The Market

I like the decorative detail on the tower - click the image to get a better view.

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Essaouira

It always appears there are far more gulls flying round a Moroccan harbour town than in England.


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We all need to find an Oasis

This picture shows the oasis not far from Taroudannt, Morocco. Water is a rare and precious resource in a country of little rain, which makes such a location all the more miraculous.


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Twenty-sixth

In York the police were now dealing with a suspected murder, they were absolutely clueless in the case of the missing University librarian, which implied they were failing substantially, but it was simply that there were no clues whatsoever. The strain on her family had become unbearable, there seemed to be no hope of any closure in the matter, and even closest relatives feared the worst. I couldn’t understand why the police had to use old-fashioned expressions like ‘come to harm’, why couldn’t they just use plain English and say she’d most likely been harmed by a man ?

In some ways it would have been a relief to find her body floating in the Ouse or Foss, yet there was always that glimmer of hope while no physical evidence was found. Despite TV appeals and some calls from the public hardly anything other than vague reports of suspicious-looking characters around the University emerged.

The students came back from yet another long holiday, and in all those thousands of young people there was nothing significant to help the official investigation. They were mostly concerned with getting on with academic life, which consisted of drinking, plenty of sex, sleeping into the afternoon, and the minimum amount of work.

Jess continued to take the whole thing very personally, as if she was somehow directly involved in the woman’s disappearance just because she worked on the campus. I had learned to limit any questions about her day to the most banal details only, struggling at times to maintain a cheerful and optimistic atmosphere.
‘I was attacked a few years ago’ she blurted out eventually.

‘What ?!’

‘Near the Central Hall.’

‘What do you mean ? Were you hurt ?’

‘I screamed and kicked so much he ran off.’

‘But isn’t it a busy area round there anyway ?’

‘Not at two in the morning.’

‘You were OK then ?’

‘Of course I bloody wasn’t’ she screamed.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t...’

‘I only had a few scratches, he probably came off worse, but you can’t just forget about something like that.’

‘Did you report it ?’

‘I did, but I’d had quite a bit to drink, and they didn’t take my story too seriously; I couldn’t give much of a description.’

She started crying, and I tried to comfort her, but she pulled away.

Twenty-third

While Jess performed her daily duty as a wage slave, I continued my almost daily explorations of the small city of my birth. The spring in particular was a lovely time, if you could utilise the brief window in time before tourists overwhelm our narrow streets and snickleways, with names like Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate, The Shambles and Mad Alice Lane.

I always seemed to end-up in the compact and delightful garden of the Treasurer’s House, which was free to go into, unlike the house itself, unless going to the cafe in the haunted basement. There are few better places outdoors to munch on a large pasty or substantial baguette filled with real Yorkshire ham.

I like to watch other visitors, so long as they don’t come to close, because some are lovely young women, or so they seem on the surface. Just because you’re in a genuine love relationship doesn’t mean you can ignore female beauty, it would be an uncomfortable denial of the reproductive impulses we all share.

Yet it’s also good to have a non-human experience of pure solitude, when you’re the only soul amidst all the plants and crumbling stonework. The massive east end of the Minster looms so very close, and often concealed behind scaffolding and plastic covers.

Sometimes the fountain is working, and the sound of water gently falling into the pool of colourful fish can allow you to imagine it’s a Japanese Zen garden, where it’s possible to exist in an exalted state removed from shadows of the past or worries about the future.

‘Are you a local ?’ an American woman asked.

‘No, but it’s a lovely place’ I replied.

‘You sound like you might be from here.’

‘I’ve always had the unconscious ability to adopt the accent of any place I visit, unless it’s abroad.’

‘How fascinating.’

‘Not really, it only brings confusion in my conversations with others.’

‘I suppose it would.’

‘Where are you from ?’

‘Los Angeles.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Why ?’

‘I’ve been told it has no centre, no heart.’

‘That’s not entirely true.’

‘Don’t be offended. Anyway how are you enjoying old York ?’

‘It’s wonderful ! And the weather is great.’

‘Just like L.A. then, but with an ancient heart.’

Twenty-second

It was a surprise at breakfast the following morning to see the other Australian girl at one of the few tables; Jess immediately went over to speak to her, which was typically brave and bold, and not the kind of thing I’m able to do with any sense of ease. I had only expected they’d exchange a few polite words, because the young woman was naturally in quite a state of grief and distress. After about twenty minutes of intense conversation Jess finally returned to the seat next to me.

‘What was all that about ?’

‘She hasn’t been able to leave yet because she’s run out of money and is waiting for funds from her parents.’

‘And that took all those minutes to explain ?’

‘No, the more disturbing news was that she had been followed by a man in Essaouira, and her description is very similar to the person I saw in the medina.’

‘The one you thought you saw.’

‘She’s also convinced that her friend didn’t drown.’

‘Does she think this man is involved ?’

