Recollections of Lyon

September 2015

We were looking for a suitable destination for a city break in September and settled on Lyon ahead of Ghent. There's a new Eurostar service that goes directly to Lyon and beyond to Marseilles, but timings and prices meant we ended up booking the regular 'via Paris' option. 

It was to be our first journey through the Gare de Lyon and our taxi from Nord dropped us about as far from the platform we needed as possible - obviously not his fault, it's the regular drop-off point - but the station is very big with two upper halls serving about 25 platforms. The traffic had been pretty bad, so we only really had time to grab a quick snack from a concession stand before boarding the TGV south.

Lyon itself lies at the confluence of the Rhône and the Saône, is known as France's second city and for centuries home of the silk industry. I had booked an apartment near the Opera, down a pedestrianised street, and it was early evening before we arrived. It looked unpromising at first and, owing to confusion on my part about picking up the key, we found ourselves standing outside a large wooden door with no indication how we were to get in. A quick phone call and the owner texted us the entry codes and told us where to find the key to the apartment which turned out to be on the third floor in a building without a lift. Half an hour's grumbling melted away when we saw the very comfortable interior. Having settled in we went out to look for dinner and eventually found a nice looking café bar doing organic burgers and the like which we wolfed down with a bottle of local wine.

The following morning we set of for the tourist office at the Place Bellacour, a massive square at the heart of the city, to pick up our OnlyLyon City cards. Suitably equipped we hopped on the metro up to Croix-Rousse for the market.

We spent a marvellous morning browsing every imaginable stall and snacking on calf's foot salad - surprisingly delicious. We had noticed a promising looking café, Le Clos Jouve, and headed back there for what turned out to be a delightful lunch before taking the trolley-bus back down to the centre.

We're suckers for a funicular and Lyon has two. One ferries people up to Fourviére, the steep hill of Vieux Lyon, overlooking the modern city and where the imposing Basilique de Notre Dame sits. There's a lovely square with cafés and a stunning view where we sat a while with the peaceful atmosphere being complemented by the old accordion player at the gate, before visiting the cathedral itself followed by the nearby museum of religious art, which is much smaller than it makes out.

Back down near the riverside the narrow streets of the old town have many attractions, including the small but fascinating puppet museum, telling (among others) the story of Guignol, the local alternative to the Commedia dell'arte's Pulchinelle (Punch in England), created by an out of work silk weaver in 1808. After this we sat for a coffee and cake outside a particularly good patisserie. We enjoyed the local sweet delicacy; a praline tart, very pink and very sweet. And a major attraction for the local sparrows!

We jumped on a bus back home before setting out for dinner at the exquisite Restaurant La Cuisine just round the corner.

Day two in Lyon started with a trip to what turned out to be a gourmet food market at Les Halles - Paul Bocuse. Quite intimidating at first, we stopped for a beer before heading forth to buy ingredients for a magnificent birthday dinner; charcuterie, paté de fois gras, chicken, truffles, hand-made pasta and some local cheeses followed by some delightful little cakes.

Detail of the fountain at Place des Terreaux

The rest of the day was a museum day, starting with the Musée des Beaux Arts which fronts the Place des Terreaux with its magnificent fountain by Frédéric Bartholdi. The museum itself surrounds a cool garden courtyard and is full of antiquities and fine art. This happy couple of hours was followed by the even more brilliant Musée de l'Imprimerie. I'm fascinated by printmaking and indulge in some of the practices myself, so this was especially interesting for me but is worth anyone's while visiting, covering as it does the history of printmaking around the world as well as its special focus on Lyon.

Our dinner was as fabulous as it promised and we collapsed, bloated, into bed.

Our last day in Lyon was again a day of museums, topped off with the perfect end to a few days in the culinary capital of France.
First stop was the Musée des Tissus - textiles - not usually my cup of tea but very well curated with some exquisite fabrics and costumes. The attached decorative arts museum is in the manner of a furnished house through the ages, which we both loved despite the not so subtle attentions of the security guard following us around the upper floors. After lunch at the very friendly Café Marmot we grabbed a tram down to the Musée des Confluences.

