Morocco Day One: Marrakech to the Oued Zat Valley
As we rode out of Marrakech, it hit me: at 62 years old, I am celebrating 50 years of cycle touring. It’s a long way from my very first trip to Ingleton as a 12-year-old, and this expedition is a fitting milestone—a bikepacking journey from Marrakech to Tangier, tracking the rugged Atlas Mountains Race route before joining the Route of Caravans North. My companion is Roland Kelly, an experienced adventurer who masterfully plotted our opening stages.
Day one began in the chaotic energy of Marrakech. Once clear of the city limits, the going was fast along a busy road that kept us on high alert. After a few hours, we pulled into a bustling market town to stock up on provisions. A lunch of fresh flatbreads, avocados, bananas, and sweet pastries made for a fantastic roadside feast.
A few miles later, the Atlas Mountains finally materialized through the haze. From then on, the gradient turned relentlessly upward. Leaving the tarmac behind, we turned into a striking valley carpeted with lush green fields, vibrant yellow flowers, and olive groves set against jagged rocky outcrops. We shared the track with local farmers leading donkeys and groups of young children who dashed out with beaming smiles, holding their hands up for high-fives as we pedaled past.
Further up the valley, the idyllic scenery shifted into a bizarre landscape of makeshift salt pans. It was a stark, almost industrial contrast—terraced platforms pieced together with plastic sheeting, piping, and scattered rubbish. After a series of short, punishingly steep climbs, we briefly rejoined the main highway before plunging off-road again, descending toward the Oued Zat river.
We called it a day in a small, scruffy village. After a bit of searching, we located a hotel with rooms a little further up the street in a decidedly shabby building. The room itself turned out to be surprisingly decent, even if almost nothing in it actually worked. It's a bed for the night, and we'll need the rest: tomorrow begins immediately with a 1,500-foot climb, followed by a drop into the next valley, and a grueling ascent of several thousand feet toward Telouet.
Morocco Day 2: Into and over the Atlas Mountains (39 miles | 8,000 feet Ascent)
A brutal, and unforgettable day, culminating in a massive, high-altitude battle over the pass to Telouet. Blocked by landslides and deep snow, it took everything we had to break through.
We made an early start, rolling out before 7:30 AM to tackle an immediate 2,000-foot climb. The mountain roads were bustling with the morning school commute; children were traveling in buses, on foot, or piled into the back of open wagons. Everyone we met offered a smile and a wave, and the kids eagerly dashed out for high-fives as we crawled up the steep gradient.
Higher up, pails of milk sat unattended by the roadside in a beautifully trusting "self-service" system—the local circular economy in perfection. Terraces of walnut trees dominated the valley floor, while higher up the slopes, tiny meadows nestled among massive boulders and ancient stone walls, forming a fantastic green tapestry against the hillside.
As the snow-capped peaks of the Atlas drew closer, we crested the first major summit. We quickly pulled back on the layers we’d shed during the hot ascent and celebrated this first milestone with a slice of homemade Christmas cake. The silence of the peaks was broken only by the distinctive "peep-peep-peep" of Levaillant's woodpeckers darting across the road, and the chatter of three local women in brightly colored wool clothing herding livestock down the track. Life is undeniably hard in these mountains, but a deep sense of contentment seems to be a common thread.
A long, rewarding descent dropped us into a patchwork of vibrant green terraces carved out of the stark red hillsides. In a tiny village, we stopped at a tourist cafe for a quick coffee and crisps. We scouted around for provisions, managing to secure cheese, bananas, and oranges, but the daily bread delivery wasn't expected until much later.
From there, the real work began: a relentless ascent tracking a powerful river swollen with snowmelt. The road here had been modernized recently, but the hillside was volatile; massive sections of earth had slid down, swallowing the tarmac. After passing the last signs of civilization, we stopped at the river to filter and top off our water bottles. Ahead lay 20 to 30 miles of absolute wilderness—no water, no shelter, no turning back.
We tackled switchback after switchback up a south-facing slope dotted with palms, junipers, and ancient dwarf oaks. The climb felt infinite, growing steeper as we entered the final 3,000-foot push. Here, the new road gave way to the violence of nature. The unstable terrain had triggered catastrophic landslides, burying several hairpins under thousands of tons of rock and mud. Progression ground to a halt. We had to unclip our panniers, portaging our heavy bikes and gear through the debris in exhausting return trips.
To make matters worse, these deep-cut hairpins acted as wind traps for snow. Higher up, the track disappeared entirely beneath drifts several meters deep. Wrestling loaded bikes through high-altitude snowbanks shattered our pace. It was nearly 5:00 PM by the time we finally crested the grueling 2,500-meter (8,200 ft) pass.
But the summit offered no easy reprieve. Looking down the other side, we were confronted by a steep, boulder-strewn hillside with no visible track. The standard route was completely buried under a massive snowfield. Forcing a line through a rougher, alternative path, we spent four agonizing kilometers pushing and hauling the bikes over jagged, boulder-choked ground before finally rejoining our intended route.
In the bitter, biting mountain cold, we bundled into every layer we had and choked down a final snack. Slowly, the rock gave way to dirt, the track smoothed out, and it finally spat us into a rural valley. From there, a fast, flying dirt track carried us down into the historic stronghold of Telouet. What a day.
Morocco Day 3: Morning in the Mountains (50 miles | 2,000 feet Ascent)
We were awoken by the sound of rain drumming on the tin roofs. The sound eventually eased, but not because the storm had passed—it had simply turned to snow. Realizing we couldn't change the weather, we leaned into the slow pace of the morning and enjoyed a hearty breakfast of egg tajine at 9:30 AM. One of the men working at the hotel offered to take us to see the Kasbah. We wandered through the back streets of the town in a flurry of snow toward the imposing, chaotic walls of the ancient building.
The Lord of the Atlas
The structure is in a poor state now, but the interior rooms offer a glimpse of its former glory, featuring incredible mosaics and carved plaster ceilings. It felt surreal to see portraits of Winston Churchill and Charlie Chaplin hanging on the walls. A century ago, the "Lord of the Atlas," as the owner was known, held connections with some of the most powerful people of the era.
The Ride South
We decided to cycle the 20 kilometers to the next town to see how the weather held. It snowed, and then it snowed some more. While beautiful, the cold began to bite, so we sought shelter in a local Kasbah. The Berber owner was incredibly kind, bringing us tea, cake, and bread. Just as we were settling in to stay the night, the skies cleared. With the sun emerging, we seized the moment and changed our route, heading south away from the mountains toward Ouarzazate.