‘The poor lass is not really thinking logically at all; but like ourselves she didn’t want to remain in Essaouira.’

‘I’m amazed she’s still in the country.’

‘Apparently she has a friend working in Taroudannt for some UK charity, something to do with agricultural development.’

‘So why isn’t she staying with the friend ?’

‘The chap is out in one of the Berber villages at the moment, but he’s expected back tonight or tomorrow.’

‘The poor lass looks in a right state.’

‘I asked if she wanted any help, but she said this bloke would be back soon.’

Jess didn’t touch any of her breakfast, but it would have taken something really momentous to prevent me from tucking-in, though I wasn’t too sure about the local ‘pancakes’ that looked more like the inside of a cow’s stomach. I decided to opt for the safety of croissants and coffee, and also daubed some Laughing Cow cheese on a couple of bread slices.

‘I bet you eat all the buffet at funerals’ Jess said sarcastically.

‘I’ve got a larger frame to sustain than you.’

‘I won’t argue with that.’

Twenty-first

We did have a brief stop in the tourist resort of Agadir for some ice cream, but the driver seemed rather unimpressed with the place, and only laughed when I asked if there was an older part of town. It was not far inland to the much more historic settlement of Taroudannt, and yet again we encountered a couple of police road blocks, presumably only dealing with routine driving infringements, rather than the death of an Australian tourist.

Our initial impressions of the small walled town were good, with long palm-fringed boulevards running in front of crumbling fortifications, and in the distance the inspiring sight of the western High Atlas Mountains. There was plenty of motorised traffic, but also quite a few horse-drawn carriages waiting patiently in the heat and dust for tourists or more affluent locals.

After the romantic riad of Essaouira it was slightly disappointing to find that our next pre-booked accommodation was more like a drab English bed and breakfast, and set in an uninspiring residential area; but after the unfortunate events involving our camel trekking companion we were relieved to move on to a new place for a few days. One excellent feature of our hotel in Taroudannt was the high roof terrace, which offered 360-degree views of the town and surrounding countryside, though we often found the mountains were obscured by dust storms. Locals were acutely aware there had been no rain in the last few years, which inevitably had an impact on the fertile soil of the Souss Valley, and the produce traded at the lively markets.

‘This room is rather modern and tacky.’

‘It seems clean enough’ Jess replied.

Our assessment of the facilities was interrupted by an invitation to ascend the narrow metal stairway for some coffee and a variety of small cakes; we were close to at least two mosques, which suddenly commenced the deafening call to prayer.

‘It’s great to be so high above the town’ Jess shouted.

‘I’m not so sure about the quality of construction - that wall is very thin considering there’s a hundred foot drop.’

‘Don’t lean on it then.’

Jess was happy to close her eyes and sit back after the long taxi ride, but I was keen to look at the view from every angle, despite all the dirt and sand that was being whipped-up and gradually suffocating the town in a wall of swirling particles.

Twentieth

It would have been good to experience a massive thunderstorm in Morocco, like the one’s we sometimes get in North Yorkshire, and the aftermath when all the plants seem so much greener and the roads are flooded right across.

There was that time we were sheltering in the Netto supermarket, with the rain beating down so hard on the metal roof, and the unexpected boom of thunder that caused an old woman to drop a packet of cornflakes. By the time we’d bought a few bargain items the rain had stopped and the car park was steaming with the evaporation that had already started.

Though there might have been a chance of being struck by lightning, I recall another time when Jess and I ran out at the peak of a storm wearing only t-shirts. There was nobody else down by the river, and the Ouse looked extraordinary as the brief monsoon rain danced madly on the water’s surface.

‘We’re going to die !’ I shouted above the noise of such heavy rain.

‘Don’t be a baby !’ Jess shouted back.

I couldn’t help noticing her lovely breasts and firm nipples beneath the sodden t-shirt, even though my glasses were virtually useless in the wet conditions. We went back to the flat and ripped-off our clothes, making love on the lounge floor as the lightning and thunder continued for what seemed like hours.

‘Does my hair look a mess ?’ she asked when things had calmed down.

‘Yes, a lovely mess.’

‘I need a hot shower.’

I was left to gaze out of the window, as people emerged from the shelter of shop doorways, and normality resumed for a while until the next violent cloudburst. If we’d been smokers I suppose we’d have lit cigarettes, but instead I made some hot tea for when my lady emerged in her dressing gown. I tried putting my hand between her open thighs, hoping for a resumption of our recent activity, but she pulled away with a little smile.

‘You men are never satisfied.’

‘If we were, the human race would die out.’

‘Not now we’ve got test tubes and all those clever scientists; men are more or less redundant.’

‘Thanks a lot !’

‘Not you, you’re special.’

We both chuckled, enjoying the strong tea and watching the sun come out over the Bonding Warehouse.

