Imlil to Setti Fatma

It's nearly the end of November and I’m not quite sure where the year has gone. I am however mighty impressed that this time in a month we will be making our way home for Christmas. The joys of teaching... never a dull day, time really flies. What with Portugal and all the exciting stuff we've been doing in school it seems like quite a long time since we were up in Imlil and setting off for our three day hike across the mountains.

Advertised as easy, the 40 kilometre walk would lead us through connecting valleys and over a 3180 metre pass, with two overnight stops in Berber gites, before finishing in Ourika Valley where we had left our car.

 

The morning of our departure we were met by our guide Mustapha, chef and muleteer Hamide, and our mule Bob at our Aubegre Dar Adrar. We really didn't feel that we needed all three to take us on an 'easy walk' over the mountains, but travel experiences have led us to believe in, where possible, providing opportunities for locals to earn an income. Setting off it did feel like a bit of an entourage, and I was a little concerned for our mule. We only had a small bag each but he seemed really overladen, thankfully I soon realised that a lot of the stuff was lightweight bedding for Mustapha and Hamide.

Day 1 – Imlil to Tacheddirt

The first day we set off slowly climbing up the Tamatert Valley heading east from Imlil. Initially frustrated with Mustapha's somewhat plodding pace, I soon realized that it enabled us to walk a lot further without stopping, and we could actually enjoy the view while we progressed. It was with this slow and increasingly enjoyable pace that we wound our way up through a pine plantation before crossing the 2362 metre saddle and descending slightly into Imenane Valley. Here we traveled down a long and windy mountain road. Strung out along the green valley floor were lots of little villages. Linking these villages there are are pretty gardens taking up every available space. Moroccans have to come be experts at water use, working in whole communities to build complex irrigation channels that are controlled with little drop doors, or planks of wood. At the lift of a door, water can be directed from one side of the valley to another so that everyone can water their crops. At the head of this valley, nestled against a ring of high mountains lies the small village of Tacheddirt, our stop for the night.

Mustapha looking back down towards Imlil

 

Villages along Imenane Valley

The village of Tacheddirt at the end of the valley

Part way along the Imenane Valley we stopped for lunch. Our mule was unloaded and the kitchen was set up. This was a very impressive sight and way more than we needed for the four of us. They brought everything. Everything that is apart from something to light the gas stove with. Unburdened and grazing happily Bob the mule bucked and protested greatly at being loaded up again so soon, so we could continue in search of a lighter. Thankfully this worked in our favour. Bob was soon unloaded again and we got to lunch on an enormous pasta salad with sardines, fresh lentil tajine and sweet mint tea, in a beautiful spot next to a stream with views of the snow-capped peaks behind us. 

 

 

 

It was something of a surprise to discover that our mule Bob was actually a girl. I’m not even sure she had a proper name, I think it was just a name they decide to give the guests to keep them happy. She is a working animal and not a pet, we've yet to meet a working animal that gets a name here. Interesting fact from our guide about mules... females are used in the mountains, they are stronger and have greater stamina. 

We reached Tacheddirt at around two in the afternoon. Although we climbed 1070 metres the day's 12.5 kilometres did indeed feel easy, but it was nice to arrive at our gite early to enjoy a hot shower and relax on the terrace with the incredible views. Ten years ago accommodation in Tachedddirt was limited to a Club Alpine Francais Refuge, now there are a couple of guesthouses. Our gite was the newest and was far grander than we expected, we had a clean, warm and dry room with six thick mattresses on the floor all to ourselves. 

Views from the terrace...

Day 2 – Tacheddirt to Timichchi

We had been warned that day two was to be the toughest day, but the day with the most rewarding views. We set off from Tacheddirt at 7.30 while the valley was still quite dark. Not long after we left we began to climb. This was the hard part, a continuous climb up to a 3187m pass into the next valley. Bob and Hamide set off long after us and we were determined to beat them to the top. We stopped a few times for a five minute water break but basically climbed over 1000 metres without a proper break. 

