Marrakesh, Morocco, Wednesday January 14th

After a bit more typing, and as usual realising that my brain and fingers are more productive early in the day, we set off for a walk around the walls and across town to the Majorelle Garden. Unlike Fes, where the walls hug the intricate maze of the medina, here the medina is a compact discreet area and there are other buildings, roads, squares and gardens between it and the walls. Marrakesh excels with its gardens and I would love to come here in late summer or autumn when the literally thousands of roses we have seen would be in full bloom. As it was, I picked up a few pruning tips, and it seems as if brutal pruning is favoured here. We exited through one of the many grand gates and found ourselves where the bus had deposited us two days ago. We were able to give the garden there more than just a glance today, and to admire its mixture of palms and shrubs.

We didn’t actually see any street signs, but we knew the name of the one leading from the gate and could use it to find ourselves on the map. We love this aspect of a new city – walking the streets to learn its character and to find our feet. Crossing the road here is a bit of a nightmare, with the lights often not including a pedestrian element, and often only applying to traffic travelling in one direction. There are stripes on the road to indicate a crossing, but no drivers respect pedestrians on them and it is a case of dodging in and out of oncoming vehicles. As far as we could see, Marrakesh outside the walls was like any major city anywhere, except for the number of gardens.

The Majorelle Garden was created by French artist, Jacques Majorelle who came to Marrakech in 1919. He was a plant collector who created as much a sculpture as a garden, with the plants providing an exciting array of different textures, shapes and forms. There are many different types of palms and succulents, as well as other shrubs, trees and climbers. Although not flowering now, there are a multitude of greens, greys and browns, against the raked red stones of the beds. Paths lead between them, and are lined with huge pot plants painted blue, yellow, orange and green. There is a long canal, and several ponds. The structures of a pavilion, the garden edges, a museum and colonnades and a gazebo are painted a vivid blue, which was the colour of the French workmen’s overalls, as the garden was being built. The garden has many staff, still wearing that colour, who maintain its raked stones and immaculate appearance. Jacques Majorelle died in 1962, and the gardens were neglected. Yves St Laurent and Pierre Bergé purchased it and restored it, and very sensibly created a trust so that it will continue to be cared for. A path in the garden led to a memorial to Yves St Laurent, which had an ancient column at its centre. We entered and left by a gorgeous courtyard, with red paving, slightly lighter rendered walls, vivid green and blue tiles surrounding a central fountain, and pots of nasturtiums. It was simple and vibrant. People were sitting around in the sun here, and in the shade throughout the gardens. This garden is certainly a work of art.

The museum holds a small collection of Majorelle’s paintings. He was intrigued by rural southern Morocco and really captured the sense of it, as we have experienced it, in his paintings. They are beautiful, and like visual sonnets to the land he loved. There are outstanding examples of crafts, including amazing carved doors, which were collected by Yves St Laurent, in the rest of the museum.

We took a long walk to the other side of town, pausing to buy fruit and veggies and to be given a complimentary bunch of parsley by a sweet old green grocer. We remarked on the smog from all the traffic, drifting like a haze in all the streets. At last we came to the Theatre Royal, and opposite, the equally grand Marrakesh station. It is new and like a film set for the place the rich and famous would arrive at in an exotic city. It has so many guards and cleaners, with the former keeping out beggars and mischief makers and one of the latter continuously sweeping the beautiful central mosaic marble floor design, so that no speck of dust or foot print will mar it. We purchased out tickets to Casablanca for tomorrow; our last destination and the place we would fly home from on Friday. It all felt very momentous and inevitable.

We ate lunch on a bench near the theatre and then walked back towards the medina. Dear Marrakesh provided two more enormous gardens for us to stroll through, with one having names like ‘Avenue of Olives’ in it. It also had roses in flower, fountains, paths, a myriad of trees and a children’s area with two gigantic grey concrete dinosaurs amongst the play things. This section was named ‘Children’s Space’. It was well frequented by families and young people who we guessed were students from the nearby Hassan II High School. There was definitely a French influence at work here, with the order, care and opportunity for romance.

Our last garden for the day was the Cyber Park, which is absolutely huge and provided a long respite from walking beside roads. The trees here are very old, which seemed strange, given the very modern name. At the end of the gardens there is a building that seemed to be an internet café, and outside, scattered around the gardens, there are free internet stations. It was quite a remarkable idea, but a very handy one in a city with a lot of poor people who would not have home computers. The garden was full of people walking, sitting, reading, relaxing or logging on to their favourite sites.

By the time we reached the square, we realised that we may not be able to fulfil our last shopping requirements as well as visit a palace and a museum house. Really, it didn’t matter since we had had an enjoyable time and the pace in Marrakech was a slow one. We had received a last minute request from our daughter to buy a belly dancing belt if not expensive, and so we set off in pursuit of one. The belly dancing shop, not for tourists but the one regularly frequented by the women of Marrakesh, according to the proprietors, was awash with gaudy colours and dangling coins. There were two salesmen, both in their sixties. They stood in their very proper western overcoats amongst their stock of see through, seductive and saucy bra tops, pants and skirts and scarves covered in coins. I couldn’t imagine a modest Moroccan woman asking to try on the red bra top with the gold tassels dangling from the centre of the cups, along with the skin tight skirt with the coins. We explained that we just wanted something cheap for a party costume, a concept obviously very foreign to these gentlemen, who were used to providing quality items for use in the privacy of the home. Eventually they produced a range of silver coin covered chiffon scarves and one demonstrated for me how to use it, wiggling his hips in a convincing manner. At this point, Keith revealed that Holly had definitely requested either gold or silver, but he couldn’t remember which! We went back to the hotel to check her email, which was just as well, since she wanted gold coins. We found a similar black chiffon scarf with gold coins on it in another shop, but I did feel bad that we had not returned to our two kind and helpful gentlemen, since maybe they had one after all.

Next I wanted some small items, and we just pottered in and out of shops, looking at all the lovely treasures and eventually making our purchases. It was dusk already, and with Keith’s cough getting worse as the cold increased, we decided to buy another fried jaffle for tea, to eat it in the square, and to have an early night. A new act had arrived, but we did not see how the hedgehog, the hamster and the pigeon, nibbling on lettuce and apparently not a bit fazed by being on the ground in a square thronging with noise and people, were going to make money for their master. All the other acts were on in full force, with the faces of the crowd showing their interest and enjoyment.

Keith left me at the hotel to type while he went to the internet café. I joined him after a while to ring Kerry’s family in England, since we were still on the same side of the world. I had the loveliest chat with Maureen, and know that Rohan is joining a very loving and inclusive family. On the way back by myself, I wondered at the collection of men who lean against walls in the narrow alley that leads to our hotel. There would be about fourteen of them, some singly and others in groups. Since some are always there, they must have some role, perhaps to suggest a hotel to people passing by. They provided a sense of security for me, walking out in the dark alone, as they posed in never ending nonchalance in a scene that waited to be painted.

A gate in the city wall