In days gone by flights were my nemesis, being of the unwavering opinion that jumbo sized baked bean cans are defying every rule in the book by taking to the air. Valium would get me on the plane and with luck and no turbulence Diazepam would keep me in my seat.
Now, loathing the airport experience even more, I welcome the flight. I almost spring on board. If I am about to die, I am at least going to have my own 2 square feet to do it in.
In fact, all credit to BMI and, no, I didn’t drop any names to try and get an upgrade, the boneshaker that took to the skies did have leather seats and the on board crew weren’t fiddling with their worry beads or crossing themselves at every opportunity, as in past experience.
My travelling companions, Antoinette, a building surveyor (“You get to work with men all the time, it’s great!”), about to be married to her childhood sweetheart, and Sophie, her ‘something to do with advertising’, best friend are setting off for the second half of Antoinette’s hen weekend. The first half having been dedicated to copious cocktails and fancy dress in a well known five star London hotel. I hoped the pampering week they had planned wouldn’t disappoint though, judging by the rest of the baked beans in the can, I was doubtful that Agadir would be anything like Antigua.
Three hours and round two of the airport endurance test later, I thank L’Oreal that I am blonde and can at least say ‘thank you’ in Arabic as I fill in form after form and worry if I will ever see my passport again.
Finally Mohamed (Memmi Hed, if you please) throws my case into the boot of a vehicle that has patently never passed an MOT and we head into town. Moroccan drivers, having been trained at the KSM (Kuwaiti School of Motoring) are intent on death by first impression so unless you have a strong post flight stomach best not look out of the window.
Now is an excellent time to introduce yourself to the money you have exchanged at a rate unrecognisable from the one you saw on the FX site. 10 to one is not a bad way to work, it won’t hurt quite as much and you might not spend the rest of your holiday moaning about it. Enough that the sky is grey and, aside from the magnificent hedges of multi coloured Bougainvillea lining the route, your first impression of Agadir is third world Skegness.
Mohamed is 38, has two children, a girl of 3 and a new born boy. I have Mohamed’s card. If all else fails I can get back to the airport. This information is imparted in French and sign language, and of course I don’t look 60, 48 at the worst… Hmm, 45 would have been better, Mohamed.
Hotel New Farah, though not 5 star, is clean and, as with everything in the middle east, dark. I believe this is to keep the buildings cool but as we are barely above 24 degrees, it hardly seems necessary.
For antique travellers the hotel is safe and workable. Set in a trying, but failing, to emulate a Parisian topiary tree lined avenue replete with faux art deco buildings. It has friendly staff, and balconys that overlook the tiny but perfectly formed pool, and the internet works in the lobby. Good start.
A mini two hour exploration convinces me that all seaside towns are the same. The promenade could be Ramsgate, Wimereux or a down market Corniche in Kuwait. I’m sure in mid summer skimpily clad youth and bronzed toned bodies will make it look vibrant, but at four o’clock on a decidedly grey afternoon with few shops, and even fewer restaurants, open, it more closely resembles a fairground without the neon lights; tawdry and tired.
The Town is populated almost entirely with ageing, leathered, French and German couples who have absolutely nothing to say to each other after their life sentences of matrimony.
The vendors, delighting in having a single ageing female to pounce upon, slyly fall into step with you as if they are, coincidentally, heading in your direction. After a socially acceptable pause (less than a nano second), they attempt to engage in conversation. French first, then German, English is obviously not a requirement. A few curt ‘La Shukran’s’ (apart from counting from one to ten ‘no thank you’ is the full extent of my Arabic vocabulary), and much lack of eye contact later they mutter, what I’m sure must be a charming compliment, and return to their stalls.
Having managed to get lost, I spy the most dreaded sight a would be serious traveller ever wishes to see: “The English Pub”. Ah well at least I will hear the sound of my native tongue and I do need to find my way home. I ask a couple sitting near the front of the pub if they know they way to my hotel. Blank looks respond. Yes, they’re French, (if nothing else my language skills may improve) and ‘No’, they don’t know the way to the hotel.
Stoically embracing the return of my ubiquitous holiday foot blisters, I hobble back to the giant topiary tree lined avenue that houses my hotel; the mosque at the top of the road being my Northern Star.
Time for a wash then dinner. There is a quiet looking italian restaurant two doors down which looks quite delightful. It wasn’t of course.