaouira but full of life. A considerably larger percentage of the street population were sub-Saharan African compared to where I’d been so far, something I had naively thought I’d see more of in the south as its geographically closer to the border but potential for better work is a far stronger pull than old-fashioned distance.

The old Portuguese fort hosted my overpriced accommodation, and it was from there that I lived as a writer on a retreat.

My mood to explore never materialised in the first 2.5 days beyond wandering the streets of the fort or an occasional foray into the market late at night for a snack. The walled alleys became my secluded little world, my face growing familiar with the local shop owners and two neighbouring cafes I frequented in my time there. I even had my own table reserved at the café with the better food, by the wall nearest to the other café so I could steal its better Wifi. It was hardly all positive, as I berated myself for being so lazy but there was progress in terms of peace of mind and also work done. I just about caught up with writing, the conclusion being that I was spending so much time worrying about writing that I was forgetting to live and do things that I could actually write about.

On the last day, my guilt at the lack of movement finally overcame me and I went all out: run, Spanish lesson, writing, meditation, and a walk into the evening. I decided beer was the answer to all the tea and coffee I’d had in the cafes and so found a rough and tumble bar full of cigarette smoke, mounted goat heads and odd members of society. The indoor smoking was new to someone that was six years old when it was banned in the pubs of Scotland, but I felt it enhanced the atmosphere. I giggled inwardly, feeling very proud of myself to be the only white face in some weird bar in a town I’d never heard of, rather than having arrived home from another day of work a few hours ago, made dinner and then frantically tried to squeeze in something productive in the wee hours before bedtime.

I was approached by Jebri Mohammed, a retired power plant worker from Safi, who took exception that I was reading in amongst the fun. He ordered a beer for me, and I obliged by moving over to his table. His nature was friendly, and in good old retiree fashion, I got the full rundown of his working career and past. His stories were intriguing, his collection of photographs across his 64 years on the planet even more so. He bared some resemblance to Michael Jackson across his 20’s and 30’s until his hairline betrayed him, while his years in Sao Paolo surprised me considering the rest of his life had been very much in and around the same area of Morocco.

He was a likeable guy and offered his number and a room in his house if I was ever in the area again. He seemed to lose little sections of his English with every bottle that lined up, so I soon bought him another and took my leave, several handshakes and smiles as he accompanied me to the door.

Casablanca

I was warned of Casablanca in every town I visited.

“Why do you want to go there??”, my good friend Jebri had asked me. “It’s very dangerous, dirty, smelly, go right past it to Tangier, there is a fast train that can take you”.  

It was all very similar whenever I mentioned to a native that I’d stop in Casablanca, and none of it had any impact to make me change my mind.

“There’s people everywhere, and they are all rude and impatient”.

Fine by me.

“It’s just business and big buildings and pollution”.

 Ideal.

“It’s not safe, there’s pickpockets and people will see you are foreign and try to scam you”.

I’m in Morocco, really??

I wanted the nitty gritty again, some loud aggressive city to march about in.

I wanted city comforts; a choice in food, taxi’s, laundromats (God and half the bus knew I needed to do some laundry), lots of things to see, social interactions.

I also wanted a familiar face, something beyond the passing friendships I’d made on my travels so far, a connection in a more developed stage.

Ihssane had arrived back that morning from a taster trip to her new office in Dubai, where she aimed to emigrate to within the next few months. We met outside the Arab League Park, after I had the most necessary shower of my life and changed into my only set of clean clothes, still looking shabby compared to her colourful outfit. We spent the rest of the day together and were able to access different sites quickly in her car with a now complete set of new tires (we won’t mention the loss of the front right hubcap which she swears she had no fault in).

She took me to a nice spot for lunch where we caught up with the last couple of months, and I tried and failed to explain why I was here, despite being able to do so just fine a few days earlier. I reiterate the wording that she took me to lunch, as she’s never let me pay for anything since those crappy drinks in Venice and my wit is never quick enough to win the who-pays debate. That said, I’d see her office building a few days later and felt considerably less guilty by it, especially in my unemployed travelling state.

I was emotionally abused into trying some snails, of which I sort of enjoyed, and then we met a couple of her friends in a trendy bar oddly positioned next to a Carrefour on the outskirts of town. I adored Simo, his beaming smile and mannerisms created their own humour which seemed to suit him so perfectly, although quite why I thought this, I’m not sure. David was good-natured and took some amount of slagging from the others in very good stead. His former friendship now turned relationship had been created whilst visiting Edinburgh, a sweet story and example to the romantic nature the city can have.

I enjoyed seeing more of Ihssane’s life. People are different in their hometowns, relaxed and confident. She looked as beautiful as ever.

The following day was for giving my clothes to a laundry place and walking. Despite Ihssane’s joke that I was staying in Casanegra (the dark side of Casa), I didn’t feel unsafe around the area of my hotel. I was entirely ignored by the troublemakers that were present, I’ll admit there were a few, and likened a lot of the area to parts of Bilbao I’d been to; not necessarily easy on the eye but charismatic and flavourful and ultimately, I was made welcome.

My wanderings took me naturally to some architecture, and into the Bab Marrakesh Market. The warnings had been that it’s a slum and so not to go in, but after assessment that really just served as reason to go in. Perhaps this belief may come across as quite naïve or arrogant, but in my experience: few things are as bad as people say it is, and few things are as good either. Providing I stay vigilant and present to reality, along with an acceptance of the risk I’m taking, I’ll give myself good opportunity to prevent many situations from arising and get myself out of the ones that do. That’s not to say I’ll always come out unscathed, but if I never enter a place with something I’m not prepared to lose, and have accepted the level of risk present, then it’s half the battle for being okay.

I believe too that you often have to put your faith in the kindness of others while visiting unfamiliar places. Sometimes there’s even no real alternative for it, when you end up in a bit of a situation where you could be exploited if the other has the desire to, a little at the mercy of their kindness and you’re relying on humanity to pull through.  