The River Valley
What followed was a long, beautiful glide down a river valley, flanked by dramatic rock formations and small villages nestled against the cliffs. The road was blissfully quiet—save for a sudden rally of vehicles coming from the opposite direction!
Shopping in Morocco can be a test of patience; it often feels like everything is for sale except exactly what you need. After several failed attempts to find bread, a local Berber lady overheard our request at a shop. She offered us her own homemade flatbread, fresh from a wood-fired oven. It was delicious.
The Shortcut and the Crossing
As we donned our waterproofs to brave fresh flurries of rain, we looked back at the mountains we had crossed the day before, now draped in a heavy white blanket. We tried to be clever by cutting a corner on some gravel tracks, only to find our path blocked by a murky, bridgeless river. Luckily, a young tractor driver appeared. I waved him down and pointed to his trailer; he kindly stopped and gave us—and our bikes—a dry lift across the loose, gravelly riverbed.
Arrival
We rolled into Ouarzazate just as dusk was falling. After a quick hotel search and a much-needed hot shower, we finished the day with a meal at a small cafe across the street..
Morocco Day 4: Red Peaks and Ramadan Mornings
The day began with the Atlas Mountains bleeding red under the first light of dawn. We watched the glow from our window, fueled only by a quick tea before heading out into the quiet chill of Ramadan. The streets were a contrast of life: swarms of school children and placid street dogs that watched us pass with mild curiosity. This was no dusty outpost; the town was a clean, affluent hub for Morocco’s massive renewable energy projects—a high-tech oasis of solar towers and salt batteries.
The Banana Underground
The first 35 kilometers were a gauntlet of busy traffic, with vehicles hugging our lane a little too closely for comfort. We finally caught a break at a lonely petrol station for caffeine and biscuits. Pushing further off-road, we discovered the strange etiquette of local commerce: in these parts, bananas are treated like contraband, hidden under the counter until you specifically ask for them.
A Cinematic Detour
Our path north was suddenly blocked by an absurd sight—armed security guarding a barren, dry wash. We had inadvertently cycled onto the set of the Netflix series The Mercenary. Forced off our route, we navigated a direct line across the rocky riverbed to bypass the film crew.
Racing the Sleet
The afternoon was a steady, grueling climb up the gravel aprons of the southern Atlas. We hopped across shallow river crossings where the desert suddenly turned lush with beans and palm trees. But as we climbed higher, the sky turned hostile. The blue vanished, replaced by a biting wind that blew straight off the peaks, chilling us to the bone.
Water became a rare commodity; with no taps to be found in the parched landscape, we had to rely on bottled supplies from a tiny mountain village. With our planned off-road route ending in a cliffside dead end, we scouted for any level ground. We finally claimed a small, desolate terrace just as the clouds broke. We dove into the tent just seconds before the sleet and rain slammed into the valley.
Morocco Day 5: The Freight-Train Wind and the Painted Peaks
A Night on the Almond Terraces
Our introduction to wild camping in the Atlas was an unforgiving one. We had pitched on the flat earth of some ancient almond terraces, the ground seemingly stable despite a slight stickiness. But as the flysheet went up, the heavens opened. A few locals appeared out of the gloom, advising us with quiet insistence to seek shelter in a gite further up the valley. They warned us that camping here was "not sensible." They were right, of course.
By midnight, the sleet had surrendered, but a new adversary arrived: the wind. It didn't just blow; it roared down the dry valleys like a heavy freight train. In the small hours, a particularly violent gust flattened the tent entirely, snapping the central pole out of alignment. Roland was forced out into the night, wrestling with the pole while his boots sank into mud that had turned to a thick, cloying paste.
The Palette of the High Atlas
By seven, the gale had blown itself out. We packed away with the quiet efficiency born of cold hands and a desire to move, heading east into a dry riverbed flanked by sheer, rugged cliffs. Here, the mountains felt less like geology and more like a vast pastel painting. The canvas was dominated by muted, earthy tones, slashed occasionally with bold strokes of hematite red, obsidian black, and chalky white. Look closer, and there was a subtle, secondary palette—the faint, tender green of new growth pushing through the skeletal remains of last year’s parched scrub.
We climbed steadily, our tyres searching for traction on the "sticky" sections where the mud threatened to halt our momentum entirely. Along the cliffs, we passed Berber families who had carved their lives directly into the soft rock, their cave dwellings appearing as permanent and timeless as the ridges themselves.
The High Ridges and the ‘Underground’ Villages
In the heart of this remote wilderness, we crested a notch in the ridge and looked down upon a tiny settlement. It was a place of Adobe and earth, where only the mosque and the school stood out in modern stone. Beyond it, the landscape was dotted with vast flocks of sheep and goats. The shepherds here live as they have for centuries, their homes built into rocky bluffs with adobe walls forming protective enclosures for their livestock. In a land with no surface water, the scattering of ancient wells we saw are not just features of the landscape; they are its pulse.
The Descent to the Dades
A steep climb through a final mountain notch delivered us into a parallel valley, followed by a gravity-fueled descent to a roadside café. After the trials of the night, a simple pizza felt like an absurd luxury.
The afternoon offered a sublime stretch of track—red sandstone cliffs on one side and clusters of pale, rounded pinnacles on the other, looking for all the world like a forest of stone. With a welcome tailwind at our backs, we traversed the shallow inlets of the valley before finally intersecting the Dades Gorge.
The track was a crossroads of worlds. We watched a team of Polish drivers bouncing their way through the dust in a Porsche, but the image that lingered was far more ancient: an old Berber man on horseback, his heavy robes concealing a small child whose head just peeked out into the mountain air. We finished the day with five kilometers of smooth, sweeping piste through a tightening canyon—a perfect, rhythmic end to a grueling twenty-four hours.
Morocco Day 6: Traversing the Dades
After a grueling night of camping, the auberge at the bottom of the Dades Gorge was a sanctuary. Having stopped there years prior, I remembered the warm welcome and comfortable lodgings. We were the only guests that night, yet we were treated to an excellent three-course meal, endless cups of tea, and a bedroom equipped with the customary "mountain of blankets." The breakfast was equally fortifying—handmade pancakes and scrambled eggs—setting us up for the long, rewarding day ahead.
The Climb into the Clouds
The lower section of the Gorge is a hub of tourist activity, featuring everything from basic hostels to high-end hotels with panoramic views. As we followed the river, the route climbed gradually, occasionally scaling steep slopes dictated by the dramatic geology before dipping back toward the water.