Eighteenth

I don’t know why dead people are so often found in the water; it was the same with the missing University worker in York, except the woman’s body found in the Ouse wasn’t her. It was an apparently less significant lady from the Doncaster area, but the whole episode was inevitably agonising for the family and friends of the disappeared library assistant, for whom hope was uncomfortably vanishing.

Despite having some inclination towards Tibetan Buddhism I have grown more into the view that when we die that’s it, unless you’re buried and literally rot away, forming an elaborate human compost in the lonely earth of the graveyard. But we can never really know, and I hate these people who are so certain that any kind of afterlife is a load of nonsense; at least we should keep our minds open – unlike those that are so definite about global warming, or that all fat people should be mercilessly ridiculed.

In our so-called ‘advanced’ societies we try not to talk about death, and even pretend that life can be extended almost indefinitely with the help of medical science. In many other cultures they still retain an awareness that life and death are all part of the same process, and humans should simply make the most of what they have in the here and now. For some this means pure selfish indulgence, forgetting that the most important aspects of our lives cannot be bought at Tesco.

‘It wasn’t the lass from the Uni. then’ I commented, reading the local paper.

‘Not this time’ Jess replied.

‘You don’t hold out much hope then ?’

‘I’d like to believe she’d gone off with some bloke for romantic reasons, but she didn’t seem the type to withhold that kind of information from family and friends.’

‘She appeared to be quite sociable for a library assistant.’

‘What does that mean ?!’

‘She liked going to pubs.’

‘I don’t think libraries are the silent tombs they used to be, and some of the people working there are quite bubbly.’

‘I’ve always preferred buying books.’

‘Not everybody has your wealth.’

‘My inheritance is fast diminishing.’

‘And then what will you do ?’

Jess would ask me this question from time to time, implying that I was nothing more than a lazy, rudderless child; and I would always reply with silence.

Sixteenth

It was a real shock to wake up after a good night’s sleep in the tent and find that she was missing; at first the other Australian nurse thought her friend had simply wandered down to the ocean, or gone the other way to quietly undertake an essential bodily function.

But when she hadn’t returned for breakfast, the remaining girl was starting to become hysterical, and was not listening to our attempts at offering some rational explanation. The guides were fairly calm, and simply suggested she might have strolled back along the beach to Essaouira.

The English family were keen on calling the police, but those that had mobile phones couldn’t get a signal or were out of battery; our guides told us we should all return to the ranch and stables where we set-off, and telephone the local bobbies from there. The Australian girl just wouldn’t stop crying, and refused to leave the camp, so one of the guides and the mother from the family stayed with her, promising they would make a thorough search of the surrounding area.

There was a sombre mood in the camel train returning the last few miles to the ranch, though still the possibility she had been so fed-up with roughing it that a longish walk back to a cafe or her riad felt like the best option on a beautiful and cool morning.

‘What do you reckon, Jess ?’

‘I’m not sure, but it seems odd just to take-off without speaking to her friend.’

‘Yes.’

‘They both appeared to be thoroughly enjoying themselves last night.’

‘No sign of any problems at all.’

It was strange now we were almost back to feel that we’d finally mastered the art of being a camel jockey, or at least learned how to minimise the discomfort of having your legs spread so widely, accompanied by continuous jolting. What should have been an occasion to celebrate the small triumph of a successfully completed trek was completely overshadowed by the unexpected development, and the continued uncertainty about the seriousness of the situation.

‘I’ll be glad to get back to the bloody riad’ I said.

‘The police might want to question us.’

‘Well, they’ll know exactly where we are.’

‘If English coppers are anything to go by, they won’t do anything much for at least twenty-four hours.’

‘The stupid bitch is probably sat in some cafe enjoying a nice, big breakfast.’

Fifteenth

Even if it had been possible to drink a barrel of red wine every night at home, we still could not escape reality or ourselves, yet there is always the element of addiction that can creep up on you like the most sinister stalker. We tried to confine our drinking to the weekend period only and not in ridiculous quantities, which ought to give the body time to recuperate – from Monday to Thursday.

I do worry about people who will not even have the occasional glass of alcohol, and their lives have almost a religious fervour surrounding them. I suppose there is some kind of balance to be found between excess and abstinence, but it is not an easy place to find.

Living in the flat near the river in York, not far from Jess’s original place, the only unwelcome caller we can regularly expect is flood water, particularly, though not exclusively, during the winter months. This last winter has been exceptionally dry, apart from some brief interludes of snowy weather, which would probably bring a smug smile to the face of Al Gore and other climate change activists, but are humans really more powerful than nature itself ? They should try living by the River Ouse when the brown water is almost up to the road deck on Skeldergate Bridge !

Our water companies are pushing for all older properties to have meters (matching new-builds), yet in many parts of the United Kingdom there is an abundance of water; if they are experiencing problems in the densely-populated London area and wider Southeast, then it must of course be the same everywhere. Our utilities have become too dominated by the profit motive, and a distorted picture is sometimes presented using global warming arguments.