This is just brilliant. A modern combination of history, science and natural history museums with gallery and performance spaces thrown in, in an ultra modern, statement building right on the confluence of the two rivers. This is a "must see" for anyone visiting Lyon.

Unfortunately, we were by now too tired to visit the currently difficult to get to La Sucrière, a modern art space created in an old sugar warehouse - part of the ongoing regeneration of the former industrial heart of the city. It was also the start of the Lyon Biennale so it was a double pity to miss it but neither of us could face the mile or so walk from the nearest transport stop and it was also getting late.

Dinner that night was at the Bouchon Le Jura, a hyper traditional restaurant offering Lyonnaise classics beautifully cooked. Luckily we got there early enough to secure a table, as we watched many others turned away, and had a lovely evening.



The next day we were up early to catch the bus back to the station, which we found eventually, hidden behind a building site. Otherwise, Lyon's transport system cannot be faulted - everything links up and one ticket covers all metro, trams, buses (regular and trolley), and funiculars. A couple of hours later we traversed Paris using the RER this time and found it much more convenient than getting a taxi. We were home by teatime.

Lyon is a lovely city and we're hopeful we will visit again, perhaps as part of a wider holiday to the Swiss Alps or en route to the Riviera, but we will go back if we can.


Carbon saved: 100kg

Casablanca part two: "...and back"

Casablanca is a huge, sprawling city of seven million souls. It's very busy and a bit grubby and there are really only two reasons for the tourist to visit; if you have an abiding interest in mosques, or to pay homage to the film (as I said at the start, the greatest film ever made, no argument). Another planning oversight means we've arrived on a Friday so the mosque is out - not open for tours on the holy day - which is a shame for us but we're only really here for Rick's anyway.

Here's looking at you, kid

Our hotel was on the edge of the old medina, but this is not Tangier and it's not that attractive. We find our way through it and along the main road to Rick's but we're the best part of an hour early. There's a square nearby with a park at its centre and a few cafés and we wander over an take a seat. It's not the usual tourist area, just an everyday café and we drink mint tea and watch the world go by. All sorts of people pass, all sorts of garb and modes of transport. Three young lads on a single moped nearly get taken out by a woman driving and texting but they make the gap before it closes.
Next door is a carpenter's shop and he arrives on scooter with the panels for a set of doors he's making. It's a lovely interlude and quite an interesting insight into life in Morocco's second city but Rick's is about to open and we need to be there on time.




Rick's Café Americain, the establishment at the heart of the film was obviously not a real place and the Rick's we are standing outside was only opened in 2004. It's heavy wooden doors open and we step in and secure a table for dinner, possibly one of the last available judging by how full it gets later. The interior is designed to be a faithful evocation of the movie version and it looks fantastic. I had feared it would be some awful pastiche but it's wonderful, just as you might imagine it would have evolved into over the intervening years, even in the hands of Señor Ferrari. The food is pretty good and the service is spot on, we have a wonderful evening.

Day 5: Casablanca to Algeciras

Back to Tangier

We have a fairly relaxed morning, the train back to Tangier isn't until after 11am so we can have a leisurely breakfast before checking out and getting another rickety red cab back to the station. Our driver this time is quite chatty and we discuss Morocco, the king, society and all the building work going on before he drops us off. Our train's already at the platform but we have time to get a sandwich to have later for lunch from a small concession stand before boarding. This time our co-occupants are an uptight looking French woman and a trio of young men who have the air of being 'up to something'. They spend half the journey to-ing and fro-ing and have a large wad of cash but they're no trouble and the journey is otherwise uneventful and we roll into Tangier 15 minutes late. The walk from the train to the station hasn't got any shorter and we need to go straight to the port to catch the ferry back to Tarifa so another taxi it is.

