In this case, over a bowl of olives. Or rather 2 bowls of olives. A shared lunch, and a delicious surfeit of olives prompting the comment "well if you really like olives you need to go to Morocco." Bit of a silence. And then…………….. "THATS where I want to go" - and that was it. That sort of glow, that excitement......................there's nothing quite like it in the world.
This trip started 2 years ago with a plan to go to Mongolia on the train, taking my niece (how about "Travels with my Niece" for a blog) . I'd booked up staying with nomads in their yurts in the Gobi desert - and other things that middle aged aunts do with their nieces, and was trying to feel excited and not to worry about the fact that I didn’t feel brilliant, when my legs swelled up........and I will stop at that point because 2 years of dodgy thyroid (and no travelling, with my niece or otherwise) would fill several blogs and would be insufferably boring.
And now our wonderful national health service has made me better by cutting my throat and removing the offending part and what is the first thing to do on feeling better? Plan a trip, get out my rucksack, delve into a guidebook or 2, fantasise over the internet and decide that Italy looks good, and would be nice. And sensible. For someone who is still convalescing.
And then I ate the olives............................do you know in Morocco you get platefulls of olives with almost every meal and as you savour them you gaze out at the desert, or maybe watch the world go by from a street cafe? Or catch tantalising glimpses of snow capped mountains in the distance as you bask in the sun and listen to the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer? In Morocco it feels different, and its beautiful, and the people are delightful and polite, there are tiny, medieval streets, and gorgeous palaces and buildings, and you can go to the Saraha desert………………..or climb in the Atlas Mountains, the very names sound romantic – Tafraoute – Ouzazat – Fez – Zagora – Tangier – Cassablanca…………….
I’m doing a proper journey, on the train, with a visit to Gibraltar on the way, and Paris, and Madrid……………….and will arrive by ferry and set foot on that most northern tip of the African continent. I’ve booked my first night in an old fashioned slightly faded, atmospheric Moroccan hotel looking out over the port and the medina, I can hear the sounds now and feel that pull to go out and explore, to walk, to gaze, to listen………………………
Its such fun researching and booking it all over the internet, train tickets arrive in the post and emails tell me that I can now book the next leg of my journey. I’m going under the English Channel in a train and then in a trainhotel overnight to Spain. I’ll be able to sit in my seat on the train and look out at the countries I pass through – just like Ghandi in the film. I know I’ll get neurotic worrying about the ferry crossing and that seasickness will threaten or even happen. And then the questions to mull over – do I splash out on the latest edition of trusty old Lonely Planet or take my old friend that has been twice before and has wrinkled pages and hand written notes and email addresses and out of date information? Do I go to the desert again? Or explore the mountains? Will I go back and see the family I stayed a night with in Ouzazat? What should I take for their children? Shall I try to ring them first or just turn up.............................
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