So when I’d wandered enough, I decided to accept the offer of conversation from a shop-owner. He was polite, and after I made it clear I wasn’t going to buy from his shop, the talking became more genuine and he offered some advice for Tetoan. He called over another older man who had grown up there and left after a shake of my hand. The older man was born and bred in Tetoan and had stories to tell. I listened for about 5-minutes before his son came over, a bounding energetic man. He was dressed like a bit of a prat and came across like a bit of a prat too. He told me he had a bar and if I wanted a beer, then to come with him. I didn’t trust his integrity immediately, but I fancied a beer and so let him lead me out of the Bab and into the main streets. He asked me the same reel of questions as we walked, seemingly forgetting the answers from a few minutes before.

Point 1; I was aware where he was taking me. If he’d began to lead me deeper into the Bab’s winding streets, I would have refused and turned back. However in the busy and familar streets, it was safer.

‘His bar’ turned out to be a not yet open bar belonging to Souleymane, a wealthy-looking spectacled man. He brought over two small beers for Mustafa and me.

Point 2; the hiss of the beer when the cap is taken off. It’s a sign that the beer is fresh and unopened and if I hadn’t heard that, I wouldn’t have drank it. I had my eye on it all the way until it was in my hand, simultaneously taking a glance inside the glass to make sure nothing was at the bottom before I poured.

Point 3; peripherals, the whereabouts of Souleymane and his single staff member behind me. I was no longer in public view and was with a group of guys I knew nothing about. Notably, the main door had been left half-open, and that gave me some reassurance.

The catch was obviously forthcoming, it just depended on what it’d be. They took some brown powder out of a bag, Souleymane rubbing it underneath his bottom row of teeth and Mustafa sniffing it as a line off the table. I was offered but said no.

Once the beers were half empty, they became bored of me and I became bored of them, so I drank up and said I was leaving. The catch came: to pay for Mustafa’s beer. I could have refused but by this point I didn’t care; it seemed a small price to pay to be able to walk out there and then and interrupt the story he had begun to tell me while asking for my money.

On one hand; I really, really didn’t care, and the whole experience did nothing to me but take a little time out my day and give me something to write about.

On the other hand; I felt quite a strong dislike for Mustafa and his simple-mindedness. All that effort of taking a foreign guest across busy roads to a dark, closed bar in attempt to guilt trip him with the “oh my poor family, I have 3 kids and blah blah blah, so you therefore need to pay the equivalent of £2.37 for this tiny beer”, all while wearing a nice shirt, aviators, and having enough to buy whatever that powder was.

A colossal pillock, incapable of thinking beyond short-term, petty schemes, especially as he told me his job was as a tour guide and I wouldn’t have said no to a small tour with local knowledge, for more of a price.

I met many, many honourable Moroccans who cared far more for the foreigner’s opinion of them and their integrity, and I met many who wanted to haggle and squeeze as much out of me as they could.

Mustafa, though, was the only one I took personal issue with.

‘I have 3 kids, we are so hungry, so buy me this beer?’.

Pillock.

Cade hotel was well worth the money, as opposed to the overpriced accommodation of el-Jadida. Spacious, clean, A/C in the room for the first time of the trip, it was simple and efficient and I spent the rest of the day going back and forth between it and various other places for food, football and Moroccan tea. I considered how happy I’d felt today, by myself, always grounded and present. I love my own company, and on the days where I find peace within and just live with myself? Those days are difficult to match.

The next day was similarly felt. I woke up early and went down Hassan II Mosque, 7^th largest functioning mosque in the world and formerly possessing the world’s tallest minaret up until 5 years ago when Algeria completed their Djamaa el Djazaïr, the 265 metre tower allegedly capable of withstanding a 9.0 magnitude earthquake. All in the good faith of Islam of course, no competitive motives whatsoever from Morocco’s friendly neighbours.

I find a lot of spiritual serenity within holy buildings, usually in churches of the various branches of Christianity across Europe but for the second time of my life, I could enjoy that peace within a mosque. Such a large standalone building created a strange illusion when walking across the expanse of the square with nothing to compare it to, although at any distance it looked comprehensively massive. Aside from a French tour group, I had the place to myself. The obvious need for floor space given the nature of Muslim prayers meant the interior was almost devoid of furniture or decoration, just huge swathes of carpet and marble flooring. The middle of the mosque was open all the way up to the ceiling while the left and right hand sides had another level running lengthways made almost entirely of beautiful dark woods, the accessing spiral staircases unfortunately closed off. I felt great honour to be on holy ground while not of the religion (to my knowledge it’s the only Moroccan mosque open to those not of the faith).

I smiled at some poor husband/partner being berated for his shoddy photo-taking as the woman posed in front of one of the windows looking to the sea. Berating in the Spanish language, no other sounds quite so brilliant.

I wizzed through the fountain room below and then to my surprise found myself in a gigantic car park underneath the mosque. A kind worker took me through some maintenance corridors to the entrance of my next destination, the mosque hammam, a sort of Moroccan spa but way cheaper and more ingrained in regular lifestyle. Choosing the ‘Traditional Plus’, I was taken down to the showers by a potbellied man in shorts and instructed to get changed and take a quick shower. I was guided to a pristinely tiled room with great stone massage tables, where various Moroccan men (the hammams are segregated) all had their own attendants washing and scrubbing. Switching between lying on my back and stomach as per the commands of my masseuse, I was washed with various soaps and clay-like mixtures and taken through a wall of heat into a large steam room. The stone benches surrounding the room were hot to touch, almost too hot, and I squirmed a little until my body adjusted to the temperature. Normally, I don’t like saunas but this was a new experience so I did my best to find the positives and embrace it. The pot-bellied man came back after perhaps ten minutes and took me back to our stone slab. I obeyed his signals and small words of English, lots of flipping around like a sea-lion in a park show.

Amongst the washes of the soaps and oils, the masseuse massaged and stretched me, not aggressively like a sports massage, but enough to test my body. He did each arm individually, each leg, the back of my neck, the small of my back, in the end culminating in taking all my limbs and holding me in a hogtie for a few seconds.

The session was finished with an intense scrubbing using an abrasive cloth, the weeks of travel gathered in clumps of dead skin on my shoulders and back. The scrubbing is the main purpose of the hammam, a ritual done by many Moroccans on a weekly or bimonthly rate at a cost of about £8 (extra massages can be added). After a final shower, I felt positively glowing, paid the tourist tax to the masseuse and made a very tentative journey back.