The main tourist section ends abruptly at the famous series of spectacular hairpins. Beyond this point, the landscape opens up. We eventually passed through a narrow slot where the river has carved vertical walls hundreds of meters high, leaving just enough room for the water and the road.
Our Mid-Day Milestones:
The Provisions: We found a shop like an "Aladdin’s cave," where we purchased bread, avocados, bananas, dates, and even yogurt.
The Guest:
At a roadside café overlooking cherry orchards, we shared our omelets and tea with a local stork who seemed fascinated by our bikes.
The River: Below us, the river was a ribbon of grey-blue snowmelt, bringing a thread of vibrant green to an otherwise rocky, lunar landscape.
The 3,000-Meter Challenge
The 3,000-Meter Challenge
At this altitude, the lack of oxygen becomes a physical weight. Every exertion above a steady tempo resulted in dizziness; every pedal stroke took us into thinner air.
The Summit and the Descent
Spanish drivers heading down warned us of snow. Indeed, we encountered large drifts, though a narrow trench had been cut through them. The view from the top was transcendental—the snow highlighted the underlying geology, making the mountain ranges look like a series of frozen waves curling over one another.
After two hours of climbing, we celebrated briefly, layered up, and began a frozen descent. Our tired legs "stung and complained" through two final smaller hills before we spotted a colorful roadside auberge.
Shelter from the Wind
The thick adobe walls, wooden beams, and cane ceilings provided a warm embrace. Our host welcomed us with hot sweet tea and a roaring stove just as a fierce cold wind began to howl outside.
When we mentioned the noise, our host smiled. He told us the wind was the "music of the mountains," whispering its own melody to help us relax and sleep. After a hearty meal and a brief chat, the mountain's melody did exactly that; we barely managed a few pages of our books before falling into a deep, well-earned sleep.
Morocco Day 7: The High Atlas: Roads, Rivers, and Precarious Livestock
Morning Light and Changing Landscapes
The bright sunlight peeping through our tiny window heralded the start of another day on the trail. While our room had felt warm last night compared to the bitter conditions outside, by morning the roles had reversed; it was a pleasure to step out into the calm, crisp air and feel the warmth of the day’s first rays.
After an excellent breakfast provided by our host and a brief chat, we continued our descent through a string of roadside settlements. Where yesterday’s journey was defined by the life of the river port, today was the road’s turn to shine. In this region, the road is everything—without it, life would be unimaginably tough.
Having traveled this route by bicycle two years ago, the changes were striking. The road is only a few years old, yet it has already sparked a transformation: more tourist stops, more cafes, and even roadside stalls selling fresh coffee. New schools have appeared where there were none before.
The Gravity-Defying Sheep of Imilchil
As we threaded our way down toward Imilchil, the road wound around rocky bluffs and shallow canyons carved by the river. We began encountering uphill traffic—mostly vans bursting with people and goods. Many sported massive roof racks piled high with luggage, more passengers, and occasionally, sheep.
One particular van, carrying only sheep on its roof, was a heart-stopping sight. With no one up top to manage the livestock, the animals had all shifted to one side. The van was listing dangerously around a corner, the tires on the heavy side crushed almost flat against the gravel, while the wheels on the opposite side looked ready to lift off the tarmac. It seemed destined to topple at any second, a furry catastrophe in the making.
Into the Coldest Town in Morocco
We eventually reached Imilchil, famously the coldest town in Morocco. The market was in full swing, providing a vibrant backdrop for a much-needed lunch and a restock of our supplies.
Leaving the town behind, we pedaled past two spectacular turquoise lakes. Their color was intensified by the backdrop of bare mountains topped with dazzling white snow. As the paved road gave way to a rougher track, we followed a river whose waters had turned an ochre red, stained by sediment washed down from the melting snow.
The Descent into the Unknown
At a notch in the ridgeline, we spotted a steep, zigzagging ascent through ancient, stunted oak trees. This marked the start of a long downhill section that we expected to be a rocky, steep track. Instead, we were met with blank banks of snow. The route had vanished.
Leaving the bikes behind to scout, we eventually picked a way down the first section. We avoided the deepest drifts where possible, though we frequently had to kick tracks into the snow and manhandle the bikes through with extreme care.
A Riverside Sanctuary
By five o’clock, we had reached our limit. Fortunately, we stumbled upon a perfect camping spot: a lush green strip of grass tucked between poplar trees at the edge of the riverbed. We enjoyed a hard-earned cup of tea and biscuits, watching the stars emerge one by one in the crystal-clear sky above the canyon walls.
Pro-Tips: How to Not Die While Pushing a Bike Down a Mountain
Should you ever feel the inexplicable urge to push a heavily laden touring bike down 2,000 feet of loose hillside and snow (and I recognize this is a niche hobby), please observe the following "survival" techniques:
The Ice Capades: Never attempt to traverse hard-packed snow. A laden bike has the structural integrity of a shopping cart on a frozen lake. The back end will overtake you, and shortly thereafter, you and your bicycle will become a low-altitude satellite heading for the valley floor.
The Snow Plunge: If the snow is soft, point the bike straight down. As long as you stay upright and the angle isn't "vertical cliff," the bike will generally behave.
The 'Controlled' Scree Slide: On loose gravel, the front wheel is your enemy; if it digs in, the bike will use the laws of physics to catapult you over the handlebars. Instead, stand above the bike, keep it parallel to the slope, and "bounce" it down inch by inch. It’s a slow-motion dance with gravity.
The Buddy System: If you hit a gully or a boulder field, stop pretending you're a solo adventurer. Strip the bags off the bikes and work as a team. Pride is heavy; panniers are heavier.
The Shepherd’s Wisdom: If you see a local shepherd, listen to them. They are wearing plastic sandals and moving three times faster than you; they clearly know something you don't.
The Riverbed Shuffle: There is no "technique" for walking a bike through kilometers of rubble and meltwater. Just accept that your feet will be frozen, your shins will be bruised by the pedals, and your bike will hate you
Morocco Day 8: The High Atlas: When the Road Becomes a River
The "Unknown" Territory
I generally avoid the word "epic" to describe my journeys, but today, I might have to use it more than once.
We were both aware that the first part of the ride involved some unknown terrain, though in reality, it wasn't a "ride" in any normal sense of the word. We began with a relatively easy section, descending toward a junction of valleys, but our route then turned upstream. Not only was it uphill, but the river was a surging torrent, carving deep into its gravel bed. We had hoped for a discernible track leading to the village 12km upstream, but all we could see were fast-flowing waters, banks of rubble, and steep, unforgiving valley sides. If a track ever existed here, it had been scoured away by the severe storms of the 2026 winter.
