Into the Valley of Ourika Rode the Two Scots.

Our planned trip for today was to head south into Berber country and hike up the Ourika valley to the waterfalls. A look out our window in the morning showed there had been a significant snowfall in the mountains overnight so we packed a selection of clothing just in case the temperature took a nose dive. Our driver picked us up after breakfast and we drove south with several stops to take photos of the changing landscape. Rachid spoke fairly good English and we stumbled along in a mixture of two languages where necessary. Our first stop was at a traditional Berber home where we were given a guided tour by the owner. These encounters always feel slightly jarring. I know it is a welcome source of income for some villagers but it feels very intrusive to be walking into a stranger's bedroom and encouraged to photograph his wife in the kitchen. To make matters worse, Rachid told us that the family had lost both grandparents and an infant child in the last great flood in the valley.
A few steps across the road was a Women's Cooperative making and selling argan oil products. We were shown the women at work and the different stages of production. The women were very keen to see my henna-ed hands and to show off their own. The Berber women cover their whole palm in henna rather than in patterns. Of course there was a gift shop where profits went to support the women working there to maintain themselves and their children.
In Setti Fatma Rachid introduced us to our guide, Hassan, who would take us up the mountain to see the seven waterfalls. Hassan had lived and worked in the valley all his life and had been a guide for over twenty years so we were in experienced hands. We had survived a climb up Montsegur in France several years ago so we joked that this trek would be a dawdle! Oh how the prideful fall! After the first twenty minutes Hassan was almost pulling me up! He was being very polite and helpful, offering his hand whenever he felt I needed extra support although I think I would have preferred to have been left with both hands free to negotiate the boulder-sized steps.
When we arrived at the second waterfall we took a much needed rest. I looked around at the other exhausted tourists and a few Moroccans. I had on my sturdy walking boots, loose trousers and top while the Moroccan women were in their djelabas and babouche slippers! I felt very useless!
After a short rest and some photographs we were ready to move on. Round the corner of the small cafe at this level, Hassan pointed to the next section of the journey.'Now we have to do some climbing' he said without a hint of humour! In front of me was a solid wall with a ladder tied to it! I looked around hopefully for a path and, being unsuccessful I looked at Hassan in disbelief and squeaked, 'Up the...ladder?' Yes, we have to climb' was the straightfaced reply. The voice in my head said, extremely loudly. 'Fuck. This!' The voice that actually came out of my mouth sadly admitted to Hassan that I would not be going up any ladder. It was tied to a freaking rock! I offer no apologies for putting life and limb before any great photos and stories that would have ensued had I reached the top waterfall.
Even in late October it is a busy site and there were several people jams on the way down. There isn't always a lot of room for people to pass but we made it down safely. There is even a tourist shop on the way, several in fact although Hassan was obviously affiliated to only one. It was the only shop we were stopped at and shown the different wares.
Back at the riad now and I am not sure full function will ever return to my weary legs...

Souk - a - dee- doo- dah!

Today we ventured into the heart of Marrakech for a visit to the souks and various museums. Most of the literature on the souks spake of catastrophes such as getting lost, getting ripped off and disappearing in an unknown alleyway but as a fearless woman who tends to take no prisoners in an altercation I was not fazed by such possibilities.  Besides, I had Sean to protect me!

I can imagine that in the 1960s when such exotic places were only seen on the pages of the inestimable National Geographic magazine the souks of Marrakech were completely otherworldly and I certainly don't mean to detract from their exoticism. It IS different. It is NOT Kansas, Toto. However, it is not completely beyond the ken of Westerners. Shopkeepers everywhere want to make a sale and if they can do so by claiming to have drunk whiskey in their youth when they learn you are from Scotland then so be it. It is up to the tourist to be up for the challenge of having a conversation and moving on, having a conversation and being persuaded to buy something, or ignoring the vendor and carrying on with their touristy day. I believe I fall into the first category. I am curious enough to want to talk to people, even on a superficial level and move on without buying into the idea that I suddenly owe the other person something (my money). However, I understand that the longer that vendor is in conversation with me he (it is usually a 'he' but not exclusively) is not making a sale and so I move on quickly having had the pleasure of some superficial, but entertaining (hopefully for both of us), human contact.