I can't help thinking that Tangier Port needs to start sorting its act out if it's to attract more cruise ships. Of course, the passport stamping requirements aren't their fault - a yellow form to fill in this time before a passport stamp to confirm we're leaving - but the boarding process could be streamlined and an escalator or two wouldn't hurt. There's a delay boarding as a nervous coach is coaxed on to the ferry and further delay when on board before we get under way at least half an hour behind schedule and, having boarded in daylight, it's now dark. I'm worried by now that we'll get stranded in Tarifa or get to the hotel in Algeciras after midnight, and the passport queue at the arrivals hall doesn't help matters. We also need Euros or we're walking the mile or so to the hotel. In the end, everything is fine; the bus is there, there's plenty of room and we get back to Algeciras in good order, there's an ATM and we get a cab to the hotel where there appears to be a dinner dance happening. Even better, the buffet restaurant is still open and we inhale a meal before turning in. Actually, just because our room has a balcony, we have a quick cuppa outside before bed.

Day 6: Algeciras to Madrid

The "rainforest" at the heart of Madrid's railway station

Up early for breakfast, we check out and get another cab back to the station. Our train is already there but the x-ray machine is not ready and it is ten minutes before we can board. This service takes us back through the Sierra Nevada, this time by a more direct route, and we arrive in good order at Madrid Atocha station which is Massive; there's a rainforest in the hall (with signs saying 'please don't abandon your turtles here'). We finally work out that we need to go up to the third floor to get out and across the car park to the chaotic three-lane taxi rank where we secure a cab, whiz round the ring road to the Puerta Toledo and are dropped outside Hotel Ganivet for our 3-night stay in the capital.

We like to go to a match if we can when visiting foreign cities and this time Atlético Madrid are at home. The stadium isn't far from the hotel so we decide to grab some lunch before wandering down to see if we can get a ticket for the match tonight. There are a couple of likely places around the Puerta Toledo and we sit down outside one, order a beer and a burger and relax. The family at the table next to us turn out to be English, and football fans also going to the match. In regular life they support Norwich City and we have a pleasant chat about football and our respective clubs before we head off to secure our tickets.

Vincente Calderón stadium is quite impressive and when we return the streets around it are thronged with fans from long before kick-off. We buy a packet of dried beans of some sort and some jelly sweets which turn out to be shaped like fingers. I don't know why, but sunflower seeds are de rigeur at a lot of foreign grounds and there are large piles of discarded shells under some of the seats when we leave. The match itself is very entertaining with Atlético running out comfortable winners despite a late and dubious penalty award to Valencia.

Day 7: In Madrid

First order of the day, after breakfast (standard hotel fare) is to get to the Prado before the queues get too long. Unprepossessing from the outside, the Museo Nacional del Prado is a treasure trove of the most wonderful works of art and well worth the €14 entry and more. Incidentally there's a ticket + guide book offer for €23 - take it; the guide book in question is a hefty tome, on sale in the shop for €19.50. It's hard to pick a highlight, Albrecht Durer's famous self-portrait is there, as well as the 'other' Mona Lisa. There's The Garden of Earthly Delights (Bosch), Fra Angelico's Annunciation, Rubens' Three Graces, and countless other brilliant and famous works. But the two that draw the most crowds, and for good reason, are Goya's 3rd May 1808 in Madrid and the famous and brilliant Velasquez portrait of Felipe IV's family; Las Meninas. We do our best and see most of what's on offer before we leave to get some lunch.

We decide to head for the Plaza Mayor, as recommended by our hotel clerk, but there ore no direct buses and the man in the information kiosk suggests it would be easier to walk the half mile or so. Madrid has buses by the thousand but they don't appear to go anywhere useful from any one starting point. We're tired and hungry and the walk is not much fun and we get there only to find it's subject to building work and lots of it. Eventually we choose to sit outside the Museo de Jamon for our lunch; a cold meat platter and pork chop/ham and chips. The building work that we thought was largely on the other side of the square starts in earnest right next to us spoiling any tranquillity we may have been enjoying and forcing us to flee, after paying, back to our hotel for a siesta.

We've booked an evening at a flamenco club, with dinner included, on the other side of town and thankfully the nearest metro line goes straight there, give or take a short walk. Doors don't open until 9:30pm with the show starting half an hour later. Madridians do not seem to eat before 9pm at the earliest and it's difficult to get used to but here we are, eager and hungry at Tablao Flamenco La Quimera and we're shown to a table right by the stage, front and centre. The food is simple but welcome and there's a glass of wine included for good measure. The show itself is extraordinary. This is not some touristy, night club version, but the genuine flamenco experience; three dancers, a guitarist and cantor entertain us for nearly two hours (with a break) with the most fabulous display of flamenco dancing, hot and sweaty. It's over and we're down in a tube station at midnight for the ride home.