On the way up we encountered a little old man resting with his donkey. We exchanged greetings with him before he continued on ahead of us, pushing his donkey from behind. He went all the way up the hillside, winding along the narrow paths, all the while pushing his donkey hard. When we reached the top he had secured his donkey and was sheltering from the wind behind a large rock. He had unloaded his donkey and had a handful of Mars bars, five soft drinks and a kettle for mint tea to sell to passing hikers. Impressed with his effort we bought a Coke off him. It was only then that we found out he was completely blind. He makes the climb every day in the hope of earning what can't add up to more than $5.

Having taken a couple of hours to reach the top we then had to start going down. I am quite content with up. I am not a down person. Never too sure-footed at the best of times I tend to hesitate and lack commitment in my stride, often leading to uncontrolled skids. To compound the issue our route down was much trickier than the way up. Loose footing and steep drops made it quite an exhausting descent. Narrow and slippery in places it was challenging for us with our hiking boots on let alone the overweighted mules with skiddy metal shoes that usually use the route. By the time we reached our lunch spot we had climbed a 1000 metres, and descended 1100. Not sure about this 'easy' walk classification. 

Our lunch stop was in a small town clinging to the side of the valley. There were roughly twenty houses clustered together around a mud-hut style mosque. While waiting for food we observed that the village only stretched as far as shouting distance. Every so often women would climb onto their roofs and shout up and down the village at each other. Who needs a telephone when voice projection and mountain valley acoustics will do just fine. This was one of the most rustic villages we have come across. Not a satellite dish in sight. This village can only be accessed on foot or by mule so much of the modern trimmings of the outside world has been kept at bay.

We were sitting just outside the village, close to a large sand pile. The whole time we were there children of all sizes were going back and forth to collect sand. Using any kind of container they could find, some as young as two or three, these children would walk, bent double under the weight of the sand, shuffling in sandals, flip flops or over-sized wellies, carrying the sand to a growing pile by one of the houses. It pulled at the heart strings to see one little boy help an even smaller boy try and carry his load back. This tiny little boy just couldn't get a grip on his container and kept stopping and crying. Each time, the slightly bigger boy would stop, put down his own load and try and help the smaller child, before picking up his own and continuing. They would make it about five metres before the process was repeated.

The children didn't ask for anything; help, food or money. Some were curious about us, but they were still very timid towards us. It seemed they had little other to do than move sand, throw stones at each other, or, as many bored and unoccupied children have a tendency to do, make noise. One boy on a nearby roof decided he was going to try and serenade us with Berber songs, and wailed at the top of his voice while banging a pan lid. It became strangely acceptable after a while and he was joined by a few friends. This is something they do every time tourists pass through. As we left the village we did feel when passing one group of children, that they were going to turn away from their stone throwing at each other at start throwing them at us, but Mustapha prevented this by speaking to them quietly.

Day 3 – Timichchi to Setti Fatma

Day three was supposed to be the easy day, and we were looking forward to it being so. The night before had not been quite as comfortable as we had hoped. We stayed in Auberge de Timichchi. This simple auberge was run by a friendly man who had set it up many years ago with only one room. Every year or so he tries to add on another room and now he has eight or nine he can use for guests. This is impressive progress, but the rooms are basic and the mattresses of the thinnest variety. With no sheets to lie on and a sleeping bag zip that decided to choose this occasion to die on, the night was quite cold and uncomfortable. Little sleep was had and I arose in the morning hurting all over and ready for our 'easy' day.

The map showed us that we were simply following the road that wound along the side of the valley before descending down into Ourika Valley and our final destination Setti Fatma. While the terrain was easy what we hadn't counted on was the fact that we had 14.5 kilometres, with 420 metre ascent and 900 metre descent to do all before lunch. The walk was beautiful and dramatic, but with the end in sight and the thought of the hot shower and soft sofa awaiting us in Ourika Garden Resort, we just wanted to get to the end. Our first sighting of Setti Fatma was a welcome one. The view from the top of the valley was amazing, and as the crow flies the journey there would be short, but following the dirt track that zig-zags back and forth down the hillside makes it a few kilometres further than you think. So close but yet so far.