The souks are something to see. If you have a yen for travel and to see exciting places then I hope you make it to Marrakech someday. The dried fruit stall with a tiny square gap in the middle where the vendor stood surrounded by his wares, the lantern shop where the lanterns were hung in the shape of a door leading into an Aladdin's cave of lantern loveliness, the carts pulled by donkeys, the mopeds driven by middle-aged women in veils, the cats- there is a ginger tomcat in Marrakech that is completely shagged out after fathering half the cat population - these are some of the wonders of the souks. Turn left here, right there, suddenly you have no idea where you are. But, as Sean pointed out, the sky was still above us and the cobbles were beneath our feet. 

There is much to be taken in by - scarves, bags, slippers, clothing, ironwork, saddles, candles - to name a few. Take your pick. Stop to take a closer look. Don't stop to take a closer look. Just remember if you stop someone WILL try to sell you something at an over-inflated price. If you think it is a fair price, pay it. If you want some entertainment and to get your chosen item at a better price, barter. You will walk away from the experience with memories you won't forget!

I had only one item in mind when I entered the souks - and it is a boundary you cross from the world outside the souks to the world inside. I wanted a Kaftan. I had been looking for a ball gown for the annual 'Oil Baron's Ball' and I thought I would go for the more exotic item in Marrakech. It took a lot of wrong turns and quite a few stumbles down quirky alleyways but we eventually found a shop. About twenty seconds of standing still in the relative vicinity of the shop was all it took for the owner to zone in. 'Hello, bonjour, where you from? You English?'' 'I'm from Scotland.' Ah! I am from Irish!' (Yeah,  right!) 'Come in, Princess.' (to Sean) 'She is your Princess, She is beautiful. You are lucky man' It was suddenly his mission in life to find me the perfect Kaftan. I was a Princess after all!

Before I could even spell the word K.A.F.T.A.N. I was be-robed! I have been undressed by men before but this may have been the first time one actually dressed me! Slightly disconcerting! 'Try this colour.' 'What about this colour?' 'This one.' 'That one.' 'Doesn't your Princess look beautiful, sir?' He knew his trade. But he also knew that I knew what I wanted and - more importantly - what I didn't want. I told him where I would wear it. No, I didn't want velvet. I told him the colours I liked. Red will NOT go with my hair on any planet! It was a negotiation. An extremely entertaining negotiation for both of us, I believe. 

In the end I made my decision and the real negotiation began. The price. He began with an outrageous number. I countered with an equally outrageous number. He was sad. I was heartbroken. Different numbers were thrown in the mix. The numbers became closer together. Closer together at his end of the negotiation, not mine. I have only done this once. He makes a living at it! I spent more than I wanted to but I had a great time. He got a great price for his kaftan. We hugged. Yes, we actually embraced and kissed cheeks twice! He said he liked me so he had given me the best price possible. I said I liked his so I had paid over the odds. He gave Sean a 'free' scarf. We left happy. I had a unique dress for the Ball. He had my money. Time to head home. Now, how the hell do I get out of the souk?

Kasbah Al Mendili, Marrakech.

