High up on the roof of an elegant riad, lit by the gentle glow of candlelight, the setting for my first meal on Moroccan soil could not be more idyllic — or romantic. In fact, it is exactly what I pictured when my husband, John, and I decided to spend our first wedding anniversary in Marrakesh.
There’s only one thing missing. That husband I mentioned? He’s still in London. Sitting opposite me, at the rose-petal-strewn table, is another man. A replacement, if you will — though not in that way. It’s my father.
Let me explain. When I booked five nights in Morocco a few months ago it seemed the perfect anniversary getaway. John had long yearned to go and, after one look at images of colorful ceramics in its souks, I was convinced too.
The village of Imlil in the Atlas Mountains, Morocco
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In the weeks running up to the trip, as we researched restaurants and hammams, it assumed a sort of second-honeymoon status. Foreign travel had seemed unreliable when we married last autumn, so we celebrated with a pandemic-friendly week in Yorkshire. Morocco was to be the maxi-foil to our Covidy UK mini-moon.
Until, that is, my husband was offered a new job — a dream opportunity, beginning precisely four days before our intended departure. Did he really want to disappear, feet barely under the desk? Would I feel happy asking him to? The answers were no.
All of which is how, having paid the £90 demanded by Ryanair to change the name on his booking, I find myself on a roof in Marrakesh, sharing a candlelit meal with my 73-year-old dad. The food — a dainty cabbage and almond roulade, an aubergine salad and a chicken tagine — is served by Mustafa, the softly spoken night manager at Riad Azzar, our base for the next six days. Like everything else here — from the antiques scattered around to the steady stream of ice-cold Casablanca beers served in the afternoon — it is impeccable.
● Best riads in Marrakesh
● Best things to do in Marrakesh
Dad loves it, and I’m relieved. I’d booked our rooms relatively last minute on the basis that the riad was central, met his desire for a pool and mine for elegance, and was reasonably priced (important given that I was no longer splitting the cost of a room). No one would describe my father as one of life’s happy-go-lucky passengers, so his satisfaction feels like a win.
The Petite Court, Bahia Palace, Marrakesh
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This eagerness may have been a throwback to my adolescence, and in the subsequent days I adopt a variety of roles: daughter, tour guide, worrier-in-chief. “That’s some Freudian shit,” was a friend’s reaction when I told her about my anniversary swapsie. Unfair — though it feels odd, and poignant, to be the one “in charge”: rifling in my bag for tickets; reading maps; checking that the walk isn’t too far or too hot.
Still, we’ll soon settle into a happy little routine. Breakfast is at 8am sharp and a daily dose of sugary excitement: which kind of pancakes — spongy baghrir, dainty crêpes or crispy, fried msemen — will be on offer that morning? Will we get chocolate cake or lemon? What fruit will there be?
Then we set off on foot for that day’s “main” activity. Our first morning is given over to a walking tour of the medina, which I book via a website called Marrakech with Locals (tip only; marrakechwithlocals.com). It’s worth it — we venture far deeper into the maze of alleys than we would on our own. After that it’s the sprawling 19th-century Bahia Palace (£6), where the throngs can’t detract from the intricate mosaic tiles, swirling, almost paisley paintwork and boiled-sweet stained glass.
We also love the bijou Maison de la Photographie (£4; maisondelaphotographie.ma) as well as the fat, fabulous succulents and bright blue walls of the Jardin Majorelle (£10; jardinmajorelle.com). The garden is named after the artist Jacques Majorelle, who created it in the 1920s and 1930s. In the 1980s, Yves Saint Laurent and his business partner Pierre Bergé bought it. The nearby Yves Saint Laurent Museum (£8) was closed for the week of our visit.
The Jardin Majorelle, Marrakesh
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Afternoons are spent reading and resting at the riad before we venture out again for dinner. Our favorite meal is provided by Nomad, a Marrakesh institution (mains from £9; nomadmarrakech.com). I’m told that it divides opinion, and like many places in the medina it doesn’t serve alcohol. However, we adore our alfresco food — lamb chops for Dad; chicken with pear confit for me — on the buzzing roof terrace.
There are remarkably few wrinkles. The traffic is completely insane — a raucous flurry of cars, motorbikes, bicycles and donkeys, and not just on big roads, but on narrow pedestrian lanes too. We soon learn to stick to the right side (fractionally safer) and allow extra time to get anywhere. I plan a day trip to Imlil, a village in the Atlas Mountains, and while our hiking guide is brilliant I sense my father’s frustration at the sheer tourist-trail popularity of it all. In his twenties he drove through the area in a Land Rover as part of a six-week trip around North Africa, so perhaps it’s not surprising that he finds our stage-managed walk along a route dotted with hawkers underwhelming.
For the most part, though, we rub along contentedly. It is Dad’s first time abroad — and mine outside Europe — since March 2020, and we don’t stop marveling at the novelty. Around the riad we assume a sort of odd-couple status, Dad’s fondness for Casablanca beers becoming a running joke with the staff.
One afternoon I venture out alone, having booked a massage and hammam at Les Bains de Marrakech (from £40; lesbainsdemarrakech.com). I arrive back at the riad to be greeted by a puzzled Mustafa. “But where is your father?” he asks, peering out from the front door to check the lane behind me. No, I explain, I left my Tweedledum behind today, because it’s good to spend a bit of time apart.
Need to know
Alice-Azania Jarvis traveled independently. B&B doubles from £120 (riadazzar.com)