I met Ihssane once more in the financial part of town, home to tall glass offices, beautiful expensive accommodation and green parks. The area was still under-works, and I noted in fact that no matter where I’d been in Morocco there was always something going on, much of it construction rather than reparation. It was a peculiar oxymoron, lush grasses and lawns for the newest stark-white apartment blocks right next to dusty building sites connected by alternating fresh tarmac and dirt track. The bright, modern café we ate at was just up the road from a tiny hut of corrugated metal sheets where a man was selling water and snacks through a window crudely cut into the steel.

The little taxis, coloured differently depending on each city, are the way to go for urban travel if public buses aren’t to your fancy. I only started taking them in Casablanca and, Marrakesh aside, the value for money is extraordinary. 45-minutes in rush hour across the city was 18Dh. The most I ever paid was 20Dh and that was with my rucksack, an additional cost. Compare that to the 50Dh and 100Dh the private taxis were charging in the villages outside Agadir…

I tipped often, even if only a few Dirham. It looked such hard work for the pay, rallying a sweltering taxi around the Royal Rumble of Casa’s roads, and it was hard not to think of the £10-£15 Übers I’d taken in Europe while thinking “huh, that’s not a bad price”.

We met once more the next day beside her fancy office, in view of the giant mosque. I felt emotion, as I often do when saying farewell with the uncertainty if your paths will ever cross again. I felt differently compared to on Toubkal, where I wanted to test the connection to a more romantic level. This time, I felt that I wanted to see my companion and my friend, a wonderful person who’s company I love to be in and from whom I’ve experienced so much in such little time. If you ever see someone sitting alone in your hostel and you think you might go up and say hi to them, I’d encourage you to do so. I’m glad I did.

The final highlight for my final day in Casablanca was at my now regular café for watching evening football, where I noticed the price for my tea was a little less compared to when I’d first went in.

Casablanca: number 3 on my list of Moroccan towns and cities.

Rabat however just wasn’t the one for me. Perhaps it was the horrible train ride to get there, where the berth I’d booked contained such a loud and misbehaved family that even sitting in the deafening space between carriages was more favourable.

At the hostel, I found a dismal ambience of untidy, unsociable men on business trips to the city. The single positive of a garden and tree in the middle was negated by its own negatives: ants were everywhere. A colony in the toilets, in the common areas, scrambling over all the seating, although fortunately the top bunks of the dormitories appeared free from them.  

I did find a brilliant restaurant, Dar Naji, boasting a view of the sun setting above the city walls and also two musicians that I’d have paid to see such was their quality. I tasted Rfissa, traditionally reserved for special occasions although as it would be my single night in Rabat, it was a special occasion to me. I decided on the terrace that I had no appetite for the place and booked a nice long bus ride to Tangier the following evening. I did walk around the medina until quite late at night or, more accurately, wandered aimlessly. It was a relaxed medina, with far less hawking from the shop owners compared to others. Perhaps it was just too late for it. Not a bad place but I held no qualms when leaving.

Tangier

Another one of those bemused giggles while looking at myself and where I am; sprawled over the back seats of a bus in the Moroccan darkness, watching La Casa de Papel on my laptop and occasionally jumping in fright from a fierce-looking spider as it dashes past my head. No matter the arguments against doing this trip, it beat lying in my bed thinking of going to work the next morning and cleaning FCU filters.

I was cornered by private taxis, the remoteness of the CTM station making me believe they were my only option. “80 Dirham”, the driver demanded, looking a bit like the Moroccan version of Dennis Nedry (the bad-guy IT worker in Jurassic Park). I regained some monetary pride from previous scams by only handing over 60Dh, which he accepted with a thank you and some directions to Bayt Alice, the oldest hostel in Tangier. It looked it, in the middle of old Medina streets, the interior antique and well preserved in Victorian theme. The guests were all very well-mannered but there were a few too many discussing gap-years and skiing trips and I wasn’t fancying it that night.  

I delayed waking up and disturbing everyone as long as my good manners allowed and then found my way to the main street of the medina, mentally marking my own directions: down the plant street until taking a right along the lane of drains surrounded by little white stones, a left at the store and another at Pension Colon, along past the fancy hotel and then there.

I caught up with the landslide Labour victory, the first non-Conservative parliament in donkeys’ years, and also the decimation of the SNP’s control of Scotland that had been present for almost all of my teenage and young adult years.

The first two days were for seeing things, and trying to find them, as the streets weren’t the easiest to navigate so early on. I visited outside the Great Mosque (not nearly so great as Hassan II), the Grand Socco, St Andrews church, Mendoubia Garden plus a few other smaller sites but it was obvious that the positives of Tangier were found in its collective.

The White City is forever being repainted to maintain its title, and it was these white walls running down every narrow street and market that provided such pleasurable aesthetics on the day to day. The sites of old fortifications and casual abundance of cannons still in place gave reminder to its history, and the views to Spain a sign of how close back to Europe I was, and indeed what a natural phenomenon the Strait of Gibraltar is with regards to its historical and modern importance to Europe, Northern Africa and beyond. Such as in Essaouira, I found another place to live peacefully for a while, and with no music festival on its way to kick me out, I could stay in this peace as long as my heart desired.

Walking and observing, some good solo travel life. The second day I went to Café Hafa, visited by the Rolling Stones but more famously by poet and writer Juan Goytisolo, winner of the most prestigious Spanish writing award and one of Spains greatest in spite of living most of his life abroad, largely due to his opposition of Francisco Franco which led to his work being legalised in Spain only after the dictator’s death. The kasbah was a little slice of the old medina but prettier and quieter, and there were hints of Essaouira in the artist shops and antique stores.

As time passed, I settled more and more into my simple state of living. I found my regular spots who brought my order automatically, identified the shop that kept its bottled water coolest, became recognised as a familiar face and developed a natural sense of direction in the city which was a feat that seemed impressive given its complicated first impression. Tangier felt a temporary home, and as long as it felt that way, I had no desire to leave, despite the horrified gasps I’ll surely receive for passing up the chance to see Tetoan and Chefchaouen.