We had almost decided to go to Barcelona and Valencia for this year's holiday when Marrakech made a late appearance in the running and completed an admirable sprint finish to be Destination 2013. Choosing the hotel was equally as difficult and just when we thought we had made our decision Al Mendili popped up on the radar. I can't possibly judge it against the 'also rans' but I am certainly glad we came here.
We are staying in the Chaar el Assel room overlooking the Atlas Mountains. It's name means Honeymoon but we only learned that when we arrived!
http://www.almendili.com/en/elassel.php
This link is a photo of the room and I am sitting in that comfy chair right at this minute!
There are only 10 rooms in the hotel, or riad as they are called here. It is run by a delightful French couple, Catherine and Alain who are wonderful, caring hosts. A car picked us up from the airport and we were welcomed at the riad by Catherine and Alain and served with local mint tea and a wet towel to freshen up. Through halting French and English we introduced ourselves and were shown to our suite.
Dinner was served on the rooftop terrace with the stars twinkling overhead and Venus shining brightly over Marrakech in the distance. Meals here are slightly unusual as there is no menu. The waiter serves what the chef prepares which may be disconcerting for some but Catherine had asked if we had any allergies or dislikes and the kitchen would have been informed if there was an alternative required. We are pretty much omnivores and I have to say, the food is delicious. To accompany the meal we asked the waiter to recommend a local vin gris, a specialty of Morocco and Algiers. And very nice it was, too!
This morning we asked for breakfast to be served on our private terrace overlooking the Atlas mountains. Basically, it seems you can eat wherever you want if you give the staff notice in advance and there is no extra charge. Lunch was eaten by the pool where we had spent most of the morning after a stroll round the garden. Catherine arranged for a taxi to collect us after lunch to go into the Medina, the central part of the city.
Our driver was very friendly and spoke French clearly and slowly so I could understand. He dropped us off near the Koutoubia mosque which we wandered around (not allowed in on account of being non Muslim and, in my case, non male). There are some nicely laid out gardens at the back of the mosque where we tried to find some shade from the 30 degree heat.
The central square, Djemaa el Fna, is nearby. Its name, according to my guide book means 'Place of the Dead or Place of the Apocalypse. Not encouraging! It is a bustling place with market stalls, beggars, snake charmers and street vendors of all kinds. I got grabbed by a henna tattooist who had henna on my hand even as I was saying 'la, shukran' (no, thank-you)! I managed to get away! Not all tourists are so efficient at avoiding the aggressive sales pitches. As we sat on the terrace of Le Grand Balcon I saw a caleche driver draw in a couple who obviously felt it was rude not to stop to speak. Very quickly he had them in his caleche and was trotting off with them!
Our driver collected us at the appointed time and place and returned us to the riad.  It is now time for a cocktail methinks.

Toilet Skills.

One doesn't normally talk about toilets and such activities in polite company but I feel this post will be helpful for those who, like me, are toiletly challenged. Of course I learned at a young age how to use a toilet. You know the type. Basic. Sit. Bit we won't talk about. Flush. Leave with a contented smile on your face having achieved what one had set out to achieve. However, there are modern contraptions that do all that and sing and dance at the same time. I have encountered a couple of the 'Bells and Whistles' type and I have to say I have not come away from the experience entirely happy with my skills.
My first encounter, as I'm sure many people's is, was what I will call 'The French Model'. Hole in the ground, hang on (if it is an advanced model with bars on the wall) etc. The most challenging of these was in the Ngorongoro crater in Tanzania (no hand rail, terrible stench and possibility of roaming lions). All I will say is that trying to complete the toilet duty while simultaneously trying to keep clothing and camera equipment safe from unknown liquids on the 'floor' was an exercise in juggling and balancing worthy of a talented circus act.
Then there was the encounter with the modern Japanese contraption that washed and blow-dried the relevant delicate parts in the maternity home where Senior Bomber made his entry to the world. The sound effects of squeaks and gasps from the new Mum's who attempted the full laundry cycle  was entertaining until it was my turn...A similar contraption was encountered in Luxor many years later. It came with a hand book and required an advanced degree in engineering to understand its every whim.
The toilets in Schiphol airport, Amsterdam, are not fancy. They don't require particular balancing skills or specific knowledge to use successfully. However, the problem here is that they have 'automatic' flushes. That is, it flushes when it senses that the user has completed the relevant activities and has moved from the sitting position. All well and good, you might think. But are you prepared to exit said cubicle in expectation that said toilet will then flush itself? It appears very few people are prepared to accept the risk that the toilet will, in fact, complete its duties satisfactorily and in a timely manner. Hence long queues of needy travelers waiting on a free cubicle while the occupant tries to get the toilet to flush by moving nearer to the door, waving their hands in front of the sensors, pinning themselves against the walls to try to convince the toilet they are no longer in the vicinity etc. It's a nerve-wracking experience. And you have a flight to catch...