The Logistics of the Crossing
Within the first kilometer, we faced five or six crossings. The water was well over knee-deep and fast-flowing; the river literally tugs at your bike, and we knew a slip would be a catastrophe for both us and our gear.
The panniers on the backs of the bikes were a major problem. Their large surface area meant the rear of the bike was pulled hard by the current—not just downstream, but actually lifted upward. The bikes were floating, offering no support. We decided that for every crossing, we would strip the panniers and carry them over separately. Roland also removed his front fork bags and shifted some weight into a backpack. The crossings felt more manageable then, but each one remained a calculated risk.
A World Without Wheels
Our only ray of hope was a set of intermittent hoof marks, which we presumed belonged to a local traveling toward the village at the head of the valley. In the first two hours, we probably only rode a couple of hundred meters.
Gradually, the terrain improved as we encountered houses—some abandoned, others still inhabited by self-sufficient Berber farmers eking out a living on tiny strips of green at the river’s edge. Every tributary we crossed meant less water in the main river, though these side-streams required their own reconnaissance to avoid collapsed shingle banks or deep gullies. At one point, the river carved a massive hairpin; fortunately, the "donkey route" provided a vertical rollercoaster of a path that dropped us back to the water. The people here possess incredible skills, but the most noticeable absence in their lives is the wheel. Here, life moves on hooves—donkeys, mules, sheep, and goats. We must have looked utterly ridiculous bringing our bikes into such unsuitable terrain.
The Hospitality of Agheddou
As we traveled further, the path finally improved into a muddy but rideable track. With great relief, the village of Agheddou came into view. As we approached the first houses, a small girl accosted us, repeating "Mange, mange!" She bossed us over a bridge and through a maze of houses to her parents' home.
Exhausted, we removed our disgusting, soaking footwear and climbed steep steps into a traditional room lined with colorful carpets and plush cushions. Jamila, who was about eight, her brother Adam, and their father Muhammad made sure we were well-fed. An older sister lit a fire that sprung to life in seconds with the help of some colorful bellows. Because it was Ramadan, the family could not eat with us, yet their pleasure in helping two bedraggled passersby was immense. They even offered us a bed for the night, but our schedule forced us to press on. Their kindness was humbling. I gave them our last bar of chocolate—a small gift for people who have so little compared to us, yet give so much.
The Long Way Round
By 1:00 PM, we were climbing out of the valley on a vehicle track, relieved to be clear of the river. We were now on the "Route of Caravans" heading north from Imilchil, but our planned path soon branched off into another valley. A quick scout revealed it had the potential to be even harder than the morning's struggle, with steep sides hemming the river in tight.
We plotted an alternative "long way round" on the roads, which proved to be no soft option. It required 20 miles of riding and nearly 3,000 feet of climbing over two high passes. We spent three hours grinding uphill on heavily laden bikes, sharing the road with small vans whose engines revved in first gear as they navigated the steep, loose gravel and encroaching snowbanks.
Towards dusk, we descended through remarkable valleys striped with greens, grays, reds, and browns. The final descent in the chilling night air sapped the remaining heat from our tired bodies. It was a massive relief to find an open roadside Auberge and sit down to sweet mint tea. I think I forgot to use the word "Epic" again... oh well, maybe tomorrow.
Morocco Day 9: Beyond the Atlas: Ribbons of Silk and One-Star Luxury
The Better Part of Valor
After a solid night’s sleep under a mountainous pile of Moroccan blankets, we fueled up with an excellent Auberge breakfast. Our bodies and bikes were both feeling the battering of the previous day’s expedition, so we spent the morning performing minor repairs and trying to dry out our exhausted footwear.
I consulted the Auberge owner about our intended route, and he confirmed our suspicions: the first off-road section was completely flooded. While it was a shame to miss the 20-kilometer canyon descent, a quick glance at the road ahead proved we’d made the right call. Parts of the tarmac had been entirely reclaimed by the river, which was surging toward the very path we had planned to take. We pivoted to our "hilly" alternative, bracing for a day of steep climbs.
The Peaks of Agudem and Ayachi
Though technically a "surfaced" road, our alternative route was rough, bumpy, and demanding. As we began to pull away from the heart of the High Atlas, the northern slopes revealed themselves, swathed in a blanket of pure white. To the southwest, the peaks near Agudem were a startling sight, decorated in what looked like ribbons of silky white snow.
Further east, the 3,800-meter peak of Jbel Ayachi loomed—a dramatic, cold, and inhospitable giant. Unlike the softer slopes nearby, Ayachi looked like the kind of place that guards its snows year-round. We threaded our way through active roadworks where the system was impressively simple: a young worker’s whistle was the only thing standing between us and hundreds of tons of rock being bulldozed off a ledge high above.
The Old World and the New
Morocco is developing at a breakneck pace, creating strange juxtapositions. Rounding one corner, we saw a high-tech excavator smashing into the mountainside. No more than a few meters away, an old Berber couple was picking through the debris with a mattock, scavenging scraps of wood cast aside by the million-pound machine.
As we descended to rejoin our original route, I caught one last lingering look at the High Atlas: the dark red river cutting through the foreground against a backdrop of pure white summits. It’s a vision I’ll hold onto for a long time.
Cherry Orchards and Solar Wells
The landscape shifted as we entered an area of well-tended cherry orchards. The trees are currently bare, awaiting their first shoots, but in a few months, they will be heavy with fruit.
Even here, the transition of eras was obvious. Many of the terraces are now served by modern solar pumps. I spotted an old well winch—its rusty cylinder and crank handles lying discarded in the dirt—right next to a gleaming array of new solar panels. The "Route of Caravans" is slowly becoming a route of silicon and glass.
The Boumia "Five-Star" Experience
Heading north, the mountains finally began to recede into a thin band of white on the horizon. We took a break on a grassy riverbank for an afternoon snack before tackling the final, grueling leg: a trek across open, barren ground into a punishing headwind toward Boumia.
Boumia is no tourist destination; it’s a functional, busy hub for the region’s increasingly sophisticated agriculture. Our accommodation for the night is a "shoddy" hotel with a cold shower and a Google rating of one out of five stars. However, as the reviews helpfully point out, it is still likely the best hotel in town. We aren't fussy—after yesterday, a roof is a roof.
The Ramadan Rush
We ended the day with an excellent evening meal. We found a cafe packed with locals, all sitting in disciplined silence before tables laden with eggs, pancakes, pizza, and orange juice. With the sunset timed for 6:23 PM, everyone was watching the clock. It’s a unique atmosphere—the collective anticipation of the break of fast. When the signal finally came, the town moved as one.