Day 8: In Madrid

Last day in Madrid and we decide to take the tourist bus, eventually finding the nearest stop around the corner from the hotel. It's not a bad way to see the city but the weather's changeable so the roof remains closed for the morning, and some of the headphone sockets don't work. The gallery we want to see is closed on Tuesdays so we go back round to the royal palace. We grab a quick beer before going in but it's not as quick as we'd hoped and the day is turning out a lot colder than we'd expected. The palace itself is fronted by a large parade ground with stunning views over the landscape to the south, opposite this is the cathedral (because we wouldn't want the little royal dears to have to go far to church, would we?). Anyway, the palace itself shows off royal wealth and privilege in all it's hideous glory; chock full of sumptuous décor and furnishings in this still "working" palace but no photos allowed. The cathedral opposite is quite nice but nothing special.

There's another art collection in town and we decide to visit, grabbing a quick coffee and apple tart in its café before we start. It's the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza a once private collection of the most stunning art. We start with the temporary exhibit of Edvard Munch works themed by mood, which is an eye-opener, and then head for the main collection. We're about half way round and have to stop to take stock of what we've seen. The collection is so vibrant, it's astounding the breadth and quality of the work on show from El Greco and Caravaggio through Van Gogh and Degas to Matisse, Chagall, Rodin, Picasso all the way to Rothko and beyond. We are really glad we made the effort.



We go to catch a tour bus back round to the hotel area but it's approaching 6pm and they're scaling back operations so we have to wait about half an hour in the now very cold evening for a bus that's still working. We get back at about 7pm. A quick freshen up before we go out again for dinner. We've got a very early train to catch so we decide to eat early and locally at the Taberna Oliveros. What a joy this was, even though we nearly died of a chick pea overdose. It's a charming place, all tiles and quirky features with an attentive owner who appreciated our willingness to try the hearty local food, nearly killing us with kindness and dessert. A great finale to our time in the Spanish capital.

Day 9: Madrid to Paris

5:10am and the station is virtually deserted. The man at the x-ray machine won't start it up until quarter past so we wait. The train isn't until 6:05 but I'm habitually early, allowing time for every potential setback. Our train gets to Barcelona at 8:40 and it's full of businessmen even though it seems a strange commute, "Pride" is showing again and we're halfway there before the sun pokes its head above the horizon.

Breakfast at Barcelona Sants before we get the TGV back to Paris. This time we travel the coast in daylight and the promised flamingos are duly sighted, standing round in clumps in the Etang de la Palme and other coastal waters. Heading north from Montpellier, the weather turns wetter until we near Paris and much of the journey is spent dozing after such an early start to the day.

Our hotel for the night is 200m from Gare de Lyon and we find it quite easily. It's not a bad room but the whole place could do with a spruce up. We need to find somewhere for dinner and the nearby A La Biche Au Bois looks a likely place and it turns out to be a gem, and a very popular one too. We were very nearly turned away but they managed to find us a table for what was a great meal, topped off with a magnificent cheeseboard; oh, that Brie! Suitably stuffed, we waddle back to the hotel. Thankfully I've had the foresight not to book an early train.

Day 10: Home

Not much more for me to add. A croissant and coffee at a local café, the RER back to the Gare du Nord avoiding the large pile of vomit in the carriage, sitting in the always uncomfortable Eurostar terminal waiting for a slightly delayed train, habitual pasty at Waterloo before a better than usual SWT train to Fratton.
Home from one of our better holidays.


Carbon saved: 270kg

October 2015

Casablanca part one: "There..."

Every so often I'm to be found browsing seat61.com wondering where we can reach by train and how easily it can be done, or perhaps just dreaming of the day we can just take off and travel the world. During one of these reveries I noticed it was quite easy to get to Morocco in a couple of days, especially with the new Paris-Barcelona TGV service. So a plan was hatched to go to Casablanca, just because we could, to pay homage to the greatest film ever made (and I will brook no argument on this). Originally we thought of spending about a week in Morocco but in the end decided that passing Madrid twice without stopping was folly, so the journey was split between the two (as is this account).