An Anatomy class from Leonardo.

The last time I was in Edinburgh during the Festival was many years ago when the Bombers were little and we took them to the zoo. Herding four younglings through the Festival crowds was a nightmare and it has always coloured my perception of August in Edinburgh and has never been repeated: Until now. Many friends have since attended events and reported their varying levels of pleasure so it was, perhaps, time to forget past experiences and jump into the Edinburgh Festival anew. The stars seemed to align in favour of this course of action when the Wing Commander announced early in August that he was throwing off the desk chains and releasing himself from the daily-bread grind for a long weekend so I quickly suggested a jaunt to The Big Smoke for some cultcha.

Having narrowed down the search for shows and events (I won’t go into how difficult it is to search for shows when the search parameters are one specific day from 2.00p.m – almost 200 pages with a dozen items on each page) and informed our host we would be imposing ourselves in the spare bedroom we were quite excited at the prospect of being adults sans offspring in large crowds of people and attending diverse events.

Our first stop was the Leonardo da Vinci exhibition at The Queen’s Gallery at the Palace of Holyroodhouse. The Gallery has an excellent policy whereby you can return as many times as you like within a year for the price of one ticket. We had previously been to the From Constantinople to Cairo exhibition on our last jaunt to the city so the wonders of Leonardo’s anatomical drawings were ours to enjoy without further cost. If you are partial to national stereotypes this is always a bonus for the Scots who are, according to the legends, partial to keeping hold of the bawbees. [trans. pennies.]

 The drawings in this exhibition are purely his anatomical studies done in the early 16^th century while he was in his fifties. He had access to thirty cadavers over the space of a couple of years and with the help of a disectionist he drew, in exact detail, every aspect of the human body. They were never published as he was too much of a perfectionist and therefore never completed them to his own satisfaction. Had they been published they would have furthered the understanding of human anatomy and medical science at that time. They were eventually added to the Royal Collection in 1690 and lay ‘undiscovered’ until the early 20^th century when they were no longer ahead of medical knowledge but remained stunning examples of Leonardo’s abilities.

In the Gallery the drawings were exhibited next to modern imaging technologies of the same body parts. The audio guide includes interviews with medical professionals who explain just how good the drawings are, technically. One professor of Medicine explained that Leonardo’s ability of stripping back each layer of tissue to expose the next, deeper level is as good as the top prosectionists today. (A prosectionist is the title given to a person who is an expert at dissection – who would have thought that disectionists exist in a hierarchy!) The resultant drawings are equal to MRI and CT scans today.

However, their beauty is not limited to their technical accuracy. They are undoubtedly works of art and we were blown away by the detail, the intricacy and brilliance of each and every drawing. If you can’t get to the exhibition, buy the book or get the app.

 https://itunes.apple.com/gb/app/leonardo-da-vinci-anatomy/id520564038?mt=8

Yes, it’s a tenner but it is well worth the price.

Inappropriate Thoughts While Driving.