Horrified gasps were indeed what I heard when calls of “Heil Hitler” sounded from a table of drunk Moroccans as Germany equalised against Spain. I made friends with such drunk Moroccans (not that group) and I found the bar goers to be fun but very different from their more haram-conscious compatriots. They could be quite difficult to communicate with and also a little pushy sometimes for you to buy them drinks, “we’ll buy you one beer and then you’ll buy all of us a round”. I was leaving another bar when an older man stopped me and asked if I wanted a smoke from his pipe. I turned him down at first but his wit was sharp and he sort of won me over with it, so I relented. It was a long thin thing in 3 parts that were inserted into each other and I found I enjoyed the sensation, even the burn in the back of my throat. I accompanied him back into the bar and joined his group, a strange collection of misfits. He seemed proud to show off the tourist he’d made friends with, and I was passed around the group to say hi. Him and one other spoke English, while another older man could communicate with me in Spanish. It was the Spanish speaker that I had the most genuine time with, a little younger than the pipe-smoker, grey haired in an orange polo, well-travelled and well-mannered. His friend ‘Jefe’ also seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say although we had no common language between us, his friendly face dominated by a gigantic nose and he was always smiling softly. I stayed a while longer, managing to narrow the demanded round down to just two beers, one for him and one for a guy who claimed his English was excellent but whom I could barely understand.

I didn’t think of it until walking home but if we hark back to the ‘processes’ I wanted to create, one of the regrets I mentioned was my inability to accept the offer of a drink from a Spanish speaking pensioner a year ago while in Amorebieta. Well… it wasn’t a perfect conversation, but I accepted the offer of a drink from a Spanish speaking pensioner and was able to converse with him in a comfortable manner. Progress.

I carried on living, booking one extra night over and over again until on one occasion the man just waved me away as I entered his office, already knowing what I wanted. Life was good, and it got even better when a German girl entered the dorm.

She came in with immediate energy and interest and was quite determined in her attempts to draw me into a conversation. She’d been in Morocco for the same length of time as me, landing in Marrakesh from Istanbul, however her luggage sadly didn’t land with her and she still hadn’t heard from Turkish Airlines on its apparent whereabouts, nor word of any compensation. While her absolute valuables were in her hand luggage, the suitcase contained souvenirs and sentimental items; clothes from her grandmother, gifts from her travel friends, and other things picked up from her 8-9 month trip of a value far more heart-wrenching than monetary loss.

I was delighted though, as she mentioned that she’d had nothing to read for a month now, and I’d been carrying ‘By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept’, a book with extraordinary significance to me, waiting to find someone that I could pass it along to…

I appreciated her different approach to conversation than the standard repertoire of amable questions and immediately felt on a similar wavelength with her. I wanted to hear her story, so retracted my original turning down to go for dinner with her and we went in search for some cheap food. The search led us out of the medina to less-touristic parts of town and we found Restaurant Bachir, a bustling place full of locals, often a good sign for quality cheap food.

I wasn’t disappointed, Lily had been on quite the ride and although she said she felt difficulty in telling her stories over and over again, she seemed to revel in expressing herself with them. They were not calm and sincere accounts, they were blood-thirsty tales transmitted via emotion and expression. It was not polite construction, it was raw, truthful and hard-hitting and the timeline jumped around where her heart demanded. In short; New Zealand, Thailand, Vietnam, Laos, Indonesia, Turkey and Morocco had been visited in her time away. She had developed a group of travel friends too, all from Europe but they’d only met across New Zealand and some of the Asian countries, and they clearly meant so much to her.

She was on her way home now, and she seemed to be able to find zero positives in it. It was worrying to hear as I could see how much suffering she could endure if this was her approach. It was a total resistance to her reality, from my point of view, trying to stop the world from moving. Along with dread that she’d ran out of money and required to get a job, she also couldn’t seem to accept that nobody can understand her travel to the same extent she could. I’d been prewarned by a young Austrian outside of Ribadesella that this is the case, no one can truly understand and often nor will they try, as why would they, and there’s nothing that can be done to change that. It’s not personal, and ultimately futile to resort to forcing the understanding. I would add now that the answer is to give time and rarely talk of it unless prompted, and then deeper understanding can grow with time. More importantly, no one can take your experience away from you and neither can people’s lack of interest or understanding diminish the magic of your travel in any way.

I attempted to pass a little of this on in a tactful manner, more focusing on the differences in mentalities between her and her friends and family as this is what she mentioned. I also suggested that there is a lot of success that can be found in this new life she is going to create for herself, in generating money, improving on what she studied on and then finding the next adventure to invest herself in. She had been east, sure, but not west to the Americas nor south to the rest of Africa. This had more of a reaction.

We stumbled into a Free Palestine rally which we watched for a while, and I bought a scarf, followed by some over-expensive tea and a difficult discussion on the differences between male and female solo travel, something I try to educate myself about despite really hating the truth, the disparage often so damning on the behaviour of fellow men.

All very good discussion and I wrote;

“A super pleasant evening with a well-travelled and intelligent person, articulated and experienced, also powerful and sharp, capable, independent, flawed”.

When discussing some self-doubt that she was feeling the following day, I recited this to her, and it was received well. She asked me to write it in the beginning of the book I gave to her, which I did. With some guilt, I didn’t mention the ‘flawed’ part.

The refreshed guestlist was a more appealing balance to previous nights and was full of mischief and noise. Two girls from Bristol whose accents and Britishness were so welcome after some time without it. A French brother and sister, both incredibly good-looking and a hilarious duo that reduced themselves and others to fits and giggles with sibling nonsense. A very loud Australian, short with curly hair, quite outspoken but not rudely so. Another German girl who was in Tangier on an internship that made tea most nights to differing results. An Englishman who was living in Scotland, across the water from Edinburgh. A young Moroccan guy too, on his first trip, who made us all a wonderful tagine so as to introduce himself. The night ‘ended’ on two different occasions, only for the French siblings and loud Australian to enter the dorms chattering and laughing away, drawing attention back up to the terrace.

I’d been craving the sea, so walked to a busy beach, and was the first to arrive at the scene of a moped crash on the way, the younger driver with a horrible cut to his eye and limping, the elderly man with a far nastier wound on the back of his head. He was muttering in Arabic, confused and disorientated as the conjugation gathered and an ambulance was called. Neither were wearing helmets.