Pro-Tips: The 'Luxury' Transition
If you find yourself transitioning from mountain wilderness to "one-star" urban Moroccan hotels, keep these tips in mind:
The Google Curve: In central Morocco, a 1-star review often translates to "The door mostly locks and the water is only mildly refreshing (freezing)." Adjust your expectations accordingly.
The Whistle Protocol: If you see a man with a whistle standing under a cliff, do not make eye contact. Just pedal. Fast.
The Blanket Weighted-Vest: Moroccan blankets are designed to provide warmth through sheer atmospheric pressure. If you can still breathe, you probably need one more layer.
The Ramadan Wait: Never try to buy a snack at 6:20 PM. You are invisible. The world begins again at 6:24 PM.
Morocco Day 10: The Peanut Butter Trap: A Tactical Retreat
The Warning Signs
Looking north yesterday from the lower slopes of the Atlas, we had a premonition that the next few days held hidden challenges. The landscape appeared dry and parched, but the distant ranges, flecked with white, hinted at the deteriorating weather to come. The forecast had taken a turn for the worse: fierce westerlies—directly in our line of travel—were predicted for the next forty-eight hours.
Before leaving Boumia, we managed to track down the only open fruit and veg stall to stock up on our favorite high-energy fuel: avocados, tomatoes, and bananas. Leaving the town meant navigating the typical Moroccan outskirts—a grim gauntlet of rubbish, earth piles, construction debris, and roaming stray dogs.
The Dreaded 'Peanut Butter' Mud
As we hit a rough track heading toward a range of gray hills, the rain began. Combined with the wind, the terrain became treacherous. We soon encountered the bike packer’s ultimate nightmare: "peanut butter mud."
This heavy, wet clay is relentless. It clings to the tires in ever-increasing layers, picking up stones and grit until, within meters, the wheels are jammed solid with several kilograms of extra weight. We tried searching for gravelly sections to gain traction, but the gravel simply bonded to the mud already caked on our tyres. Realizing the track was becoming impassable, we pivoted, desperately trying to stick to whatever surfaced roads we could find.
Sapping the Spirit
Summitting the next crest, the wind intensified into a physical wall. Every pedal stroke was a battle; we even had to pedal hard just to move down the inclines. We ducked into the lee of a small ridge to try and refuel, but the chilling wind sapped our strength faster than we could replenish it.
We passed through a fallow valley where the red soil glistened with moisture. This crimson dirt seemed to stain the entire world; the local houses bore a ragged "tide mark" of red mud on their walls, giving the whole area a dismal, weary atmosphere.
The Rider and the Retreat
As I was grinding up another incline, I heard the rhythmic thud of hooves. A rider on a large horse cantered past with effortless grace—it looked like a far more sensible way to navigate this landscape. Moments later, a dog followed, a heavy chain still clinking from its collar as it struggled with an awkward gait to keep pace with its master. We watched them until they were mere silhouettes on the skyline, disappearing toward some unknown destination.
After three hours of grueling effort, we had covered a measly ten miles. We were cold, exhausted, and deeply concerned. Looking ahead at the high plateau, with the weather forecast calling for more snow and rain, the choice became clear: pressing on would be unwise, to say the least. With no shelter in sight and the elements closing in, we made the difficult call to turn back to Boumia and seek a taxi to bypass this deceptively inhospitable stretch.
A Lesson in Grit
Just as we made the turn, we saw a local woman pushing a wheelbarrow toward a spring to fill large water bottles. Nearby, a shepherd wandered across the hillside, seemingly indifferent to the howling wind and flurries of hail. Seeing them go about their daily lives in these conditions made our "adventure" feel rather soft by comparison.
An hour later, we were in the back of a taxi with slightly heavy hearts, heading north toward Ifrane. As the car climbed through the mountains to the east, severe gusts of snow, rain, and sleet lashed the windows—a chilling confirmation that, for today at least, we had made the right escape.
Morocco Day 11: A Winter Wonderland and the Ifrane Paradox
The Two Faces of Winter
Yesterday, we endured the kind of winter weather that saps your energy and crushes your soul like a hammer—a day where the only redeeming feature was the relief of escaping it. Today, we experienced its opposite: the kind that lifts the spirit and fills you with energy.
After arriving in Azrou by taxi, we watched an increasingly heavy snowstorm blanket the town while we huddled in a local restaurant. This morning, however, dawned with piercing blue skies and crisp, cold air. We decided to head north on a minor road through the edge of the Ifrane National Park, planning to reassess our options once we reached the resort town of Ifrane.
Into the Enchanted Forest
Leaving Azrou, we stopped briefly by the deserted Tuesday Souk to layer up for the freezing temperatures. A scruffy, pathetic-looking dog watched us from a distance—a far cry from the aggressive packs we’d been warned about. So far, the dogs on this trip have been timid, barking from a distance and moving well out of the way before we pass.
As we began the slow climb, the road became a narrow ribbon of asphalt between banks of deep snow. We entered a winter wonderland of fir trees and snowy glades. Rounding a corner near the high point, we were "ambushed" by a group of Barbary macaques. It felt surreal to see such exotic-looking primates thriving in the middle of a snowy forest, their thick coats perfectly adapted to the mountain chill.
The Picnic Ritual
The midday sun provided a welcome warmth, so we swept a layer of snow off a low stone wall to make a seat. Our staple diet remains consistent: avocados, tomatoes, and the Moroccan version of "Musclée" cheese (the omnipresent La Vache Qui Rit). Occasionally, we supplement this with the local version of Nutella—cloyingly sweet and almost as sticky as the mud we fought yesterday.
As we threaded our way through the higher elevations of the forest, we had to stay alert; large loads of wet snow were sloughing off the branches, dropping like white bombs across the path.
The Ifrane Cold Shoulder
Our arrival in Ifrane was a disappointment. We expected a bustling ski resort to offer at least one or two cafes open for non-Ramadan followers, but our search was fruitless. We eventually resorted to sitting in the forecourt of a closed cafe, eating bakery snacks out of paper bags like two outlaws hiding an "inappropriate" activity.
Ifrane continued to bewilder us at the taxi stand. Elsewhere in Morocco, people approach you constantly with offers of help; here, we were invisible. Despite plenty of taxis and several "managers" overseeing the flow of traffic, we were ignored for over an hour in the fading afternoon sun. Eventually, we realized that cycling out of town was our only option.
It was a short day in terms of distance, but the scenery was spectacular. Now, as the sun dips, we have plenty of decisions to make about the road ahead.