Ourika Valley, Setti Fatma is at the far end.

Arriving to the hustle and bustle of touristy Setti Fatma was a relief to the by now descent-hammered knees. For an easy three day walk it felt like we had gone a lot further. The views we got on route were well worth it though. Combine it as we did with a few days of post hike luxury in and around Marrakesh and it's a great option for an unusual week break. Experiencing a little bit of the rough makes that soft bed in the kasbah or riad all the more rewarding, especially with the thought of the 8300 calories we had just burned.

Update coming....

Thanks for all who have been taking the time to check for the continued Imlil update, life of an elementary teacher can be hectic to say the least, I will try and get the post up by Saturday afternoon at the latest....

Thanks

Back to the mountains

I always used to think of myself as more of a beach person than a mountain person. It is only when we head up into the hills that I appreciate just how at home I feel there. It's refreshing and invigorating in a completely unique way. And while I don't have that drive to climb the highest peaks and scale all I encounter, I love the feeling of being nestled in valleys and protected by the massive peaks. Around this time two years ago we were in Nepal, and while nothing will match the grandeur of the Himalayas, the feeling of increased energy you get is the same.

Arriving in Imlil our taxi was met by a boy with a mule. Without a word he loaded our bags onto the mule pack and headed uphill out of the town. Ten minutes on having passed through a damp walnut grove we found ourselves at Dar Adrar. Here we were welcomed with spectacular views from our window, a roaring fire and hot mint tea.

http://www.daradrar.com/

The view from Dar Adrar

Imlil is a small town perched on a hillside at the joining point of three valleys, and ringed with tall rocky mountains. The Atlas Mountains are very dramatic. At the highest point they are only about 4170m, but driving across the Marrakesh plane towards them they appear to rise straight up out of the otherwise flat and featureless ground. Once up in the mountains you are struck by the rich red colour of them. These are rough and ragged peaks at their best. 

Once a small Berber village, Imlil has become a hub for tourists keen to experience Moroccan mountain life. Imlil is the starting point for nearly all summit attempts of Morocco's highest mountain, Jebel Toubkal. Toubkal can be summitted in two days, with an overnight stop in a refuge near the top.

 

While many guidebooks describe Imlil as an ugly and characterless town, I think it would be hard for any town to be described as ugly when it sits in a location like Imlil. As well as incredible mountain views stretching out along three valleys, the valley floors are lined with apple and walnut groves that are criss-crossed by babbling irrigation channels. Exploring on foot it's possible to wander round villages such as Armend, and see a way of life that has remained relatively unchanged for centuries. That is apart from satellite TV, there are more satellites here than in any other country I’ve ever been to. Life is not easy for people here and is often subsistence based; growing and trading to get what you need. Outside the houses you see weather-worn women cooking over home-made clay ovens. Walking along the dirt tracks you pass women carrying heavy loads around on their backs, taking the shopping home from the weekly souq a few kilometres away. It is quite humbling to be overtaken by an eighty year old carrying two enormous sacks up a steep hill. 

Although life in the High Atlas has many parallels with that of what we saw of Nepal, while exploring Imlil that first day we noticed one distinct difference. In Nepal the villages we walked through have a long history of interaction and dependence on tourists. Big smiles and warm welcomes came from everyone you encountered. Walking around Imlil and other small villages, while many people were friendly, you got the sneaky feeling that some people would just rather you weren't there. The occasional stare and frown could be a little unsettling.

We stayed two nights in Imlil, where we were lucky enough to have great fireside company with an American couple who travel the world looking for adventure. A love of speed flying had brought them to the area. For those unfamiliar with the extreme sport of speed flying (as I was), it is the slightly questionable activity of throwing yourself off mountains with a mini and seemingly fragile para-glide that weighs a no more than a couple of kilos. Usually done over snow with a pair of skis on it seems that the idea is to slow your fall down the mountain only enough not to injure yourself while still making occasional contact with the ground before propelling yourself into the air again. 