Passed the next day with Lily and Max, another German, before the whole group (French siblings aside) went for a last dinner and for some drinks in the weird Tangier bars. I felt a little like a celebrity as we found the whole friend group from a few nights before; pipe-smoking guy, Jefe, Spanish-speaking guy, the lot of them. We kicked about there and afterwards in the garden bar of an affluent hotel that kindly let us in, playing cards and paying extortionate drinks prices. Max even acquired a small whiskey to share back at the hostel terrace meaning it wasn’t until 5.am that I got to bed, with an overnight train on the horizon back to where it all began.

To Marrakesh and Madrid

The pre-boarding excitement and heart-warming generosity from two café workers to offer free water were the standout positives from a terrible idea. Despite the lack of sleep from the night before I struggled to settle on the train, every sound and glare from the hallway lights dragging me back from decent rest. I hadn’t seen an option for a bed-berth, risking that there would be enough free seats to manage to lie down, which wasn’t a bad idea and the whole cabin was mines between 12:00 and 3:30 but it was still a taxing experience. There were far more stops and frequent passenger movements than I had anticipated. I was again desperate to do laundry and, self-consciously, it was evidently noticeable to both me and to the sharply dressed business people on their morning commute.  

Why was I in Marrakesh?

Well, I was leaving.

From the southernmost city of Morocco right to the northernmost city, all on a whim and instinct and without further purpose than in itself. Whatever ‘it’ was, I’d successfully did it.

I felt neither sad nor happy, nor any regret, nor any desire. A little bit of pride as to how far I had come but mostly I accepted that it had happened, was now in the past and that I was moving elsewhere next.

In reality, all were signs that I wasn’t processing the change, that yet again I was to fail miserably in reaching a finish line, and that it was all leading to my mental state spiralling with incontrollable and devastating force to everything in its path, despite my most mindful efforts to catch it.

SPAIN

Madrid

After a heated exchange with the Marrakeshi taxi driver over final payment to the airport (he drove his taxi into my leg at the zebra crossing) and some thankfully quick police questioning in the terminal, I was on my way to Madrid in time for the Euro’s final and coincidentally, to see my friend.

Now, the everchanging balance between writing on the ‘travel’ experience and on the ‘personal’ experience is difficult. Ultimately, I suppose it is up to me entirely in deciding how much I think I should share of personal matters, particularly in the finer details, a lot of which I’ve decided to leave out below.

But I will share that this particular visit to Madrid was a disaster.  

I woke up that first day and was utterly convinced that there was no place for me in this world. I didn’t belong here and there was no path to take to find that place. There was nowhere to turn. My mind was a maelstrom of evil thoughts and feelings viciously dragging me down, as if as soon as I shook one off, another grabbed hold. Smiling took all of my strength and seemed to tear at my soul, the false happy gesture as if twisting my torso 180° to face the opposite way.

So to try and socialise with my friend, with her friends, with her family?

I was immature, insecure and undignified in how I dealt with how I was feeling over that weekend, especially for that particular weekend, when a friend that I really care about was busy with a life of her own. No matter what’s going on with me, there was no reason to involve her and even if so, I have the tools required to express it a lot better than I did, with mindfulness and sense, and she didn’t deserve to be dragged into the shit I was trying to process. I shouldn’t have involved her, and I was ashamed.

Yet I forgave myself, immediately. I am human, and the mistakes I made felt very human mistakes of passion and weakness. I’m still so young and have a lot to discover, and if I’m not living a life where I am making mistakes, then I’m not living a life of curiosity and self-betterment. A true life. I want to live with my heart, to follow it and be able to express it to the world. So I forgave myself, walked a 25km day throughout Madrid into the late evening, watched some dumb YouTube videos until sleep, and then travelled to Barcelona and upwards into the Pyrenees to begin the next 10 days of my life.

Ribes de Freser

A rickety train took me away from the sprawl of structures holding 25% of all Spain’s GDP and into the stunning Pyrenees mountains, great swathes of green and blue stark and enriching after the dustier month in Morocco. The line had three trains going each way every day from Barcelona to Latour-de-Carol, technically in France and a short drive from Andorra, which frustratingly I was never able to visit.

Ribes de Freser (shores of Freser), where through WorkAway I was offered a shared apartment and 40€ a week to work on some forested land owned by a local hotel. Curiously wandering into town, I stopped in the village square, the river on one side, a stage being set up on another, and an ‘abuela’ leaning on her balcony in apron and coif, observing the goings on and shouting down to friendly passers-by. Eventually, I met up with Gemma, an energetic woman with silver hair, and co-owner of the hotel along with her husband, Gil. They had owned and ran a busier establishment in the popular touristic village, until selling it on and focusing full time on the considerably more beautiful set of buildings up in the forest, with a few individual rooms in the main house along with detached guest lodges. The surroundings were stunning, trees providing sparse natural shade, buildings rustic but clean and minimalistic, a central pool for the guests to use and for us to use too, as we dived in following a morning’s work.

I say ‘we’ as my partner in construction crime was Anes, another volunteer who had been working here for a couple of months already. He was to be my flatmate and also my personal chef as it’d turn out his cooking skills were exemplary. Hailing from Pila in Croatia, he carried some gruff, stereotypically Balkan characteristics in his accent and, occasionally, his methods of working but he was also delightfully happy and energetic, full of nonsense and a sure hit with the ladies being such a handsome bugger. A great companion and a straight-talking brotherly friendship was so welcome. He took lead on the work we were doing and also as the main point of communication with Gemma and Gil, the former whom he discreetly named ‘Gestapo’ due to a bit of a micro-managing nature. Him and Gil had impressively managed to develop their own language, an extravagant mix of Spanish, Catalan, English, probably some Croatian too and all accompanied with windmilling hand gestures, sound effects and body language for emphasis and description. I’m not sure how they did it, but it always resulted with mutual grunting and nodding of heads.

The main task was to create suitable conditions in the forested land for the introduction of pigmy goats and chickens. The goats would earn their living munching away at the dense scrub to maintain and clear space, while the chickens were mainly desired to give a steady production of eggs for Gemma’s breakfast, just in case COVID struck again.