Usually I only post here when I am off on my travels to various destinations but perhaps I can stretch 'travels' to mean 'driving' today. Driving gives much opportunity for inappropriate thoughts, often of the 'What the hell is that driver doing!' variety and my vocal rage at other, less able, drivers is well known to people who share confined space with me in Tuppence.* However, this morning two thoughts struck me on the way into the office, or Dead Russian Central as I like to call it, which were inappropriate on a different level.
I was stopped at traffic lights on Market Street with a cement lorry in front of me and the car in the next lane was behind a car transporter. I mused that if the car transporter had failed to adequately secure the rearmost car on the top deck and it rolled backwards and dropped onto the car beside me the driver would most likely be killed. I then thought that if the cement lorry were to open the back hatch and drop its load of cement on me, then my chances of living to tell the tale might also be limited. I was so amused by these thoughts that I actually LOLled. I would therefore like to take this opportunity to advise all my dear friends that should I die in a freak accident please be assured that I would have found it immensely funny and you are free to point and laugh at my coffin in which ever FUNeral setting I finally decide on.
The second inappropriate thought was much less interesting but nevertheless made me chuckle. Isn't it funny to see cop cars stall? No? I was amused.

*Yes, my car has a name. All cars deserve a name and if you haven't named yours yet, do so now!

If Disney made Medieval Cities...

Our visit to Carcassonne was a great success and we thoroughly enjoyed every minute of our short stay. The old fortified city of Carcassonne had fallen into disrepair long before the 19^th century renovations and credit has to go to the people who put a lot of time, effort and money into bringing it back to life. However, it is now a slightly idealised version of a medieval city with pristine slate towers which the purists dislike as inauthentic. The narrow streets are lined with an assortment of gift shops selling the usual souvenirs; some more upmarket than others, as well as bars and restaurants for the many weary tourists who, having pounded up and down the cobbles, require some refreshment.

I am not averse to an idealised recreation of history and I much prefer that the city has been preserved than to have been lost but it is not to everyone’s taste. Many people must make a reasonable living catering to the tourists who undoubtedly flock to Carcassonne and it would almost certainly be prohibitively expensive to try to redo the work done in the 19^th century. Given the almost pristine recreation of the city architecture it was slightly surprising that the local traders were not all dressed in costume! The Disneyfication, thankfully, only went so far!

While staying there we enjoyed two very different, but equally enjoyable, dinners. On the first night we booked into Le Barbicane, the hotel restaurant with a Michelin star and an award winning sommelier. The service, food and presentation were, as would be expected, great – Sean’s asparagus starter, mimicking the towers of Carcassonne, was both visually stunning and delicious. But it was Baptiste, who recently won Young Sommelier of the Year in France, who was the star of the show. I freely admit to being a wine illiterate; I drink it and if I like it I will drink it again. Baptiste not only recommended our wines but carefully explained the grape varieties and how they worked with our meal choices. He did not act superior but was undoubtedly knowledgeable and enthusiastic. It surely can’t be held against him that he looks a bit like a young Vladimir Putin!

The official entertainment was a pianist with a wide repertoire which included, bizarrely, Land of Hope and Glory. I didn’t know whether to stand and wave a flag or counter with a louder version of Flower of Scotland! However, it was the unofficial and unintended entertainment that was the real winner. There was a large party of Japanese tourists who had a very attentive guide with them whose job was to make sure all their needs and desires were quickly and efficiently catered to. At regular intervals one of the party would call him over, pass on an instruction or request and the guide would then trot down the restaurant to accost a waiter to demand the instruction or request was carried out. The restaurant staff were very professional but it was becoming more difficult as the evening went on to disguise their irritation when they saw him coming! Their discomfort and the guide’s devotion to duty were our entertainment!

The table beside ours was occupied by a young couple and their toddler daughter. This did briefly cause us some dismay as they took their seats as we perhaps anticipated some toddler tantrums as the evening progressed but she was a real gem. She was dressed like a little model out of a magazine but was incredibly well behaved. It was a delight to see her sitting ‘reading’ the menu with a very serious face and then brandish her cutlery in anticipation of her meal! I wish I could say her parents were equally delightful but, alas, I fear for their future as a couple! They spent the whole meal on their mobile phones and barely passed a word between the two of them and only sparingly paid attention to their daughter.