October 2015

Day 1: Fratton to Barcelona

We get to Paris almost on autopilot these days; the trundle down the road to Fratton station, join the bleary-eyed commuters into Waterloo, then crowded Bakerloo and Victoria line trains to St Pancras International. Standard class on the Eurostar is actually about the most cramped train we use, but the journey is usually smooth and straightforward. This time it stops at both Ebbsfleet and Ashford, which is new for us, but arrives more or less on time in Paris Nord.

We need to get to Gare de Lyon for the TGV to Barcelona. Last time we were in this situation, going to Lyon, we got a taxi but the Paris traffic rendered it slow and expensive. On the return leg we had discovered the RER ligne D, a direct link between the two stations pausing only at Chatelet Les Halles. So we arrive at the station €15 richer and in plenty of time for lunch before boarding.

The new high speed link between Paris and Barcelona is a joint SNCF/Renfe enterprise and there's a moment's consternation as the guard takes our tickets away with him but he eventually manages to explain he has a French machine and ours are Spanish tickets. We are thus settled in our very comfortable first class seats with a glass of wine, speeding south on what should be a six hour journey to the Catalan capital.

The scenery through France south of Paris can be spectacular, particularly along the coast, but it's October and just past Montpellier the train is delayed so we pass through the region in the evening gloom. After enjoying a spectacular sunset over the distant Pyrenees, we finally arrive at Barcelona Sants over 20 minutes late and in the dark.

This is where I have to admit to a planning oversight. When booking the hotel for our overnight stay I looked at a map, found a large railway station and searched for nearby hotels. What I didn't realise was that the lines going into Barcelona Sants, the main station, are largely underground and thus don't show up clearly on maps, unlike the large and apparently barely used Estacio de Franca near the waterfront and this is where I found our hotel and the restaurant I'd booked in advance.

Luckily there's a suburban train between the two stations.
Unfortunately our TGV was late and we missed it.

So the €15 saved in Paris was spent in Barcelona and we arrived at out hotel just in time to rush to the restaurant next door and beg them to hold our reservation for 5 minutes while we checked in and dumped our cases.

Thankfully the maitre d' was obliging and we collapsed in to our chairs at the table once occupied by Lauren Bacall and enjoyed a fantastic meal of local charcuterie, salt cod salad, proper dark and earthy paella, sausage and beans and a welcome glass or two of cava. I finished off with a grappa sorbet, which was a very interesting experience and set me up nicely for a good night's sleep.

We staggered back to the hotel, all of twenty yards, and collapsed into our spacious bed, not forgetting to set the alarm for 6.30 the following morning.

Day 2: Barcelona to Tangier

If you have an intercity ticket in Spain you get a free suburban train connection if you need it. With this in mind we rock up at Estacio de Franca at 7am ready to catch one of the several trains that will take us back to Barcelona Sants in time for our 8.30 departure. The station is a cavernous shell with ten platforms, no concession stands, and no trains yet either. Ours should be here by now but it's not. Eventually, just as we're wondering whether to get another taxi, just to be on the safe side, a train rolls in to the station and sits at the platform we're expecting ours to be. But there's no announcement and the boards don't change. There are by now about twenty people waiting for this train, half of them decide this must be it and set off to board. We're among those who wait - we can't afford to be wrong and end up in Girona. Finally a guard appears and assures us that this is the train we want and we arrive at Sants with enough time still for breakfast.

Since the Madrid bombings, Spanish stations x-ray all baggage for intercity trains, so there's a queue for the machine and another for the ticket check-in desk but we're soon off to Antequera on the Malaga train with what turns out to be the FC Barcelona handball team heading for a match in Cordoba (which they win comfortably). Spanish turista class is more comfortable than second class in the UK, "Pride" is playing on the little tv screens above our heads but we're crossing an unfamiliar landscape and it's fascinating. By the end of the day I must have seen a billion olive trees!