Morocco Day 12: From Alpine Snow to the Heart of Fez: A Descent Through Time
Leaving the "Little Switzerland"
As we descended south from Ifrane, we finally felt like we had the right equipment for the task. On previous days, walking boots, skis, pack rafts, or even snowmobiles—one of which we actually saw—would have felt more appropriate. After ten brisk kilometers, we turned off the relatively quiet main road onto a narrow backroad, climbing through dense Holm Oak forests still dusted with a pristine layer of snow from two days ago.
Into the Red Rock & Limestone
After turning off the tarmac onto a gravel track, we crested a high col and began a long descent through a rugged limestone landscape. It was a beautiful patchwork of fretted red rocks and tiny plots of plowed earth sprouting fresh green shoots. We passed shepherds and dogs tending their flocks; at one point, we saw a woman by a well giving a large, heavy blanket a thorough scrubbing. It was joyous riding—swooping down into the warming air, summiting occasional crests before plunging back down again. To the east, a dramatic, jagged range of white mountains commanded our attention; fortunately, they weren't on our route today.
The Pulse of Modern Morocco
Passing several large quarries, we watched a constant trail of dumper trucks grinding up steep hills—a stark reminder that Morocco is developing at full speed. We stopped at an old well to finish the remains of our food, enjoying the radiant warmth despite the distant, rhythmic throb of heavy wagons.
Continuing our descent, we reached a small market town at a crossroads that provided everything we needed. We stocked up on bananas and avocados; they felt heavy in the panniers, but thankfully we’d be carrying them downhill for most of the remaining miles. The landscape became noticeably lusher, with greener grass and wildflowers marking a distinct shift from the alpine climate of the last few days.
Navigating the Chaos of Fez
As we approached Fez, the sprawling mass of the city appeared beneath us, yet it seemed to stay teasingly far away no matter how much we pedaled. Once inside the city limits, it was exactly what you’d expect: a vibrant, noisy tapestry of hustle and bustle. Despite the chaos, the drivers were surprisingly respectful, and we never felt at risk navigating the urban flow.
We couldn't resist stopping at a patisserie for some "contraband" pastries, which we ducked around a corner to scoff in private. At one point, two young women on a scooter pulled up alongside us.
"You speak English?" one shouted.
"Yes, of course!" I replied.
"Where you come from?"
"Manchester," I said.
They roared with laughter, shouting "Manchester United!" as they revved their engine and sped off into the traffic.
A Sunset Over the Medina
We exited the city near the Old Medina, crossed a busy thoroughfare, and began the final, demanding climb toward the ridges to the north. We eventually spotted a patch of open land—green grass shaded by olive trees on a rounded hill. With footpaths disappearing into the brush, it didn't take long to find the perfect "wild" camp overlooking the city just as the sun began to dip in the west. There is a deep satisfaction in drinking a hot cup of tea and eating biscuits while watching the lights of such an ancient city flicker on below.
Morocco Day 13: Life in the Middle Atlas
The day began at a delicate campsite where the morning air was filled with the sounds of cuckoos and the energy of sheep and lambs. The sheepdogs seemed happy to be back on task, moving through the landscape with purpose. In the distance, smoke rose from the direction of Fez; the cold air kept it pinned down, a low layer of grey that hadn't yet spread out. We felt fortunate to be positioned high above it, watching the morning settle in.
The Ascent: Marigolds and Gradients
As we pushed forward, we rode through stands of olive trees where the ground was carpeted in marigolds and clover beginning to flower. The climb soon became punishing—a steep hill that forced me to fight just to keep my front wheel on the ground. By the time I crested the hill, sweat was stinging my eyes, but the reward was a fresh vista. The landscape was dominated by vibrant greens and a range of rounded hills that we would eventually flank later in the day.
Local Life and the Donkey "Filling Station"
We continue to be a source of curiosity for the locals, passing groups of school children who seem slightly amused by us—especially given the contrast of modern Moroccans driving past in fancy cars. We eventually veered left to ride along the banks of a sluggish, silty brown river.
The architecture shifted here; many houses featured tin roofs, giving the area an unexpected Alpine feel. As the day began to bake, we sought shelter at a roadside shop atop one of many deceptively tiring hills. We sat and watched the world go by at a local "donkey filling station." For the donkeys, "filling up" is a heavy labor—they wait while large containers are filled with water, then carry the weight back up the slopes. We watched a young boy, no more than seven or eight, roll up on his donkey to fill 20-liter containers. He popped into the shop for some chocolate, a reminder of how resilient the children are in this heat. It’s hard to believe that only yesterday morning we were leaving the snow-bound hills of Ifrane.
The Contrast of Lake Al Wahda
Finding the Perfect Pitch
Finding the Perfect Pitch
After gathering our provisions, we were relieved to leave that "black spot" on the landscape behind. Another short climb revealed a green, grassy ridge extending out into the lake, far from any habitation. It offered us the perfect pitch for the tent. We settled in with tea and biscuits as the sun set, glowing a deep orange in the west behind the silhouetted, notched peaks of the mountains.
Morocco Day 14: Bandachoc, Boys, and the Broken Road (20 miles / 32 km | 3,000+ ft / 915 m Ascent)
Conditions: Low grey clouds, shifting to "English Summer" (cool breeze and light rain).
Fueling for the Gauntlet
The day dawned at our Great Camp under a low grey ceiling, with the threat of rain hanging in the air. We fueled up with our secret weapon: Bandachoc Porridge. It’s a custom recipe involving heated bananas and dates mixed with a few generous spoonfuls of "Moroccan Nutella." It was exactly what we needed for the "hell-day" ahead.
The School Run
The School Run
The Olive Harvest
Teetering on the Edge
The landscape was dominated by the harvest. Black oil stained the tarmac outside processing sheds, filling the air with the heavy, pungent scent of freshly pressed olives. In the fields above, we heard the rhythmic swack-swack-swack of sticks as families beat the trees. During a snack break by the lakeshore, a parade of ten minibuses rattled past us—absolutely overflowing with children on the roofs, hanging off the back, and shouting from every window.
Teetering on the Edge
The riding was some of our hilliest yet—over 3,000 feet of climbing in just 20 miles. At one point, the road had almost entirely slipped away, leaving a rugged edge of tarmac teetering precariously over a chaotic slope of fallen trees and debris.
We finished the day at an "eccentric" auberge made of tin buildings nestled in an olive grove. The hospitality was unmatched: our host served us hot tea and homegrown olives, then heated a massive cast-iron pot over a wood fire. Using our shower bag, we finally washed away several days of Moroccan grit and sweat. With the cool breeze blowing through the trees, we’re ending the day early to plan the "unknowns" of the route ahead.