Emotionally raw from the spiral I had endured, working in the forest every morning was like therapy, oddly enough also the word that Anes used to describe his experience here. The views, the air, natural shade from the sun, getting scratched by thorns and bitten by various insects, it was nature and it was perfect. My phone was quiet, only brought up for some souvenir photos and I discovered a peace in the lack of notifications. My attention wasn’t needed for anyone or anything other than here, now and myself. We cleared a perimeter and rigged up electric fencing to surround the designated space, every step reliant on ingenuity; cutting away at the undergrowth, using a chainsaw for the first time and a giant big disk cutter too, slicing up bricks and stones to suit as we set the foundations for the animal homes, hand-mixing cement for the first time since volunteering in Tanzania.

Rather alarmingly was the footprint we found in the cement the morning after the cement was laid, oddly bear-shaped and with the experience I’ve already had with Spanish bears… perhaps I am being stalked.

Bands playing in the distance from my river-facing balcony lured me out to investigate as a weekend of festivals began. By Saturday evening all was in full swing and the small village was crammed with musicians, various Gigantes y Cabuzedos and groups from one organisation or another. Anes and I went for a beer to watch and ended up following the parade through the village as it gathered pace. Some more volunteers from the hotel and a couple of their local friends bumped into us and word on the street was that there was further live music up in the woods, a short uphill walk out of town. As if on cue, a whole stream of people started walking to the east and 20minutes later, we were in a clearing in the woods, where a band were already playing on stage, a pop-up bar was selling drinks and a temporary install threw enchanting light and colour up into the leafy canopy above.

And we danced. The band played anything and everything, in Spanish or Catalan or English. I heard Ska-P and Oasis in the same night, Extremoduro and The Proclaimers. It was a little staggering, who was paying for all this? We don’t have this in Scotland, not to the same care and planning and extent. Sociological thoughts soon left my head as beers and vodkas were knocked back, and I quite happily got drunk in a Catalan forest with good music and friendly people. Having been unaware of where the night was going to lead, I still had on my comfy evening dress, Moroccan cotton white trousers and white shirt, writing books in hand, my hair down in a ponytail as I’d washed it a couple hours before heading out, earning me the label; Jesus.

Suddenly wishing I had the reverse ability to turn wine back into water, it felt time to ‘hacer bomba de humo’ and make a staggered downhill journey back to the apartment, making sure to leave the door unlocked for Anes.

The following week, or at least until the Friday I left, passed with much success. We worked hard in the morning, ate in the afternoon and then I went to study Spanish and go a run while Anes worked a little more up on the land. It felt a little less special than it had the first week. Perhaps I had received all the therapy I needed from this particular place.

We were pressured but dedicated to completing the task in hand as it turned out both myself and Anes were both leaving on the Friday and Saturday respectively and so, on the final day, there it was, a small wooden chicken coop and a tall green goathouse on a concrete plateau, with an electrified enclosure away down the hill and beyond. Gil, a former chef, cooked an evening farewell meal for us in the garden of their personal home, all local ingredients and local wine too, as we chatted, ate and drank until well after dark.

The next morning was the farewell to Anes, where I missed the 2^nd of the three trains back towards Barcelona for talking with him. He came through with a beautiful FC Barcelona top, Cesc Fabergas and number 4 on the back, still with the tags on. His sister had bought it for him but as he wasn’t a fan of football, he decided it ought to be for me. An ardent Atletico fan, I hesitated for the briefest of moments before accepting. The top is a stunner and made all the more special as for whom it came from; a companion, a role model, a comrade, a brother, a friend.

One last stop in the village square, the river on one side, a stage being taken down on another, and an ‘abuela’ leaning on her balcony in apron and coif, observing the goings on and shouting down to friendly passers-by.

Tarragona

I picked up an illness enroute to the home owned by Sabrina, Alejandro and their young family, and I really toiled in the first few days on their land as a result, much to my guilt as their eager efforts to get to know me and make me feel welcome were mostly met by weak smiles and words to excuse myself.  

The family had a Polish wedding to attend so needed someone to live on their stunning acre of Tarragona countryside while they were gone, and keep company their Spanish Mastin dog, Hagrid.

Hagrid was actually a little smaller than his breed can grow to however that still made him a damn sight larger than my families Cocker Spaniel back home and at just over 1years old, he still had the puppy energy alongside his adult size. A natural guard dog, he performed his duties on a long chain wrapped around a tree close to the family’s caravan. Additional reasoning for this was the tried and tested proof that he will chase everyone and everything that comes within his hearing, although he has never been prone to any kind of violence. Frequent perimeter walks during the day would keep him satisfied and I took him runs too, which required a little bit of practise to learn. When darkness fell, he was released to have the freedom of the night. A fun and slightly nervous ritual, involving some excited wrestling before he ran off to do important dog things, and I quickly learned to put on some rough clothes and not be afraid to throw my weight around as he certainly would. His bites would start soft but eventually get stronger after a couple of minutes until I’d decide enough, yell “Basta” in my best Argentinian accent, and go in to get washed up.

The closest call was on the second night when some muppet decided to wander onto the land on horseback, despite the barking, and even when met with the livid Hagrid took their sweet time to get the hell out of the area. We could all count ourselves lucky, as no more than 10 seconds before they showed up I’d been in the process of releasing Hagrid for the night but went back inside having forgotten his nightly treat.

In the end, having a guard dog was most welcome in this random piece of land in the country, alone in the pitch black with windows and doors left open all night. Nothing could get close to the caravan without my guardian going absolutely ape-sh*t and I certainly wouldn’t want to mess with the two of us.

He was mostly well behaved, gentle with food and treats and accepted my company far easier than I thought he would. The first couple of nights when I was sleeping in the guest-cabin and coughing my lungs out, he stayed nearby and even came in to check on me after the worst fits, giving my hand or face a lick and leaving again.

That said, he was sly with his tricks, recognising when we were coming to the end of the walk, trying to guide me round one last tree or simply flopping to the floor and having a husky-style tantrum. I couldn’t move him even if I wanted to so it was a test of patience, or if I lacked that patience, he hated water and so a quick splash from my flask was often enough persuasion. Tough love.

Truthfully, I ended up loving him to bits and I realised I was going to miss him. He was wonderful company for the solitude. The solitude which, just as in Ribes de Freser, was therapy

I didn’t want to see anyone, and aside from supermarket trips, I didn’t, going hours and hours without uttering a word. I tended to the few chores alongside Hagrid’s needs. Sabrina was growing vegetables on a patch of land which needed watering twice daily. The pool had a filter to be turned on for a few hours and cleaned too from the dust that was inevitably blown in. Freakishly sudden and violent wind one night had me battening down the hatches and taking in of all the furniture the gusts threatened to carry away.