Antequera Sant Ana is a new out of town station, built we suspect as an interchange for the high speed lines. We get off and learn that our connection to Algeciras is delayed so there's not much to do but sit in the pleasant autumn sunshine looking out on yet another massive olive grove and wait out the extra 15 minutes. We left Barcelona 1000km and over five hours ago and it's going to take another three hours to finish the 150km to Algeciras as we spend the next two climbing high into the Sierra Nevada behind an engine whose chugging demeanour would be so much more fitting were it a steam loco. The scenery is breathtaking however and we're loving it.

Arriving in Algeciras, our first concern is to exchange our emailed ferry booking into an actual ticket. It's a short walk to the ferry port and we have no trouble achieving our goal and settle down in the café with a beer and a sandwich to wait for the shuttle bus to Tarifa. We've decided to cross the straits this way because the fast cat from Tarifa goes directly into Tangier, whereas the ferries from Algeciras tend to go to Tangier Med, the commercial port some 50km out of town. It's also supposed to be more romantic but the crossing's not till 9pm and it's still October so it's dark by the time we leave.

Crossing to Morocco is an administrative palaver. X-ray and passport check in the port, police form and passport stamp on the boat, an official checks your passport as you get off the boat see you have indeed got it stamped, another x-ray and passport check in the terminal before you are released into the Moroccan night. There are also young men offering help with every eventuality, for a price not mentioned in advance. We scurry out towards the gate, resolutely refusing all offers of help with our bags, our currency or our transport arrangements. Our hotel is a small riad in the medina, quite close to the port - it looks easily walkable but it's dark and unfamiliar and I can't make out exactly where we are on the map. A taxi pulls up on the off chance and says he will take us for €5 so we give in and go with him. Sadly he approaches the place from the wrong direction and can only drop us around 50m short of our destination. It's now about 10pm. Getting more and more spooked we drag our frighteningly noisy cases up the narrow cobbled street, though strange sounds and smells, till we spy a sign that says "Dar Jameel". Of course, it's not a conventional hotel with a brightly lit porch and a doorman; it's down an alleyway, there's a small sign and a heavy wooden door. We knock. After what seems like an eternity a very friendly young man answers and ushers us in, we confirm who we are and are offered mint tea and a seat on a very comfortable divan.

Our room is on the top floor and there's no lift, so one final effort awaits before we can reach the sanctuary of the bed. But we've made it - Fratton to Tangier overland in two days.

Day 3: In Tangier

Awoken by the call to prayer from the nearby mosque, day three dawns along with the re-realisation that we're on a different continent. Looking out of the window the scene is as benign today as it was scary last night and we're excited to go exploring. The breakfast room is just outside our bedroom and we help ourselves to juice and coffee. I have a yoghurt too. We are then brought rolls, flatbreads, olives and cream cheese along with croissants and jam; a real mix of cuisines.

We need cash and the nearest ATMs are in the Grand Socco (square) which we are assured is not far and easy to find. The route takes us past the mosque and along what turns out to be a fairly major street through the medina. "Mr Haggler" cheerily invites us into his shop but we politely decline and carry on, through the Petit Socco, until we spy an ATM. It turns out to be empty but there's another across the square and we stock up with Dirhams and head towards the Casbah.

We find our way eventually, our map's not great and we end up taking a long way round, there's a lovely looking café and we stop for mint tea under a tree. Various tour parties pass through and there's a small group of young men ever willing to help. They're happy to leave us alone while it looks like we're not going anywhere, but as we start to move off one of them is at our shoulder offering to guide us to the museum. He's not easily put off and he's still with us offering titbits of information as we go along. We give in and Karim takes us on a tour of the sights of the Casbah finishing up at the door to the museum. He's very personable and speaks a number of languages - he has marketable skills - but wants an absurd fee for his efforts. We stand firm and he accepts a more reasonable amount and we part.

The museum is a cool oasis, and although the exhibits are not shown off to their best effect, it's interesting. There's a garden and we sit a while before moving on.

On leaving the Casbah we are approached by another would be guide and it takes quite an effort to shake him off but we are eventually left to wander the streets on our own. Fetching up again at the Petit Socco we stop for mint tea and cake. Sitting outside to watch the world go by leaves us open to approaches from the various hawkers plying their wares but it's all very convivial and they're politely rebuffed and anyway are easily distracted by the groups of tourists that pass regularly from the German cruise ship in port today.