When the floods do come in historic York, Wales, Carlisle, Gloucestershire or wherever - if all that water was harnessed, rather than left to cause misery then dissipate, we’d have plenty for all to enjoy, using a better network of reservoirs and long-distance pipes. Jess always tells me to get off my bloody soapbox when I start to get into another argument with myself on the subject of weather, transport or health.

It’s a joy to have a window looking over the river, and not to have a property on the ground floor ! Jess loves to throw open these barriers of thin glass and let the fresh air replace any damp and staleness that has accumulated over the winter months. This is our own moment of renewal after all the months of darkness; to see her face glowing, and more radiant than all the golden daffodils on the city walls.

‘I’m glad we chose this place’ she would say.

‘It’s good, and cheap.’

‘Always counting the pennies.’

‘What else would you expect from a true Yorkshireman ?’

‘Romance.’

This would be my cue to embrace her, like gathering-up a large bouquet of spring flowers from the wilderness meadows near Wheldrake Ings, as the roaming Derwent finally finds its way to the Ouse, Humber, and the sea.

Thirteenth

At least part of Jess’s reluctance to discuss campus life was because at that time the City of York was gripped by a massive police hunt for a woman employed at the University library, who’d disappeared inexplicably, leaving detectives without a single clue. She was an attractive young woman in her thirties, and from a ‘good family’, which meant the police and public were taking a keen interest; if it had been a tramp or person from the wrong side of town there wouldn’t have been half the excitement.

These kind of cases are almost as if an invisible alien spaceship has descended on our ancient and beautiful city, beaming the young woman onboard in a flash of blinding light. A more likely explanation is usually an ex-boyfriend, a member of the family, somebody known to the victim, or less commonly – abduction by a stranger.

Jess had naturally taken an interest at first, but had then gone quiet on the matter, preferring to maintain her private thoughts. The media had gone crazy, and not just locally, because she was/is a very nice girl, for whom even the splendid Archbishop of York was praying regularly.

From time to time these kind of perceived or real threats from men would grip the campus, as some attractive young student was attacked on a back lane near The Retreat ‘mental’ hospital, or chased coming out of a college bar late at night. We are always reminded that York is a very safe place, and it probably is compared to the larger cities; yet these kind of events can have a major impact on the psyche of those in a smallish community, and particularly on women, and even more so for those closely involved.

We had another recent case in Yorkshire where a young girl went missing and the outcome looked extremely grim, until one day she simply turned-up unharmed; it emerged that the mother and a male accomplice had actually arranged her abduction, with the child spending a few weeks hidden under a bed only a few miles from the family home. They had hoped to cash-in on a large financial reward for returning her safely, but only ended-up with long prison sentences and universal condemnation.

The case of the missing library assistant did not look as though it would have a positive outcome, and it was no fun to watch the father appearing on television and becoming more and more distraught as the weeks passed with absolutely no evidence as to her whereabouts.

Jess knew deep down, like everybody else, the sad fact was she had most likely come to harm at the hands of a man, either one known to her or a stranger. Bad things happen in this life; many millions can’t even afford to put food in their mouths; and even in our so-called ‘developed’ nations we cannot protect ourselves from all the sorrows.

Yet there is still some joy to be grasped, like that relished by Jess and me, still so early in our love relationship – the honeymoon period, a long, long way from any estrangement that might, or might not happen, in an uncertain future.

Twelfth

It was magical to lie back after a lunch cooked for you in the open air, drifting off into a dreamlike state, with only the occasional grumble from a camel to disturb the peace. All basic human needs were satisfied, and there was no pressure to continue with the journey, which would only be a few more miles inland through the enormous dunes to the overnight camp.

I watched Jess for a while, who must have been sleeping because now and then she would snore quietly for a few seconds, before lapsing into a period of gentle breathing. I felt lucky to have established a good relationship with her in a fairly short time; life was much more fun with an attractive companion, and someone to have a laugh with.

I gazed into the dying embers of the fire, even hotter than the hot day we had been trekking through, wondering if there was any kind of real threat in the bustling markets of Essaouira. It was hard to believe bad things could happen, most locals were so friendly, despite the lack of English being spoken – they were much more inclined to use French after Arabic, because of the colonial history.

‘Are you awake Jess ?’

‘I am now; what do you want ?’

‘Nothing really.’

‘Well, thanks for disturbing me. I was having a lovely dream about Hugh Laurie.’

‘What ? The comedy actor.’

‘Apparently he’s quite a heartthrob in France.’

‘They’re a peculiar nation, despite being so close to our own geographically.’

‘I couldn’t imagine life without a hot croissant and strong coffee.’

‘We’ve had some lovely breakfasts at the riad – very much French influenced.’

‘I remember once staying in Paris; the so-called Continental breakfast was so insubstantial I nearly fainted in Pigalle.’