   

Our time in Imlil was just the start of our adventure, the stay there was just the relaxing precursor to a three day hike across the mountains and into a neighbouring valley. I’ll post more about the journey with our guide, cook and a female mule called Bob very soon.

Dancing Days

This isn't the blog I had intended; the long review of our latest adventure. That has been temporarily postponed as life has caught up with me instead. This blog is instead to share with you one of my depressing moments of realisation of the undeniable fact of getting old.

Fast approaching my mid thirties and lucky enough to have had a full and varied social life, it has been easy for me to stick my head in the sand and whisper sweet words of denial about the ever increasing gap between how I see myself and how others see me. It feels like only last year that I spent six hours dancing on top of a wheely bin with some random stranger in Cream, or last week that I spent the countdown at New Year on podium at Ministry of Sound Bangkok. Sadly, or not, depending on who's looking at this, many years have past, and in all likelihood if I did these things now there would be unprecedented levels of embarrassment experienced on all sides. This weekend while away at a professional development conference in Lisbon, this depressing realisation slowly dawned on me while watching people dance at the last night gala dinner.

Throughout the night the dance floor could usually be separated into three parts...

The first group is those between roughly 20-30 who dance to every song, no matter how bad it is, and who truly believe they are Michael Jackson reincarnate. If you belong to this group then good on you, doesn't it feel great, enjoy it while it lasts, because believe it or not it doesn't. I should know, I clung onto this group for as long as I could. I shall refer to this group as the 'Jacksonites'. 

The next group who I’ll I call the 'Handbaggers' are a big group made up of two smaller parts; those who may never have had that love of dancing and have been unwillingly dragged into that great place of embarrassment they know as the dance floor; and those who used to belong to the Jacksonites until they hit 30 and suddenly found themselves strangely self conscious when they spun across the floor and felt like everybody turned to look at them. The Handbaggers are busy on the dance floor in many ways. Unlike the Jacksonites, who are just busy thinking 'this feels great' and letting their body do the work, the Handbaggers are busy either trying to maintain that even rhythmic side stepping move that blends right in with everyone else, or they're trying to relive their youth by throwing a few moves out there, which they then busily analyse in their heads as to whether they actually pulled it off without looking stupid. Finally this group is busy with occasional furtive glances at the Jacksonites with something akin to horror, “do they know what they look like?”, “look at all that sweat”. 

And then there is the last group, the Christopher Walken's amongst us. These are those brave people who manage to break the boundaries and effortlessly move between the other two groups. Often slightly older, they have managed to overcome any feeling of self-consciousness and as a result have found their mojo again. They whip it up on the dance floor and really don't care what they look like. Instead, not unlike the Jacksonites, they simply dance and enjoy the music.

So, where am I at...? Well I’ve sadly left the Jacksonites, but I’m not ready to join the Walken groovers; there is still way to much self analysis going on for that and I run when the music isn't in my favour. I have to sadly admit that the days of mindlessly dancing to anything and everything have passed. Soon I will give up any attempts of fancy footwork and become a master of the side to side step.

For those of you out there, you know who you are...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZM1fkHQP_Pw

Off Again...

Thank you for checking for updates....

We are off on our travels again so there may not be an update for a week or so. Right now I am sitting in a small cosy gite on the steep side of a valley under Morocco's highest mountain; Jebel Toubkal. When we arrived last night we were met and escorted to our gite by a boy and a mule.

Tomorrow we set off on a 3 day hike to an adjoining valley staying in Berber villages on route. Accompanied by mule and guide. We have little idea of what to expect or where we will be sleeping...

Stories and pics to follow soon.