There's a modern art museum not too far away and we head off. The route takes us through a flea market and the stalls get increasingly "jumble-y" as we make our way up the hill. The gallery turns out to be closed though so we decided to head down towards the beach and to lunch. We pass, fascinated, through the more food oriented end of the market and stop at a small restaurant near the beach for cous cous and tagine. It's strangely empty for a place close to the seafront and the waiter is clearly not used to tourists, but the food is tasty and filling. I drop my camera on the floor and it throws a hissy fit, refusing to work until we get home again. Which is as annoying as you can imagine as I'm left with my phone for remaining pictures.

There's massive development going on at the seafront; they're building a new port to attract more cruise ships and it's eaten up half the beach. A lot of the beach-side bars and clubs have also closed and there's a definite 'end of season' feel about the place. Still, we decide to head for the sand anyway and find our way down from the promenade.

And there sat Layla the camel. Terrific excitement as we took turn to ride, chatting with her handler whose brother lives in Rotherham of all places. After which it was high time for a siesta and we strolled back to Dar Jameel.

We had noticed a nice looking restaurant round the corner and decided we'd eat there. A good choice; we had a great meal. Nearby we passed a small workshop three-quarters full of loom and stopped to look. The proprietor, or at least the chap left to watch over it, scurried over and we started chatting. His English was particularly good and we noticed a hint of an unusual accent, not surprising as it turned out he'd spent 19 years in Glasgow! Hand woven scarf duly purchased, we retired to bed for an early start to Casablanca in the morning.

Day 4: Tangier to Casablanca

Tangier station is a curious affair. It's a long way from the building to the platforms past ornamental gardens and the train isn't necessarily parked as near to the end as it could be. First class tickets on ONCF are pretty cheap and they afford you at least the luxury of air-conditioning. The whole system is getting upgraded, there's a high-speed line being built, but the current stock is reminiscent of 1980s British Rail - the lavatory is a toilet bowl over a hole in the floor for instance.

First class in Morocco is routinely the carriage at the back of the train so we find our compartment quite easily and settle in for the long journey south. Travelling through the Moroccan countryside is pretty eye-opening. For a start, it's much greener and more fertile than we imagined, most of the land we travelled alongside was being farmed - lots of small strips chequer-boarding the land we passed were being ploughed, either by tractor or oxen, ready for the winter growing season. It's a beautiful country. Cattle egrets (I think that's what they were) followed the livestock and the plough and small herds of sheep and goats, and cows, dotted the terrain feeding on the remains of the harvest helping to clear the land for the next crop.

Alongside this bucolic idyll, building work was going on everywhere and not just the new rail line, which incidentally was being constructed piecemeal rather than from one end to the other. There were both large construction projects and new housing of all sizes and all stages of completion in the towns and villages along the tracks. Interestingly, houses look like they're built almost from the inside out - people would be living in structure that appeared completely unfinished from the outside, others would be superficially rendered, some had more elaborate rendering, a few were painted and finished but all were lived in once they were habitable. There were of course other structures that were less salubrious still, sometimes what looked like an animal shelter turned out to be someone's home and sadly there was rubbish, mostly plastic, everywhere.

Our journey was incident free (apart from the small boy getting frightened witless by an express train passing the window as he looked out) and we arrived at Casa Voyageurs station 5½ hours after leaving Tangier. Once again I'd booked a hotel near the wrong station but at least it was in the area of town that we wanted to be. A taxi was required so we approached the rank, such as it was, and were ushered towards one of the many ropey-looking red hatchbacks claiming to be a licensed cab. Casablanca's traffic is mental. Weaving around other weaving cars we somehow made it to our hotel, but not before our driver picked up a young woman along the way in what appeared to be a perfectly normal transaction - the taxi was not full, and she could make use of the spare seat.

Our room was enormous with a super king-sized bed. And there's plenty of time for a quick rest, perhaps a shower, before heading to Rick's for dinner.

Next: Rick's, a late night crossing, Madrid and home.