‘I trust you didn’t visit any of those sex shows ?’

Jess laughed, and turned away to resume her snooze.

The only problem about going on holiday is that while you can leave most things behind that are familiar and perhaps dull about your life, it’s not really possible to leave your entire self behind as well, which means you’re not just carrying the baggage for the aircraft cabin.

Perhaps though there is a much greater chance of breaking familiar patterns and rediscovering a sense of childlike joy in the world and people around you, and even some delight in your own jaded personality. This appeared to be happening, as each day in Morocco brought new experiences and a different perspective on daily existence.

In England it is only possible to sunbathe outside for a few days every year; our expectations have been raised far too high by cheap package deals to Spain or Greece, which inevitably brings a feeling of deep disappointment when we experience a chilly and damp Easter long weekend of too much chocolate and persistent drizzle.

Now, I could start to imagine myself as a ‘blue man’ – a member of the desert Tuareg people - so distinctive in their customary blue clothing that forms such a strong contrast against all the sandy colours of the endless dunes. One of these people took us down another back alley in Taroudannt to look at their wonderful hand-woven carpets, yet there was none of the hard sell or rip-off tactics used by some other cheating locals – only a quiet dignity and modesty that spoke of so many years battling the harsh elements of the vast desert, sometimes with only the strange and ugly humped beasts as their companions and means of survival.

After a long and shaded rest we left the lunchtime encampment, with both of us trying to ride side-saddle, which did offer a greater degree of comfort, but also the danger of falling more easily from a great height, and then experiencing the Moroccan health system. It’s easy enough to injure yourself riding a horse, but it feels so much higher on a camel, and the abundance of sand is no guarantee of avoiding serious injury.

‘It’s good to be back in the saddle !’ Jess shouted.

‘You sound like you’ve been with camels all your life.’

‘It’s waking-up and staring at your face every morning that reminds me so much of these delightful animals.’

‘I’ll remember that later, when you need a hand getting down.’

I was certainly glad to be wearing a hat as we snaked through the baking afternoon dunes towards our night under the stars, occasionally responding with a smile to a look of concern from our guides, as they observed our lack of skill in adopting the correct travelling position when riding one of their forever jerking camels.

Eleventh

I had plenty of time to re-acquaint myself with the delights of historic York, while poor Jess had to make the short journey up to the University on a daily basis to earn her crust. My personality is not really suited to full-time labour, or any work come to that – I just like to wander the streets and reflect on things, like a vagrant of the mind.

Thanks to the small inheritance left by my dad I’d escaped one of York’s major employers, the City Council, and what I considered to be the nonsense of targets and worksheets. If I had any kind of definite role it was now that of the traditional ‘housewife’, with the vague expectation that I would conjure from a few fresh and not so fresh ingredients, an evening meal for my beloved.

It’s impossible to live in a place like York and not be aware of all those that have inhabited the city before – to some these are literally ghosts marching as Roman soldiers in the basement of the Treasurer’s House, but mostly the awareness comes from the surviving architectural history, or the rubbish excavated from places like the famous Viking dig.

‘And what did you do today dear ?’

‘I like to forget about my job when I get home’ said Jess wearily.

‘Does any real work go on at that campus ? Apart from folk like the cleaners and cooks.’

‘I guess it’s not heavy engineering or traditional manufacturing; the cutting edge of science and thought perhaps.’

‘I thought it was all students getting pissed and jumping in the lake.’

‘I can’t deny that’s part of it. What have you been up to anyway ?’

‘I strolled across Ouse Bridge, explored the streets off Micklegate.’

‘Sounds exciting.’

‘Not many shopping opportunities where I went; wouldn’t be any good for you.’

‘I once went in the Cock and Bottle over there, it’s supposed to be haunted.’

‘So they say.’

‘Don’t you believe in all that ?’

‘I think most apparitions come from the person’s imagination.’

‘Maybe.....I’m not so sure.’

Even though we had somehow got onto the subject of haunting, Jess seemed a little more cheerful, though always reluctant to talk about her work, as if she was employed at a top-secret military research establishment.

‘This concoction is interesting. Is it yesterday’s lamb ?’

‘Sprinkled with some of those spices we got mail order.’

‘Yes, I can definitely taste something exotic.’

‘That might be the Marmite.’

Tenth

Riding a camel proved to be one of the most uncomfortable activities of my life; neither of us had experienced the pain of giving birth, but it seemed that this particular pursuit must at least match a prolonged and painful labour.

I suppose it depends on the type of camel, the design of seat, and the suppleness of the jockey – all of which conspired to grind our hip joints into premature disintegration. I think it was even worse for Jess as she comes from a family that are no strangers to arthritis and the early onset of the most painful joint conditions.

A famous gymnast such as Olga Korbut would experience little discomfort mounting and riding one of these peculiar beasts of the desert, at least that would have been true in her youth, perhaps not during the challenging period of middle-age and beyond.