Morocco Day 15: The Ridge-Rider’s Rollercoaster: Into the Green Abyss
The day began with a reminder of the landscape's volatility; landslides were a frequent sight, though softened by a vibrant carpet of azaleas and rock rose. This is the "Green Abyss"—a vertical world where gravity seems like a mere suggestion.
A Fragmented Landscape
The terrain here defies logic. We passed through a jumble of emerald, cone-shaped hills so tightly packed and chaotic that there was no obvious route through—no valleys to follow, just a maze of limestone and flora.
The Moroccan Smallholding: Small farms dot the hillsides from peak to base, perfect 12-acre snapshots of local agricultural life.
The Mud Factor: Several towns were slicked in mud, forcing us to moderate our speed to avoid looking even more "weather-beaten" than we already were.
The Deception of the Ridge
From a distance, the road appears to traverse a steady line. In reality, it is a punishing series of climbs and descents, diving in and out of a deceptively deep landscape. The microclimates are just as erratic: one moment we were sweltering in humid heat, the next, biting winds had us scrambling for every layer in our bags.
The Verdict on Fifi
We set our sights on the charmingly named town of Fifi. Was it as fluffy and cute as the name implies?
The Approach: Fifi sits atop a prominent flat spur, separated from us by a massive chasm. To get there, we had to descend into the depths, cross an intermediate ridge, and tackle a final, punishingly steep climb.
The Result? Actually pretty good!
Pros: Shops were open and well-stocked with essentials.
Cons: A tragic lack of the bananas, oranges, and avocados we’ve grown addicted to.
The Final Push: Into the Moss
With 8km to go—all of it uphill—we aimed for the clouds. As we ascended the big climb above Fifi, the mist began to lift, revealing a surreal Cork Oak forest. It felt less like Morocco and more like a deciduous rainforest; every branch was draped in thick layers of lichen and emerald moss.
Camp for the Night
We found our spot: a green glade on the right. Though the ground is damp, we’ve secured a "dry-ish" hump just large enough for the tent.
Current Status: Enjoying a hard-earned cup of tea.
The Crisis: This might be our last brew, as both gas and tea bags are reaching critical lows.
The Reward: Looking back across the abyss, we can see the thin line of our road etched into the distant ridge—a reminder of exactly how much vertical ground we covered today.
Morocco Day 16: The Vertical Wilderness: A 5,000ft Slog to the Blue Refuge
The Dormant Ascent
The day began with a brutal introduction: a thousand-foot climb straight to the col. We pushed through a forest of skeletal trees, still locked in their winter dormancy. Beyond the ridge, the world opened up into a pristine wilderness. We looked up at untouched hillsides, the source of the first streams we’ve encountered that felt truly safe to drink from—pure water born above the reach of human or natural pollution. In the heart of the Oak Forest, we passed shallow, idyllic lagoons that felt worlds away from the climb ahead.
Resupply and Zip Ties in Bab Taza
We rolled into the large town of Bab Taza with two goals: tea bags and gear repair. While the tea bags proved elusive, the "equipment" win went to Roe. He managed to track down a stash of large zip ties—his favorite tool for the job—and set to work refixing his front packs, which the previous day’s bone-jarring tracks had shaken loose. With the bike stitched back together, we began the long crawl out of town.
The Snail’s Crawl
The exit from Bab Taza was a relentless 3,000-foot climb. Under a warm sun, we moved at a literal snail’s pace. Across the valley, the green slopes of the peaks looked deceptively wild, but the absence of tin roofs revealed a hidden, dense population living traditionally within the landscape. As we gained altitude, the scenery shifted into something truly astonishing: massive native oaks gave way to high pines clinging to rugged limestone bluffs and sheer cliffs.
Technical Torment & The Snow Line
The 20% Wall and the Three-Wheeled Wagon
The Blue Refuge
The statistics of the ride are staggering: 5,000 feet of climbing compressed into less than 30 miles. We were either winching up vertical slopes or jolting down "viciously steep" tracks.
At the height of the pass, we encountered a group of three lads attempting a surreal feat of their own: navigating a three-wheeled motorbike-wagon over the mountain. The ruts left by previous vehicles had created a high center ridge of snow; the unsuited wagon was caught in a desperate dance, slithering and jack-knifing from side to side as they fought for traction.
The Blue Refuge
The final descent required as much mental concentration as the climb, rattling our bones before throwing a final "vicious" 1 in 5 (20%) ramp at us. Near the end, we crossed paths with only the second and third cyclists we’ve seen in three weeks. We traded the traditional greeting of touring cyclists: "You've got a steep one coming up!"
Eventually, we turned off onto a final bumpy track, reaching the welcoming blue walls of a mountain refuge. The day ended exactly as it should: on a roof terrace with a panoramic view of the Rif Mountains, cake in hand, and a fresh pot of tea.
Morocco Day 17: From the High Peaks to the Azure City
A Feast in the High Altitudes
The Battle of the Rif Peaks
Primal Encounters at the Col
The Blue Descent to Chefchaouen
Canyons, Headwinds, and the "Tea Beggar"
The Grand Finale: The Canyon Rim
Reaching the final pass of the Rif Mountains, we stopped for a snack and witnessed a bizarre wildlife standoff. A pack of feral dogs began barking at a group of macaque monkeys—not with aggression, but with wagging tails and curiosity. The monkeys were less than impressed. While some effortlessly scampered down the vertical limestone cliffs to escape, a few stalwarts held their ground, staring down the dogs to assert their status as the true lords of the domain.
The Blue Descent to Chefchaouen
The 2,500-foot (800m) descent into Chefchaouen was a technical, snow-free joy, though loose enough to demand respect. As we dropped, the town revealed itself: a tight, vibrant huddle of blue buildings clinging to the steeper flanks of the mountain. Chefchaouen proved to be a busy, well-kept, and authentic labyrinth. However, our white whale—the humble black tea bag—eluded us again. We walked away with a box of Jasmine Green tea; a poor substitute for a weary cyclist.
Canyons, Headwinds, and the "Tea Beggar"
Leaving the blue city, we headed north along a large river, only to be met by a punishing headwind that strengthened as the river canyon deepened. I became so obsessed with the search for black tea that I flagged down a UK camper van to plead for a stash. The driver, guarding his own dwindling supply of five bags, couldn't bring himself to part with the "valuable cargo," though he did kindly gift us some instant coffee.