And, for those who were concerned, Snowy is doing fine in his very very grand temporary home in Meknes, with a student who didn't talk about anything other than his impending visit for the last 3 days of school.

Our First Pet...

Many people express great surprise at our lack of desire for children. Many try and convince us we will, 'one day'... A kind mother of one of my students said we should 'at least try', we might like it. This made me laugh, there is no 'try' with children, there is do or don't. You can't say 'well, I tried, I don't like it, can you take it back?'

Those who know us well know that all we really want is a dog. Sadly dogs can be even trickier than children to look after, and before I cause uproar with this statement I need to point out that we travel. A lot. A dog is not quite as easy to take on a plane or find a bed for. What makes it worse is that in Morocco dogs are seen as dirty; many people don't even want to touch them, let alone have them in their house. A dog in a house is said to invite in evil spirits. We're not going to find too many volunteers to dog sit for us here.

It is for this reason that we have never had a pet. Apart from the odd gecko that is. In school this semester my class is doing the living environment. We went through two weeks of having birds, reptiles, fish, insects and molluscs brought into the class by one young boy who is a definite David Attenborough in the making and who happens to have very understanding parents that open their house to an incredible range of animals. What he lacked though was a mammal that was calm enough for class handling; his dog wees on the floor when stressed, something I didn't really fancy, not even for the noble purpose of science education. It was this dilemma that got me thinking about getting a class pet.

After much deliberation about animals kept in cages and the need for two for company, we got a white male Syrian Hamster. Thankfully they are territorial and need to be kept alone. I had visions of, hamster novice that I am, mistakenly putting a boy and a girl together and then ending up with a much bigger science education lesson than planned. We had bought a cage for him from Spain the weekend before he arrived, and when he was brought into school by my budding David Attenborough in a water jug I was rather perturbed. Not only was he far bigger than I expected, far too big for the cage, he was long and ratty looking; white with red eyes, and he stank of wee. This was not the cute addition to the class I had anticipated. 

With a few adaptations to the cage (I had to make a ladder out of BBQ skewers as he was too big for the hole to get on the slide), our hamster soon settled into his small but cosy cage. I asked the students to think of a name and write on papers to be picked out of a hat. When I pulled out 'Snowy' three kids simultaneously shouted “Yay, that's mine!”. They then continued to bicker about who actually got to name him all the way to computer class, but Snowy it was.

To my surprise hamsters sleep all day and party all night. Our new class pet likes to bury himself so deep in a bed of white tissue that you don't even know he is in the cage. He wakes up about 8.00 in the evening and then is well and truly partied out by the time the kids get in to school in the morning. If he is seen during the day it is only to sleepwalk to his water or fall asleep in a corner with food in his hands. When woken by overexcited children, or more likely their teacher, he opens one sleepy eye and then the other to peer at you, unamused, before going back to sleep.

I have to admit I was a little bit disappointed with our acquisition. This was not the educational interaction that I had intended. Saying that he gave himself a good bath and we all quickly got attached to our sleepy little friend. So attached that when the first weekend came I found I couldn't bear to leave him all alone in school. I carried him home in his cage wrapped in a jacket through blisteringly cold wind, talking to him all the way to keep him calm. If anyone one else was brave enough to face the weather they would have thought I was nuts.

 It was only during this first weekend, when I went to a friend's and came home at 1.00 in the morning, I saw that our boring little mammal had morphed into a frantic overeager gymnast. I now know that hamsters sleep most of the day and spend most of the night hanging upside down on the bars at the top of their cage, well at least that's what ours does. This frenetic energy made us go out and get him a cage twice the size, where he can now spend hours running in his wheel or doing cliff-hanger impressions of the top of the cage. Our boring little hamster is actually full of character and is more addictive to watch than the TV. You find yourself having to rewind things you have missed while watching him clown around, chatter for your attention or walk around bumping into things with a cheek bulging at odd angles, stuffed with an over sized piece of carrot. After that first weekend trip home we have found that we can't leave him in school on his own each night to perform his tricks to an empty room. He gets carried back and forth in his second home each morning and afternoon. At home the three of us have a sofa each to watch TV from. He is becoming a very spoilt little hamster.