The following night we found, quite by chance, a little restaurant down a lane within the city walls. It was very cosy and the window onto the courtyard with ancient shutters and a vase of colourful flowers was picture postcard pretty. I lay no claims to a special aptitude in French but I can generally get by if the speaker is patient and speaks clearly and slowly so it is one of my pet peeves while abroad that often the waiter will immediately recognise we are British and bring the English menu. This was not the case in this instance. The waitress took our order, carefully explaining, in French, any dishes I didn’t fully understand. After she left the table I mentioned to Sean that I didn’t think she was a native French speaker and he agreed. Only much later when she asked Sean if he wanted mustard with his steak and I translated it for him (he speaks no French) did she seem to realise we were English speakers. She herself, it turned out, was English!

The food was plentiful and cheap although not haut cuisine. The fish soup I ordered for a starter came in a bucket sized container and was topped by half a baguette covered in melted cheese! Sean’s starter seemed to comprise half a salad garden! Each subsequent course followed very quickly until there was a real danger of a medical emergency caused by over feeding! The cheese course consisted of supermarket style mini cheeses which the waitress said we could take home in my handbag if we were unable to eat it, although I think I may have quickly caused a public health outrage had I taken the Roquefort in my bag as it was 24 degrees outside! Sean declined dessert but I chose the crepe with Chantilly cream and sugar. Within a few seconds of ordering the crepe it arrived at the table. It certainly wasn’t made in the kitchen and didn’t spend long in the microwave to heat it up after it was removed from its wrapping! The cream was the squirty sort out of a can! As I said, this wasn’t haut cuisine but the food was cheap, edible and the courtyard was picturesque. There was even live music from a Spanish guitarist with a very haunting voice. All in all two good nights.

Travelling hopefully and arriving at the end of an era.

I like travelling. Not just the getting there but all the difficult, uncomfortable, stressful bits in between leaving home all excited and flopping down exhausted at the destination. I like a challenge, whether it is rude check-in staff, slow security checks, lost luggage, missed flights or other travel incidents. It is also a great way to people-watch as fellow travellers go through the same challenges.

KLM is our default airline as Schiphol airport is one of the best and easiest to transfer through. Heathrow and Charles de Gaulle are the worst and we avoid them if at all possible. Aberdeen to Schiphol usually helps us avoid CdG disasters and Heathrow anger. Nevertheless we have a history of lost luggage and missed/almost missed flights with KLM so we have come to expect it and are prepared for most eventualities. We have never failed to reach a destination and luggage eventually catches up with us. I am always pleasantly surprised when both suitcases roll of the luggage carousel at the destination airport and if there are no problems with the hire car it is a bonus.

This time a major traffic jam in Aberdeen caused us to detour through Kingswells to get to the airport with less than an hour to spare (chaotic check-ins as most people were late for their flights due to the traffic hold up and ultra-slow security checks took up most of the spare hour) and then in Schiphol we had a short connection of 1hr 20mins to get from arrivals at D wing to departures at B wing including a long queue at passport control. No problem! The travel gods were on our side! We even had time to stop for a sandwich before boarding.

Arrival at Toulouse was one of the smoothest landings I have ever experienced and we were only 5 minutes late. Traffic in rush hour Toulouse was made worse by three accidents on the Peripherique which held us up a further hour but we arrived at our destination in the mountains just before 8pm. It was a lovely evening (20degs) and our wonderful hosts had prepared an excellent meal for us which we ate on the veranda.

We have been visiting our friends here in the midi-Pyrenees for 10 years now and we look forward to and enjoy our stay with them immensely. The travel gods/daemons favoured us this time and the journey was pleasant and stress free although a little rushed. Imagine, therefore, how our joy turned to black depression when the gods/daemons of fortune took over the evening shift and we were informed that our friends have decided to put their home on the market next week and move back to Scotland! No more mountain walks, no more Saturday morning market in Saint Girons, no more meals at La Gourmandine in Seix. My life is empty. I can’t go on…unless someone wants to buy this little corner of paradise and invite me back every year.