We head to Chefchaouen in the hope of things getting easier. Our time in Morocco so far has been, well, trying. The effect of Ramadan greatly intensified the culture shock in Casablanca and Larache: we staggered around famished during the day eating whatever we could get our hands on, only to find at night that the dining-out culture in Moroccan society is very very male dominated. Cafes brim with men leisurely drinking tea throughout the evening; women are barely seen at all in the street after dark.
We’ve heard that Chefchaouen, despite being full of hash-peddlers, is a chilled out tourist-oriented town. We book a hotel run by Spaniards, which in itself puts us at ease: as red-neck as that sounds, it’s comforting to know we will likely share at least a basic cultural frame of reference after flailing about in deep and completely unfamiliar cultural waters so far.
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It wasn’t till we reached the beach that I realised that the taxi driver didn’t speak any French. Goes to show how effective my last minute language cramming had been. He’d nodded at my repetition of “vingt-cinq dirhams”, holding out five coins in his palm which I thought at the time were 5 dirham pieces but now, I realise, were worth 10 dirhams each. We were essentially in the middle of nowhere and the trip had been longer than expected, so we could do little more than to sigh and hand over what the old man demanded.
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The day’s fasting had long finished as we walked through the dark, empty streets of Casablanca. Or so it felt wandering light headed in search of somewhere to eat. In reality, the sun had set barely half an hour ago, people still sat in doorsteps on the street hungrily slurping down the last of their meal.
We’d given up on directionless wandering and were hungrily retracing our steps to a Salon de The that we’d past earlier. My rusty French suggested that they only served breakfast, given the number of pastries on the 2,50 euro set menu displayed in the window. But it was food, and at least there were a few women in there eating too.
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Easter in the south is a curious event. Visiting the small town of Priego I was caught up in elaborate traditions involving spectacular processions, excessive conglomerations of people, and some surprising peculiarities.

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I use public transport often when I have the option of using a car, try to use locally produced goods, don’t eat meat, am careful to switch off lights, use heaters only when really necessary, and despise air conditioning. Yet in the last few months I have been responsible for over three tonnes of carbon dioxide being added to our already polluted atmosphere, just through air travel, according to Climate Care. Three tonnes!

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The train back to London had only just left Cardiff when we stopped in a tunnel. For about 40 minutes. No-one was impressed. Smoke from the engine seeped into the carriage, and everyone’s mobile phone conversations were louder without the low rumble of the wheels on the track to drown them out. A welsh girl ranting loudly about her day from hell. Aw, ye just wouldn’t believe it beeb, am telling ya. Lots of calls home. Gunna be ome late, still sat in this fuckin tunnel. A strange twenty minute domestic from a sweaty young man temporarily sitting across the aisle. Ah no, Sareh, listen tor meh. Ah aint… Am tellin ya… Ah cant say cuz… cuz… Ahm on the treeen, wave all splat up… Nor… Ahm not wath tham.

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A very quiet, closed-up Sunday afternoon, in a very quiet, closed-up town near Cardiff. My intentions were to hire a mountain bike and enjoy the sunshine, but I apparently for the less actively inclined it would seem like a good time for a piss up.

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On England’s south coast, an hour from London and facing France, Brighton’s an incongruous city. Who do you expect to inhabit a tourist town? I’m not sure, but this place’s juxtaposition of hippies and indie kids with the gaudy seafront tourist attractions does seem peculiar. I hear that Fatboy Slim lives here, and that the dance clubs are pretty good, just to add another random factor into the mix.

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I was touched by this story about a boat load of immigrants who washed up on a beach in Spain’s Canary Island’s today - tourists sunbathing on the beach came to their aid.

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