Before we arrived in Morocco, I’d heard great things about a seaside town called Essaouira, apparently a more laid-back, interesting beach option than the touristy resort town of Agadir. So when we saw heavy clouds forecast for Sunday in the Atlas Mountains, we decided to flee for brighter coastal climes. Our Capaldi hosts thought we’d had too much sun when we suggested the three-hour drive out, but humoured us by booking a car to take us there early and get us back in time for dinner. It was the best decision we made all holiday – while the other hotel guests shivered under blankets in the rain, we were sunning ourselves in the blazing heat on the Essaouira sand.
Despite the rocky roads, we’d resigned ourselves to catching some shut-eye on the journey there, only to be woken up by our driver on a seemingly random bit of roadway. Then we saw the reason for the pause – ahead of us was a large Argan tree. A tree that was apparently growing… goats. I honestly thought I was still dreaming! It’s one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen. Apparently the goats climb the tree to eat the olive-like fruit, then they pass the stones which are ground down to create the famous Moroccan Argan oil. It’s really delicious. I know this because a little further down the road we stopped off at a tiny oil ‘factory’ and I got to try some for myself (conveniently forgetting its pooped olive stone origin).
When we finally arrived at Essaouira, we dodged the locals pestering us to enlist ‘a guide’ and made our own way down the harbour. The fishy, salty damp smell of the sea and the shouts of the fishermen hits you as soon as you step out of the car; Essaouira is everything a seaside town should be. And I can see why they call it the ‘Wind City of Africa’ – definitely breezy. What was most striking though was the mass of screeching seagulls, streaming across the city walls like a swarm of bats. Growing up near St Ives I’m used to seagulls, but this was on a whole new level!
If the harbour was an amplified Cornish sea port, the old town was something completely different. The fortified red walls shelter a maze of winding, dusty streets and crumbling alleyways, interspersed with palm trees and shady museums and galleries. We stepped out of the dusty heat into a tiny art gallery off a side street, displaying about half a dozen local artists’ pieces. Outside, stalls sell sculptures and tools carved from thuya wood, as well as the usual medina fares, and wandering these souks is a much calmer experience than in hectic Marrakesh.
On the edge of the medina is a gem of a restaurant called Taros, which is the Berber name for that infamous coastal wind. It was here that we stopped for lunch, sitting on the very highest of the cafe’s many terraces to enjoy unparalleled views over the coast. The white-washed walls and shiny blue trimmings felt more Mediterranean than African, but the food was entirely Moroccan.
Fat and sun-soaked, we headed to the sand for an afternoon of beach lounging and reading. Our last hour was spent sipping glass after glass of fresh orange juice at Le Chalet de la Plage, watching the frisbee players on the beach as the sun began to go down. All in all, a pretty perfect day.
All photos © of Alice Oven and Pete Durant