We joined several other brave souls on a camel ‘ranch’ not far from Essaouira, with the intention of trekking in the massive dunes by the wild Atlantic Ocean, then spending the night under canvas ‘away from it all.’ Perhaps not the challenge of the vast Sahara, but on first mounting my unfamiliar companion it seemed I’d be lucky to make more than a few yards.

Our guides, one of whom was a local surprisingly called Barry, told us that the ancient ruins beyond Essaouira were a popular haunt with hippies in the sixties and seventies; the kind of lifestyle that was not really compatible with the teachings of Islam. Most tourists these days were of the more well-heeled and well-behaved kind, which didn’t much apply to us two – in terms of wealth anyway.

‘Bloody hell Jess !’

‘Shit !!!’ was all she could utter as we both jerked skyward and upright, attempting not to dismount on to the rough, stony ground.

‘This is agony.’

‘Good view though.......ouch !’

We were beside the only stream in Morocco that actually had water in it, though it was possibly only an inlet of salty water. I wondered how the country could function with years of little rain, except in the mountains; in England we’re always making a fuss about water shortages, but nothing compared to this.

‘I don’t think I can stand it.’

‘Don’t be a baby !’

‘Are you enjoying it ?’

‘Not yet.’

We were led in a modest camel train towards the ocean roar, the deserted shores that stretch endlessly – at least to Agadir anyway. A kind of rhythm established, but it was an uncomfortable one felt in hip joints and lower back; the sun was also getting high and hot, despite it being only late spring.

Apart from the dramatic scenery of enormous sand dunes and untamed ocean, I found some distraction in watching the arse of the Australian nurse in front – not an exceptional arse, but good enough to ease the discomfort of our jarring passage through sand and waves breaking on the shore.

After an hour or so our guides encouraged the camels to kneel, which they did fairly readily, allowing us the relief of standing tall again. The beasts were all in good humour; I’d expected a more cantankerous attitude from them, and plenty of spitting, but perhaps their reputation was not justified as pains in the arse, except literally.

‘Thank God for that’ Jess exclaimed.

‘It’d be more comfortable riding a pushbike without a saddle !’

‘I’m going to just walk with the camel on the next bit.’

‘Good idea.’

It was fantastic just to lie back on the sand, drinking from a bottle of mineral water, and watching the waves crash in; a shame that the idyllic spot was spoilt by all the rubbish that had either washed up on the beach or blown from Essaouira.

‘I’m sure somebody was following us in the medina.’

‘You’re imagining it’ I replied.

‘Maybe so, but this bloke looked really dodgy.’

‘How do you mean ?’

‘I don’t know, there was just something about him.’

‘That kind of detailed evidence should really help the police.’

‘No, you’re probably right, nothing to worry about. Blokes are always staring at women.’

‘Reproduction is a biological imperative.’

‘This was just leering.’

After a short break the camel train continued through the sands a little more quickly than walking pace, which meant that Jess and I were trailing behind the main party - who were not showing the same level of discomfort in their temporary role as camel jockeys. We didn’t mind losing touch with the group, walking barefoot in the clear shallows of the ocean, occasionally looking back towards the white fortifications of Essaouira several miles distant.

‘There’s nobody out here to follow us’ Jess said.

‘No, we are the followers now. I’m ready for some grub.’

‘Always thinking of your stomach.’

We watched the camels turn inland, and we struggled to keep in touch at all through the deep, soft sand; it was well past midday, and we were both dripping with sweat, which was not a bad feeling, as if all the real and perceived toxins of daily life were being expelled through our burning skin.

Our guides had already lit a fire in the shade of some trees and placed a couple of large tagines on the embers, which were quickly releasing some wonderful smells of cooking chicken. The camels had all settled down not far from the people, who were either guzzling from large bottles of mineral water or swapping stories about their adventures in Morocco. It seemed like there was almost a competition going on – who had stayed in the most luxurious riad in Marrakech ? Who had come closest to being killed in a traffic accident ? Who had met the most amazing travellers in Fez ?

Jess was much keener to get involved in this kind of conversation, but I was happy to just lie back in the shade and listen to the food bubbling away above the now distant sound of the Atlantic breaking on the seemingly endless shoreline.

‘It’s good to be away from all the traffic’ I said.

‘I’m quite excited about camping out overnight.’

‘What are the toilet arrangements ?’

‘Trust you to break the spell of romance.’

‘These things are important, particularly as one gets older.’

‘You’re hardly a pensioner !’

‘A man reaches a physical peak in late teens.’

‘I suppose that is a long time ago for you. Women blossom much later of course.’

‘And you certainly have.’

The simple feast of tagine chicken, couscous, a variety of salad and fresh bread seemed superior to the finest restaurant cuisine, because we had already taken part in a small adventure away from our humdrum lives, an uncomfortable journey in parts, yet it felt like we were almost real travellers replicating the same kind of odyssey that had been undertaken throughout human history, in a challenging environment where nothing seems to flourish but death, under the relentless sun.

