Some of you might have noticed from a few(!) Instagram and Facebook posts that I’ve spent the last week in what can only be described as paradise: The Capaldi Hotel, an oasis of calm at the foot of the Atlas Mountains. So before the smell of After-Sun fades along with my hard-earned tan, I wanted to get a blog post up here telling you all about it.
I first read about the Capaldi on one of my favourite blogs Fashion Me Now. Every one of Lucy’s fabulous travel posts inspires intense holiday envy but there was something about this particular place that hooked me in – it might have been the white-cushioned reading sun trap in the beautiful gardens or the pink terracotta walls lit by tiny Moroccan lanterns… Anyway, the moment we arrived in the lobby and caught a first glimpse of that pool through the doors, we were high-fiveing our decision over a welcome flask of mint tea (thanks iEscape!)
Suddenly that 6am flight didn’t seem so bad, especially when we were told that our standard farmhouse double had been upgraded to a deluxe suite. Three huge airy rooms with our own private terrace, a huge bath and wet room, and the biggest, comfiest bed – all scattered with fresh rose petals. We even had two gold sinks so we could brush our teeth side-by-side every night (tres romantique).
Having been to North Africa before on a family holiday to Tunisia, I didn’t feel any pressure to do a touristy camel ride or a visit to the Berber villages this time around. Instead, we spent three of our six days lounging by the tranquil turquoise pool, ploughing through holiday reading and sipping Casablanca beer on the hotel bar terrace. And we mostly had the run of that incredible pool and the gardens to ourselves. Other guests only started arriving on Friday afternoon, by which time we’d already had two days pretending the Capaldi was our own private villa. Even at its busiest over the weekend, we rarely saw anyone else outside of meal times. I think most people stuck to the smaller heated pool (or in the case of one lucky couple, their private pool suite!)
Much to Pete’s distress, I lugged my own hardbacks with me (earning us a £60 luggage fee from Ryan Air) but there was absolutely no need. The hotel’s library is fully stocked with all manner of novels, chick lit, magazines and guides – I found some gems in there, including Haruki Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart, a writer I’ve wanted to get to know for a while.
After a tough day’s reading, playing Rummy and sipping fresh Moroccan orange juice by the pool, we’d head back for a quick shower and then follow the trail of lanterns down the winding stone paths to drinks and dinner.
Being allergic to dairy, Pete assumed he’d struggle but our wonderful host Corrinne was on hand to brief the chef to create inventive replacements. In fact, what made our stay so special was the manager Corinne and the two ex-pat owners, Tara and Ed. Every morning we’d sit down to breakfast on Moroccan pancakes, fig jam and fruit salad, and Corrinne would come over and suggest things we could do that day – a trip to Essaouira, or Marrakech, or Lake Takerhoust (more on all of those in posts to come). She even spent about an hour helping the staff connect up the TV channels in the hotel’s private cinema so that we could watch Eurovision!
Oh yeah, we got kind of attached to Corrinne’s labrador, Eolia, too – what’s a holiday without adopting an animal or two?
Some animals I could have done without adopting were these mouse-sized crickets – yes, they might look like they’re wearing “little shoes” but that doesn’t make them any cuter. Thankfully they stayed at ground level, far away from our suite!
On our final night we experienced a rare Moroccan thunderstorm – cosied up in a fur blanket on our sofa, we watched lightening hit the terrace outside, the rain making the pink stone even prettier.
Overnight the clouds lifted and our final morning was the most beautiful yet – it’s a miracle we managed to drag ourselves away. Capaldi, we’ll be seeing you again sometime soon; that’s a promise.
