I couldn’t be more excited, not even more excited than I was when I first saw those Blackpool illuminations.
Needing to stock up on my ‘classy way to commit suicides’ and refusing to pay the equivalent of £3 in whatevers, for a packet of a variety I hate, in the hotel shop, I head at precisely 2.15 for the Souk.
Having never been to the souk at this time before, preferring to go at noon when the sun is at it highest, I am amazed. It is closed, properly closed, as in the way it was properly grey in Agadir two days ago.
You can still walk through the souk but all the shutters are down. Grey shutters, blue shutters, aubergine shutters, green shutters all, like mad monk’s hoods, shielding their eyes and refusing to show me the gems hidden behind; the saffron, the herbs, the dates and the scarves that those in Blighty have requested.
Actually I almost prefer the souk like this. It is motor cycle free and I can get lost without losing an ounce of self esteem, there being nothing recognisable to make me feel guilty about my navigational skills, and to be truthful, I was a little worried about the saffron, knowing that my ability to tell the difference between saffron and spaghetti would undoubtedly be a challenge too far.
Once in the gloriously quiet square (the classy way to commit suicide kiosk is thankfully open), I settle down with ‘Moll Flanders’, order my j’us d’orange and watch a much quieter world go by. I like this Taroudant – a lot.
After an hour or so I wander back through the, still closed, souk and along the orange tree lined avenue to the hotel. The ripe oranges littering the floor like conkers in a Blighty autumn.
I am rarely bothered on my walks these days. Most of the locals know who everyone is and they are quite used to this blonde old bag in almost Arab clothing marching through their town. They know I will smile and politely say ‘Bonjour’ but they also know better than to try and engage me in any kind of ‘parting with my money’ conversation. The concierge at the hotel even describes me as ‘family’ – he is obviously holding out for a good tip.
Arriving back at the hotel, Mahmoud (the concierge), tells me I have a message and hands me a note. My first thought is ‘Oh god what’s happened, who’s hurt? My second is that maybe David or Jonathan has left a message regarding the health of Charles.
I open the note with trepidation. Relief. It is not bad news nor, alas, news about Charles, but rather a note from Lily (who I met a few days ago and who I shall tell more of later), inviting me to tea at her newly acquired house in the Kasbah, the same Kasbah I got lost in on my first day.
Excited!? I almost wet my knickers. I have to be there in an hour. No time to return to the souk for a gift, I manage to purchase a bottle of wine from the hotel and pray that Lily isn’t Muslim.
As I rush to my room to change into something that I might not have worn for three days on the trot, I notice that nature’s most perfect blossom, the Jacaranda, is starting to bloom.
Jacaranda AND tea in the Kasbah! That has to rate as highly as feeding a muslim prince, pork, in south London.