Being a pet owner for the first time has not been stress-free. It was only after a week of having him and then doing some internet checking that I found out that we had been caring for him all wrong. This distressed me greatly, 'had I scarred him for life?', would he ever recover from our over exuberant handling? When he woke up after one particularly deep sleep his eyes were all wonky... Thinking I best be pro-active, I did the stupid thing of Googling it and found our hamster was probably dying. Obviously the same applies for hamsters and self internet diagnosis as does for humans. Why had I never appreciated how difficult animal care was? It seems that at every turn there was a chance I could kill our precious little man. When Nick came to me during a party we were having at ours and said quietly 'I have just thrown the hamster across the room", explaining that it had clamped its teeth into his finger which he quickly yanked away, inadvertently sending Snowy flying. Like any blinkered parent I found myself making excuses for his out of character behaviour... he was stressed by the noise, all the people unnerved him. The worst thing was that as well as being shocked by the fact that there was blood everywhere, I was somewhat relieved that it was Nick's. It is so much easier to patch up a finger than a hamster.

As for keeping animals in cages... I’m still not sure. But I know that if we didn't have him some kid in town would have him in a small and probably dirty cage judging on how the majority of people care for animals out here. With us he is clean, safe and entertained. Surely that's got to count for something? If we were to just let him go he would either freeze or get eaten by a kestrel.

But now we are back to that old concern....the holidays... who gets the class pet? One parent has suggested we put him in the freezer to see if he hibernates.

I wonder how easy it would be to pack him in a suitcase.

Holiday Highlights

If you read the previous post you may have gathered that I am now somewhat sold on the benefits of Spanish and Portuguese holidays. Endless blue skies and a food a wine lover's delight, there is lots to enjoy. Having grown up a country girl and spent much of my time in Bangkok craving wide open spaces, it was something of a surprise to me that the highlights of both Spain and Portugal were exploring the cities. Then again in reflection, it is perhaps not such a great surprise when you think that other than the cities and towns, you are left with Mediterranean and Atlantic coast beaches (dirty and windswept respectively and both Arctic by my standards), or sleepy mountain villages.

During our trip the places that stood out were Ronda and Seville in Spain, and Lisbon in Portugal. These three locations all share some of the same features; great food and drink, narrow cobbled streets, character filled buildings, an abundance of Mediterranean culture and lets not forget that wonderful endless blue sky. As well as all this, each place has its own uniqueness and offers something different.

Seville

The Andalucian capital of Seville swelters in intense heat and is not best placed for any kind of breeze. The mid-day streets, quiet and empty of locals, are left to the tourists who don't know better and swealter. During July and August many locals leave for cooler climates or embrace the siesta experience. Businesses shut down and people retreat indoors for up to five hours. 

Seville has something for everyone. It concentrates all that is good about Andalusia; medieval winding streets, plazas filled with orange trees, is the home of flamenco, has a huge range of historical landmarks and there is high street and boutique shopping galore. 

 

Possibly the best thing about Seville though is the night-life. After snoozing away the hot hours, the streets come alive as the sun descends. The people of Seville really know how to enjoy themselves and as with the day time activities there is something for everyone. Posh restaurants interspersed with old and new tapas bars serving award winning nibbles, bar streets that stretch as far as the eye can see, and this was just our local area. We went to one unassuming little tapas bar that had taken over the church plaza across the road. Vacated tables and chairs here were quickly filled by locals trailing dogs. This is definitely my kind of dog walking.

Lisbon

In stark contrast to Seville, Portugal's understated star attraction is surprisingly cool at this time of year with a constant breeze that travels in from the Atlantic and up the Rio Tejo to keep Lisbon at a refreshing 25-30 degrees in the day and 20-25 degrees at night. This relative chill catches many unawares and clothes shops must do a bustling trade in extra layers sold to unprepared tourists. 