The Grand Finale: The Canyon Rim
The day saved its best surprise for last. Leaving the tarmac, we found ourselves on one of the finest sections of the entire trip: a mesmeric, narrow track cut high onto the flanks of a deep-cut canyon. The river below was so far down it was almost silent. Every bend in the trail offered a new, breathtaking vista.
Despite being a "downhill" day on paper, the constant climbing and dropping along the valley walls added up to nearly 4,000 feet of ascent. We finally crested a grassy bend in the track and found the perfect wild camp, looking north over the canyon. With the Mediterranean almost in sight, we have just 100 kilometers left before the ferry to Spain.
Morocco Day 18: The Great Canyon Descent to Tetouan
Oue Laou Gorge to the Medina of Tetouan
Terrain: Limestone Canyons, Single-track Weaving, and 20% Gradients
Morning: Canyon Serenity
The day began in an idyllic fashion, waking to the quiet majesty of the gorge. We took our time over a proper breakfast—coffee, granola, banana, and yogurt—a rare treat in the wild. The air remained cool and damp, requiring several layers as we set off under a sky spitting occasional spots of rain.
We eventually crested the high point of the rim we had tracked since yesterday. From there, the route gifted us a gradual, twisting descent. The path narrowed into a delightful single-track, weaving through low shrubs and ancient rocks. In the damp morning air, the scent of smoldering charcoal piles lingered—a sign of the local forest industry still at work.
The Confluence and the Second Canyon
As the canyon walls finally receded, our path converged with the Oued Laou. Here, the river sheds its mountain fury, carving slow, lazy bends across a wide, gravelly floor. We enjoyed a brief "cruise" on easy gradients, soaking in the increasingly warm, humid air of the lower elevations.
After a sharp left exit, we began a climb along a minor road, flanked by a tumbling tributary and meadows bursting with wild lavender and spring flowers. This second canyon offered a starkly different perspective: standing at the base, looking up at looming cliffs of orange-black and grey limestone that seemed to hang precariously above us.
Observations on the Steep Slopes
As the tarmac ended, the track pitched upward into a grueling, steep section through tiny hillside settlements. We encountered a local woman, bent nearly double under a massive load of brushwood. It felt a sharp injustice to see the local youth zooming past on motor scooters while she labored on foot.
I debated offering my pannier rack to assist, but hesitated, unsure if it would be culturally appropriate. Interestingly, when we stopped later to shed our layers, she caught up and kindly pointed out a landslip deviation we needed to take. A brief, graceful exchange before she continued her arduous climb with a "good day."
The "Sticky" Reality
The terrain soon turned treacherous. The soil, primed by last night’s rain, became a viscous clay that clung to our tires with stubborn persistence. Every rotation felt heavier than the last. Between the mechanical drag and the rising humidity, we were soon drenched in a cocktail of sweat and fine trail dust.
The "Dialed to 11" Finale
After a brief respite in a meadow of white daisies to finish our rations, we harbored the optimistic delusion that it was "all downhill to Tetouan."
The reality was a brutal series of "rollers"—repeated dips and climbs, culminating in a 20% (1-in-5) gradient that reared up for a full kilometer. It felt as though someone had manually cranked the 3D map contours to an impossible setting.
Arrival in Tetouan
Drained and dusty, we made a lumpy descent into the hustle and bustle of Tetouan. Our arrival was marked by a classic navigational hiccup: we unpacked our bags and squeezed the bikes into a hotel, only to realize it wasn't ours! A quick repack and a few hundred meters later, we finally settled into our actual base within the ancient walls of the Old Medina
Morocco Day 19: Riding the Levante: A Final Twist in the Moroccan Tale
On paper, today’s ride appeared straightforward—a simple case of following a well-surfaced road north towards Tanger Med. However, Morocco had one final trick up its sleeve to test our resolve.
Strategic Navigation and the Stormy Ridges
Last night, we meticulously debated our route options. The official path traces exposed ridges through various wind farms, but the forecast predicted a grueling combination of high winds and driving rain. Choosing the "safer" road route through the valley, we aimed for a 1,000-foot pass before descending to the port for tomorrow's ferry to Spain.
Exiting Tétouan required maximum concentration. While it never felt truly dangerous, the local driving maneuvers kept us on high alert. However, the sensory rewards were immediate: as we crested an early hill, the rich aroma of roasting coffee filled the air. After a friendly chat with a worker at a large metal gate, we managed to "requisition" a fresh pack of ground coffee—a perfect prize for the road ahead.
The Festive Pulse of Ramadan’s End
As we looked up at the original ridge route, we saw the peaks shrouded in heavy, low clouds whipped by a stiff Levante wind from the East. We were immensely grateful to be in the valley.
Passing through small towns, the atmosphere was electric. It was the final day of Ramadan, and the air was thick with the excitement of Eid al-Fitr. Families were preparing to break their month-long fast; women were elegantly dressed, and people bustled about with bags of last-minute provisions. We saw vans overflowing with passengers—some even clinging to the back—and several locals waiting patiently with sheep. Much like a Norfolk turkey before Christmas, the prospects for those sheep were likely not great.
Battling the Levante
Halfway through the journey, we found shelter behind a low wall to brew our "requisitioned" coffee. As the water boiled, the wind intensified and a light rain began to spatter.
The climb over the pass became a battle of physics. As the road became more exposed, the Levante crosswind accelerated. We had to lean our bikes aggressively into the gale just to maintain a straight line. It was a high-stakes balancing act: lean too little and be pushed into the path of overtaking vehicles; lean too much and risk veering off the road entirely. Despite the effort, the wind gave us a massive speed boost; whereas last Sunday we had barely cleared 20 miles by 3 PM, today we were approaching 40 miles with relative ease.
A Taste of the Southwest in the Mediterranean
Descending from the pass, shrouded in our waterproofs, the environment shifted. In the lee of the hills, the landscape felt strangely familiar—like an autumn day in the Southwest of England. Mist-covered hills and yellow gorse bushes provided splashes of color against a grey, dismal sky.
We eventually passed under the massive motorway and high-speed rail viaducts to reach Tanger Med. We found refuge in a "posh" but closed cafe, where a giant screen displayed a live feed of pilgrims circling the Kaaba in Mecca. There, we huddled and ate delicious almond slices from a local bakery.
Refuge in the Deserted Villa
Knowing that all shops and restaurants would close for the evening celebrations, we stocked up on supplies and retreated to our guesthouse. We are currently "rattling around" a large, well-appointed villa, drying out our damp kit while the wind howls against the windows.
Looking back at those high ridges, we know we made the right call. Had we stuck to the original plan of camping on those exposed heights, we would have been flattened and soaked for sure.