Ninth

I was already on my third pint of Old Brewery Bitter when Jess finally arrived at the York Arms.

‘I thought we said eight o’clock ?’

‘Wasn’t sure where it was.’

‘It’s right next to the biggest bloody building in York.’

‘Calm down, and get me a drink.’

‘Are you trying the bitter ?’

‘Have they got any decent wine ?’

‘Glass or bottle ?’

‘Make it a bottle of white.’

‘White ? Red’s better for you.’

‘Not if you’re drinking by the bottle.’

I had so far managed to conceal my delight at her arrival, which diverted my attention from the chap who’d been smiling at me for thirty minutes. It’s not that I’ve got anything against gays, I just don’t fancy a hard cock shoved up my arse; and from the point of view of human biology a male penis has evolved to enter a female vagina.

‘What do you actually do for a living ?’ Jess asked.

‘Not much since dad left me that money; it was a relief to hand in my notice at the Council.’

‘I’ve been at the University for three years.’

‘It’s not proper work though, is it ?’

‘What do you mean ?’

‘Dossing around with all those students.’

‘You’ve got some refreshingly outdated ideas.’

‘Thanks.’

I noticed Jess hadn’t drunk much wine, she was one of these people who could drink and eat slowly, which was something that I envied as a lifelong glutton. It would have been nice to be able to consume just about anything without putting on any weight, but not many people can get away with that.

‘What did you think of me when we first met ?’ I asked.

‘Not a lot !’

‘That’s nice !’

‘No, I liked your sense of humour, and you listened, which is actually quite rare for a man.’

‘Do you know what I liked about you ?’

‘My tits.’

Eighth

We found Essaouira beach a wonderful escape from the madness of the souk, the sands stretching endlessly by the side of the chill Atlantic. Occasionally we were bothered by young men selling a variety of cakes, but it was not the kind of hassle you get on the beaches of Goa, where they want to perform all kinds intimate services, from ear cleansing to vigorous massage. Maybe those kinds of things were available in the peak season; but now we were able to lie back on the splendid soft sand, mostly undisturbed.

It was probably the paranoia of a tourist, but I always felt like we were being watched in the market areas, sized-up as potential victims for some surprise scam. Jess kept telling me to relax, because she was incredibly laid-back during daylight hours – it was only after dark that her imagination got going.

She’d already bought several small wooden objects, including a couple of camels, a donkey, and a special box from which a snake miraculously appeared. I have never had any interest in shopping, spending most of the time pacing up and down outside such outlets, while Jess examines everything in minute detail for what seemed like hours in the cavern-like interiors. She was fairly hot with the bartering too, which I also couldn’t be bothered with after a lifetime of mostly fixed prices in England.

I would always prefer just sitting or lying on the beach, watching fishing boats, children playing football, camel rides in the distance, local women covered from head to toe while a few tourists pranced about virtually naked. The sea was not really suitable for bathing, but windsurfing or kitesurfing appeared to be quite popular amongst more affluent local men and the young chaps newly-arrived from Europe.

At times you could almost forget being in a Muslim country, until the call to prayer drowned the cries of seagulls or shouts of children as a goal was scored.

‘Do you fancy the museum later ?’ Jess asked.

‘I’m more interested in something to eat and drink. Do you know what the three strands of Moroccan cuisine are ?’

‘I expect you’re going to enlighten me.’

‘Tagine dishes, couscous, and the Laughing Cow cheese triangles.’

‘That’s nonsense.’

‘It’s more or less what we’ve had so far.’

‘Anyway, getting back to the museum – they’ve got jewellery, costumes, weapons, musical instruments and carpets.’

‘I bet it’s not so good as the Castle Museum in York.’

‘Try forgetting England for a few days.’

‘I will if you buy me some nice coffee and a sweet croissant.’

‘A chance to practice my French, I suppose.’

Sixth

One good thing about a country like Morocco is that you could have a lovely ride on a motorbike at most times of the year, so long as you avoid places like the snowy Atlas Mountains. It would be great for me as a non-car driver, though you would be indulging in a more risky form of transport, if our initial impressions of road use in North Africa were anything to go by.

Before Jess and I got a flat together in York I was always travelling to her place by scooter, and due to the often inclement English weather and my spectacle wearing, found that the visor and glasses were often steamed-up. I’m sure it would be fairly easy for manufacturers to make heated visors widely available, along with heated gloves, boots and other clothing, but this kind of stuff can be very hard to find – hence the need for a warmer climate.

I would often arrive at Jess’s with my balls frozen, and it would take ages to thaw out and de-mist my glasses, so at last I could admire her uncomplicated beauty. It always seemed extra cold at her place overlooking the river - thankfully not one of these soulless luxury apartments, but a building of faded Victorian grandeur not far from the fire station.