Lisbon has a profound effect on its visitors, with it reportedly found that over 90% of people wish to return. So just what is it about the Portuguese capital that sets it apart from other cities? The first thing that strikes you about Lisbon is the colour. Built partly on hills, the colourful buildings appear to tumble down into the water. The contrast of orange roofed, white washed cottages interspersed with brightly tiled town houses and grand Gothic churches are all complemented by the bright blue sky and the deep blue river. Steep tree lined one way streets are filled with the ringing bells of rickety yellow trams, a visiting driver's nightmare. This is a modern city with a village feel. It has an air of Sydney and what I imagine Rio to be like, but far more laid back.

 

While exploring the town centre it is hard not to get distracted, as we did, very, by the opportunities for Port and wine tasting. It is possible to go from one side of the road to another testing Tawnys and LBV's. All we were doing was walking to a friend's apartment, the 10 minute walk took us about an hour. I now have a new found love of Port. Thankfully it's not just seen as an old man's drink out there. I’ll just have to drink it in private when back home.

As well as the relaxed cafés and restaurants that can be found on every corner (apart from on a certain night where we were looking for a cheap eat and seemed to walk for 40 minutes without spotting anything better than a greasy spoon Café... even classy cities have them), there is the famed Bairro Alta area where you can enjoy fine food, music and pint and a half mojitos for €5. Here beautiful people spill out into the streets until they have drunk too much to remain beautiful, but by that point nobody really cares.

The draw of Lisbon is very acute. Even the fact that the city is rife with pick-pockets was not enough to put us off. Well maybe, just for a short while, after some huge Eastern European thug shouted in our faces that he was going to find us and '**** us up later' when Nick called him out for stealing someone's wallet on the tram. Regardless of all this drama we still found ourselves scouring the internet for possible job opportunities in the area even before we left. Lisbon is a city that takes hold of you. 

Ronda

Saving the best for last? With all that Lisbon offers it might be hard to believe that the small Andalucian mountain town of Ronda could top it as our favourite place to visit. Andalucia’s fastest growing town is full of historical charm, dramatic views and arguably the best tapas bar we've ever visited. These days with us it all eventually boils down to the quality of the food and drink. 

Ronda is the home of modern bullfighting and was the first place where a man got of his horse in order to come face to face with a bull. To be fair I still figure they should have left the bull alone either with a horse or on foot. Perched precariously on the edge of a plateau and divided by a 120 metre canyon, the two parts of the old town are linked by a grand Roman bridge. This bridge is about 220 years old and took forty years to build. It is architecturally stunning and is made up of three tiers of arches. What is perhaps most impressive about the bridge is the fact that it is still used today as a main thoroughfare. 

 

Ernest Hemingway once described Ronda, one of his seemingly endless summer holiday destinations, as 'the perfect place to honeymoon'. With its history, hidden plazas and dramatic views it is undoubtedly a very romantic city. While this wasn't completely lost on us, we arrived there after days in British styled Fuengirola with one thing and one thing only on our minds... tapas bars. It took us about half an hour to park the car and find the hotel before we hit our first tapas bar. While unlike Ceuta and Mellia the tapas are not free, they are the cheapest we have come across in our travels of mainland Spain. Perhaps it was the €1 beer €1 tapas deals that sealed our love of the place. We ate and drank until we could eat and drink no more. It was at that point we turned the corner on the way home to find the holy grail of tapas bars. Set into a brick arch with old barrels as tables outside, Entrevinos is distinct for offering twenty Ronda produced wines by the glass as well as a wide selection of gourmet style dishes. Actually, maybe my love for Ronda comes from the squid ink pasta and calamari or duck breast in Madeira sauce for €1.50. Not sure how we can work it into our travel plans to go back, but we'll try. 

 

With this new love of Europe it is hard to see how we will tear ourselves away from our convenient spot in north Morocco. Anyone know any jobs going in Europe?