Simple life. Topless and hillybilly. Stars, meteors and the Milky Way at night. Sun, running and cooking food at day.

And beer. Don’t forget the beer.

On the families return, I could show more energy than before. We’d kept in touch throughout, with plenty of photos and videos sent of our goings on. I kindly turned down the offer to stay another night (the wood cabin was far too stuffy) and was dropped off at the train station to continue my journey.

The Importance of Doing Things

Its own little section, a thought that began on Sabrina and Alejandro’s land which I have been employing vigorously in my life since.

A most simple concept, so simple and direct it bypasses complicated perspective to deliver a rule and action key to personal happiness.

Do things.

Anything.

Have something I want to learn? Do it.

Have something I want to experience? Do it.

Have something that I want to achieve which requires a period of practising beforehand? Start doing it.

The epiphany came in slightly ludicrous fashion but mattered to me so, so much.

“I cooked an egg”.

I love eggs. Omelettes, tortilla española, scrambled, poached, fried. An enriching and healthy food.

But I’d never ever cooked one. Why?

Easy. I didn’t know how, had never tried it before, and that was sufficient dissuasion.

As without the conscious reasoning to push forward with this unknown, without the purpose to learn the skill, I hadn’t and wouldn’t do it. It would forever remain an absent thought in my mind, “I’d like to learn how to cook eggs one day”, forever a gap in my knowledge I’d want to fill.

Madness.

Mistake?

It is difficult to argue against a thought, at the crossroad right here following Tarragona, that I really missed out on the opportunity in front of me.

That the original plan I had for after my time in Spain was the correct road to take, and that I deviated from it.

The immediate counterargument to the forthcoming is that, ultimately, nothing you are supposed to have will pass you by. Hence the path you take is the correct one for you no matter what.

On the whole, I can believe that.

However, some things will pass you by, if you don’t take the necessary action to seize them.

I mentioned that my finances were decent, though not quite as much as would be ideal. Therefore, on that last day in the fort of el-Jadida, I planned to take a 3-4 week intermission in Spain, to volunteer and do other fun things, in which case I’d have gained the extra time to buy the flights to my next destination in enough of an advance where they’d be much cheaper.

A great plan, which just never happened, and I must look inwards to see why.

I wanted to go eastwards and had Georgia in mind as a good start. I’d found volunteering in a quiet, remote town with physical work, exactly what I was looking for. It was to be more difficult than the placements in Spain, no Wifi, little comfort, requiring the purchase of working boots and warmer clothes. Yet from there, including a prior stop-off in Istanbul, the door to Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Central Asia and beyond, it was all wide open to as far as my wits and money could take me.

Yet I hesitated. Froze.

For the millionth time in my life I had something in front of me but I hesitated and resorted to cautiously pondering rather than putting myself out there and taking the necessary action.

I was comfortable in Spain and had slyly convinced myself that here were more worthwhile. I had cafes and beer, was practising the language I wanted to learn and waiting for the football season to start. I realise now, I was tricking myself.

It was lazy, and in quite a guilty way I probably knew at the time I was being lazy. It was also meagre, passionless, a decision made with fear and anxiety. Not how I want to live.

I do wish now that I had done it differently but have accepted and forgiven myself. I do believe that there is purpose behind it turning out this way, that the lessons I have learned by going down that path and the culminating experiences have vital importance on the years to come. Potentially some meanings beyond my comprehension.

I don’t want it to happen again though. I have worked so hard to get myself into positions where I have these options, I can’t squander them.

“Then also of the principle I have such belief in, where if I know there is something that is right for me but I won’t take the necessary steps to reach it, then I am failing myself and betraying my future self, especially if all that is holding me back is a basic lack of effort”.

Valencia

During the tour of the Mestalla there was a section detailing the floods of 1957. The stadium looked like it had been built in the middle of a river, hazy photographs showed streets bearing more resemblance to Venice than Valencia. Surreal, I remember thinking, that such an event could happen once but not again. You’d think an area where such an extensive disaster had unfolded would experience similar if lesser occurrences, like Florida and hurricanes, Japan and tsunamis.

Well, three months after I took that tour. It did.

The equivalent of 6months average rainfall recorded by Dublin Airport fell on Valencia in just 8hours.

Unfathomable levels, still unfathomable even when watching the very thing, as timelapses showed cars driving normally then being dragged away by water 50minutes later.

Unfathomable even further when imagining the effects on the countryside towns, villages, farms, some of which my train took me through, the places without high-rise apartments and buildings that could offer relative reprieve and personal safety.

The area looked like a warzone, formerly pristine streets now a marsh of mud and debris hauled in by the running waters. Daily lives and routines all but disappeared as much of the city works hard into the night, cleaning and repairing.

I have a friend who moved to do his Master degree just a few weeks prior, one of the ones you may have seen on the news marching along the bridge, armed with aid and energy to invest into the community efforts. He has sent photos and videos, unwavering in his strength to help his new home, very much part of the city of Valencia.

Military trucks and service vehicles are in almost every photo as Spain belatedly responds to the aid of its Valencian citizens, while many Spaniards make the journey from across the country bringing supplies and manpower to assist in the enormous task of returning el Capital de la Cominitat Valenciana to how it looked before.

With enough hard work, they are destined to be successful.

It is an old city, old enough that it was besieged by Hannibal on his way eastwards to cross the Alps (at that point in 219BC by the name Sagantum) and it has been historically relevant from then on. It passed from the Visigoths to the Moors, then captured by el Cid and exchanged hands between him and the Almoravids, before eventually absorbed into the Kingdom of Aragon. Years of prosperity turned into decline with rampant Barbary pirates and the booming of Atlantic trade, a low point coming as the Valencian supported Habsburgs lost the War of the Spanish Succession, the city occupied by the Earl of Peterborough and his force for over a year. Stability from here onwards was an inconsistent thing and any time Valencia and its silk trade had time to grow, another war plunged it back to square one.