I suppose our romance was something of a whirlwind; one minute the nonsense of speed dating, and before too long we were looking for a place together – somewhere with a bit of character, not far from the centre. Of course York is a popular place for tourists and locals, which means the price of property is often inflated, limiting your choice unless you happen to be the heir to a fortune.

‘You look like a drowned rat’ Jess would typically say when I first arrived on my bike.

‘Less of the drowned !’

‘I suppose you’d like a drink ?’

‘What about the York Arms ?’

‘I’d rather stay in.’

‘Have you got something against gays ?’

‘The York Arms is a gay pub ?’

These large gaps in her local knowledge would sometimes baffle me, though she had only lived in the city for five years. I was more than prepared to overlook such trivial details, because I’d always have to remove my damp biker clothes, and she would usually start undressing as well.

Fifth

It was lucky that our cheerful taxi driver walked with us all the way to the riad accommodation, because we wouldn’t have had any hope of finding the way alone. We were also accompanied by a man with a trolley, which wasn’t really needed for our wheeled cases, but it’s hard to say no.

The entrance through the fortified walls at the Bab Marrakech reminded me of the very similar arrangement in my home town of York. Perhaps Morocco was not so different from the UK after all ? We were both too exhausted to really take-in all the sights, sounds and smells assaulting our overloaded senses; any thoughts of a quick shag were fast disappearing in favour of a late afternoon snooze.

After ten minutes following a route down so many dark and dirty passages we arrived in the heart of the medina, and stepped through an ancient, tall wooden door into a most delightful courtyard with a fountain in the centre. This central area was open to the brilliant blue sky high above, and surrounded by four floors of rooms leading off pillared balconies draped with climbing plants.

A young woman greeted us warmly in English, offering some refreshment in the cool interior; these buildings were certainly cleverly constructed to escape from the heat and filth outside – it can reach fifty degrees Celsius in the summer months.

‘This is more wonderful than the pictures’ said Jess.

‘About as far away from the Travelodge you can get !’

We had both perked-up a bit after arriving at the riad, and Jess was happily reclining on the giant, shiny cushions scattered everywhere. I was gripped by a desire to explore, and almost bounded up the marble staircase to the roof, which offered a spectacular view across the bustling town to the ocean.

A few minutes later we were shown to a fairly compact room with high ceilings on the first floor, which was beautifully decorated in green, red and gold. It seemed that none of the bedrooms were very big, leaving the lovely, large open courtyard at the centre for residents to congregate in.

Jess immediately went into the large, open shower, where our thoughts of sleep evaporated like the hot steam. We kissed passionately as the wonderful water washed away all the grime and exhaustion of our journey; it finally felt like we’d arrived in a place better than our imagination.

Fourth

In the early part of our relationship in York I vividly remember the Sunday we walked around the entire city walls, not that they are entire, but still pretty substantial remains stretching for about four or five miles. You can get some fantastic views of what’s left of old York, and particularly the massive Minster that dominates everything – architecturally, not spiritually any more.

These kind of small adventures seem so easy when you’re just starting out with somebody, it’s only later on when it becomes difficult to rouse yourself from in front of the bloody telly. Happy memories of exploring York as a child are so powerful in the mind that at some point you will always go back and walk the walls again, even if there’s a gap of twenty years.

Jess is from Milton Keynes, which means she doesn’t have any childish thoughts stored away about Romans, Vikings, the Middle Ages, and all the way through to the age of steam and beyond. She is good at showing a polite interest though, while always at the back of her mind harbouring guilty ideas about visiting a new fashion shop or trendy bar.

‘This is one of the best views you’ll ever get.’

‘What, anywhere ?’

We were standing on the walls not far from the railway station, looking back over the Ouse towards York Minster.

‘In England anyway.’

‘My legs are tired. Why do they have all these gaps in the walls that mean you have to keep going up and down steps ? And they don’t even have fences to stop you falling off in some places !’ complained Jess.

‘Just try and enjoy yourself; at least the sun is shining. We can stop for a coffee in a little while.’

I knew that Jess was secretly enjoying our long walk, or that’s what I half-believed; and I was planning a surprise visit to the posh cafe Betty’s, even though we were heading in the opposite direction towards Micklegate Bar (one of the places they used to impale the severed heads of enemies).

Those were the days when we didn’t even feel the need to go abroad for stimulation – a clear, bright Sunday morning and an invigorating stroll with the beloved was more than enough. It was quite fun walking too close to tourists on the walls as well, so they almost toppled-over onto the grassy banks below. Round Old York Green Banks I View – that’s how we learnt the colours of the rainbow, in the days before Internet and mobile phone.

We did eventually duck into Betty’s when it started spitting with rain, and shared a Fat Rascal with some rich, strong Peruvian coffee. I couldn’t help noticing how good the waitresses looked in their black dresses and freshly laundered white pinafores – perhaps something we could try at home !