The Spanish Civil War and its horrors came and the Francoist army pushed the seat of Republican Government south from Madrid to Valencia, not to much use as often poorly devised counterattacks tried and failed to turn the slow yet ultimately unstoppable fascist advance, expending dwindling supplies to little gain. The decisive Italian and Nazi air forces launched bombardments over the city, significantly in 1938, until eventual capitulation and the Republican seat relocated again to its final stronghold on Spanish soil – Barcelona.

What followed was similar to much of Spain, the suppression of regionalism and cultural heritage individual from how the Nationalists viewed as Castilian Spanish. Hence the Valencian language was banned, teaching of it forbidden in local education while free-thinking Valencian intellectuals were forced to flee, much like our afore-mentioned Juan Goytisolo, else risk execution or imprisonment alongside known and loosely suspected Republican and left-wing sympathisers.

Then the old Dictator died and, similar to much of Spain, Valencia decided it was time to move on from it all. The regionalism that the fascists failed to eradicate was legally brought back to the forefront of society again and the language has been a mandatory education within every school in the region since. Festivals and traditions, foods and inclusivity, I entered a city teeming with life and culture.

The old town is substantial and filled with various UNESCO Heritage structures. It serves as a beating heart, providing a wealth of option for anyone’s interest; nightlife, museums, art, foods. By population it is the third largest city in Spain, however the atmosphere and interaction with Valencians was an experience more akin to stereotypical rural than urban, more personal and heartfelt. My hostel was near the Mestalla, and a short walk to the Old Town, cutting through the most beautiful city park I’ve encountered on my travels, and was my favourite feature of Valencia.

Turia Gardens was constructed and grown over the former route of the Turia river. In reference once again, the catastrophic flood in 1957 led the City and National Governments to the decision that the river was far too dangerous to follow its natural course and so, in ‘Plan Sur’, it was rerouted southwards to follow the western line of the city. The now dried riverbed became a hot topic for development, projects suggesting a transportation route of some kind, perhaps as a highway however the citizens resisted, demanding a green space instead. The bigwigs relented, and through much planning, constructed a series of bridges and tunnels to connect the roads flanking either side along the length of the riverbed, effectively achieving both desires and a fantastic accomplishment in urban development.

The park cuts a diagonal line to split the city in half, from the North-West to the South-East, terminating just before the sea next to the impressive (and expensive) city aquarium. It’s a hub of activity; evening walks, runs, cycles, yoga classes, dance classes, chess, football games, reading, meditation, cervezas, a really extensive list but it seemed to be able to accommodate all with ease, and I went a run every second day through the garden.

Ending the Journey

After scuba diving for the first time (which was pretty amazing), I travelled to Lisbon on another sleepless overnight bus, this time with the flu, a brutal experience but also strengthening as I really dug deep, even walking the two hours from the bus station with the sunrise. I loved the musically artistic city, very unique from a lot of Western Europe, and met some lovely people, one in particular who’s depth of love and emotional security shone a new light and clarity on areas of self I need to work on.

I holed up mostly in Madrid for the final two weeks (it feels far longer in retrospect) before booking for home. I met with Struan a few times (the guy doing his Masters in Valencia, at that point living in Madrid) and we spent a few good days around the city meeting a few friends of his, going to the signing ceremony for new Atleti players, and indeed a few games in the Metropolitano too, as the new season was underway. I was spending a bomb every day, but I didn’t seem to have any better ideas and there was always something I wanted to see/do the next day to keep me stationary, until eventually the window for further adventure slammed shut as my money dwindled.

I can’t say it was a waste of time, but neither can I put my hand on my heart and say I have no regrets with the direction I took. This ‘Camino de mi Alma’ never formulated in the end, as I suppose it was a little foolish to envisage. I never found the happy place I secretly hoped to find, a new home that I could spend significant time in. Parts of me healed but I returned with many of the same mountains to climb as when I had left. Was it all just escapism?

Perhaps, but the revelation is how it set me up to cross those mountains. Just over 6 months have passed since I returned, and the transformation has been extraordinary.  

Coming back left nowhere else to turn from the sadness within me, this self-generating and unkillable sadness, so I was forced to look it dead in the eye and face it. I had to admit its existence to myself, accept it in its current form, and admit that there was absolutely nothing I could do to eliminate it. I was a naturally sad person with periods of happiness.

I could say roughly that this is the state I’ve been in on and off for most of my life, in truth, to such an extent that I was unaware of much other option, of the potential for life to be special every day simply because it is that day, and I am alive for it. I always felt like a happy person, but it seemed like my place; not really belonging, not finding much in common with what was around me, far less understanding it. As if I wasn’t built for this world, and it caused me to suffer. The next storm was rarely farther than right around the corner.

On the worst days, it felt there were no right answers, no paths to take.

The Camino de Santiago helped face that. It used to feel like a race, this sadness, that I always needed to stay one step ahead less it catch up to me. That particular journey allowed me the strength, time and space to study it fully, amongst some of the most amazing people I’ve ever met who all helped in their own way, until one person in particular, such a powerful figure, told me what it was I needed to hear to end the race. I wear her necklace even now.

On this occasion, though no less painful, the solution was simpler. Realising its severity and that it is a part of me as much as my heart is started the recovery, a slow but steady progress to incorporating it into my very being.

I began choosing the parts of me I was adamant to fight for, whether they ‘belonged’ or not. Some parts I chose to be adjusted, adapted or even forsaken for the sake of convenience if it suited my motives at the given time.

In short, I began to choose my place in this world.

There was an initial gruelling climb with considerable tears and self-surgery, but the upwards march was inevitable until, by mid-November, such a notable breakthrough, a ‘turning of a corner’ as it’s labelled in my mind. 

Now? I am a naturally happy person with periods of sadness, and I believe with all my heart that I belong here in this world.

I live for every day in its singularity, as I’ve always tried to do, with all the energy and love I can muster. I am intelligent, mindful, still making many painful mistakes but listening to my body and my mind, more aware of what I need and feel, taking rests when necessary before going again.

I have my own home, exercise 5 times a week, read, dance, meditate, work hard (most of the time).

I cook eggs almost every day.

It doesn’t go perfectly, and no doubt there will be more mountains left to face but that’s good, as if the rewards are half as good as this new chapter of life is for me, then the journey will be worth it.

It was escapism, but it resulted in the beginning of a new way of living for me.

El Camino de mi Alma.