Haut (high) Atlas gimme gimme gimme; Marvelling monolithic mountains, gob-smacked by gorges, bathed in glorious golden light of Autumns changing guard. Amongst it all, reminded of the perspective to travel to places and become the ‘minority’.  New cultural rules serve a unique and grounding ‘otherness’. Cycling through villages, towns and cities, we’re a fascination; MAMILs adorned with pink and yellow crocs, blonde hair and fair skin. Underneath, transcending it all, our shared ‘human’ experience.

Moroccan peddling remains epic and challenging. Relentless climbs and joyous descents. Off-road river bed madness. Touring in the ‘stormy’ season, paths splurged away or simply missing in deluges of rock and mud. Pushing bikes and boys to le max.  The overall pace slowing, more time to recover. More time to imbibe African daily rhythms #silverlining

Stormy season hit home on our penultimet day in Imlil.  Malteser sized hailstones hurtling down with biblical rain, a tin roof mountain melody, flooded the town. Our departure, a rubble strewn navigaton for the bus to Marrekech. On to Ouarzazate, a movie town amidst the mountain desert.  The setting for Laurence of Arabia, Gladiator, Babel, Game of Thrones, to mention a few.  More affluent boulevard streets bought a Carrefour supermarket, a winner for GF travellers and western treats.  Then a final bus to Boulmain Dades with sunrise.

Boulmain passed us over to the Dades Gorg.  The Atlas; carved by rainfall over centuries, moulding stupendous structures. Dades is the Daddy!  Sliced through wet-clay coloured rock, mountains rippling on the horizon above and beyond each turn. Curves and sedimentary swerves, like tantalising twirls of Vienetta.  Geologists surmise these beauties where formed by an uplift of seabed vs the crushing of two tectonic plates. Climbing the Dades looking back, a mini grand canyon emerged beneath us.

Our taurpaulin home was back for the first night on this leg. A second night planned for an isolated guest house, but heavy rain had washed the valley and adorning apple orchards away. Emergency road works in action, the guest house closed.  Wild camping and washing in the Dades, we bedded down before a 1000 metre climb over what would be our highest pass of this years cycle adventure at 3000 metres, Col due Ouano.  Oxygen getting sparser above 2000 metres, a gaspy Horse (COVID on the flight out!) trailing the punchy Donkey-power to the summit.

Gliding off the pass amidst monolithic mountains, knackered bodies meant a day off in Agoudal. Isolated rural towns are still built with rock, mud and timber. Two technical glad western cyclists: hard to hide.  A quick trip to the local shops meets constant stops, stares and comments. Hordes of children have become bolder on our journey North.  Grabbing our bikes, shouting and the odd few in more rural regions, pelting us with rocks.  Though as many children have stopped us with smiles and ripe pomegranates on our way past. Leaving Agoudal, the guest house proprietor even threw stones at the kids to clear our path. A ying-yang of cultural norms.

Our journey now a rocky-road-delight.  Bumping and grinding up and down barely cycle-able terrain. Landing in Tighadouine at a families guest house.  Perched on a corner of the mountain road, mattresses on the floor atop plastic rugs. A dwelling shared with the family, stray cats and a full size loom for home carpet crafting (step aside any knitting hipsters).  Arriving early, watching shepherds direct their flocks or signal to others with small managed bush fires. Bursts of flame rising and falling on arid mountainsides. Red and yellow momentary medallions across the vast landscape of rock and shrub.

Rolling down to our next climb, mesmerised by mud built mountain villages nestled on valley floors in morning rays of faint autumnal sunrise, like vaseline on a lens. These windows feel like it’s a land that time forgot.

From rocky-road-delights to river-bed climbs.  The ascent had been washed away. The easiest option, to journey up the river bed itself.  Pushing, pulling, scrambling and cycling the stream we made it wet and depleted to Tagoudit.  Leaving the haut Atlas behind, the next day cycling across a high arid Sahara like plain to Baumia for another rest day.

No-one does a ‘grill’ like Morocco.  Protein packed 2 Euro quarter chicken grills and kefta (minced turkey meatball) kebabs eased our aching muscles before we pushed into Khenifra National park. Climbs from the off, heading for a guesthouse at 75km. Winding through shaded roads with 800 metres of gravelly climbs.  It’s a 10-15% tarmac coverage at best. Bashing on and off the islands of asphalt with no suspension, backs take the brunt. Said guesthouse no longer had running water, and the proprietors no idea what we were talking about when we asked to stay. Heads were regrettably down for another 20km and 300 metres of climbing to Oum Rabio.  Google and our other navigation aids are not accurate here. These days are tough.  Bodies and boys are frayed and frazzled.  Rummaging for reserves when you thought you’d used it all.  Thank heaven for chicken grills!

Mountain roads to Azrou, our next rest day delight, adorned with cheeky Macaques.  Packs belting across the road in the path of alien bikes.  As mountains shrunk, olive orchards, more arable land and flocks of shepherds nudged in. Azrou, a small mountain town on the edge of the national park.  We treated ourselves to an airbnb. Day hikes, Tommy’s cooking (fuelled again by a local Carrefour) and pottering around lamplit streets as evenings close in. A proper recharge.

We made it in a day, mainly downhill, to Fez.  Satellite towns like Ifrane on route, serving a strangely expat feel. Large clean boulevards, parks, fountains and gated mansions and housing complexes. A paradox to the world we’d cycled through.  The road now also teaming with motorcyclists.  Roaring hordes of mainly middle-aged petrol-heads. Bikes bigger than their eyes and bellies. We’ve often wondered whether this could be our natural future transition. But it seems too removed, rushed and confined. From peddles and shorts to mad-max garb, heavy helmets and petrol power.  A different culture altogether.

Perched in the Jewish quarter, a few days to explore Fez.  The infamous mazelike medina, tanning vats, trellises and towers of the city wall, gave much to see. Though Jnan Sbil park was were we spent most time. A calm oasis amidst a people centred swarm.

Then our last leg of climbs across the Rif mountains.  Lower rolling hills.  Arable land continuing to take over the horizon.  The waft of (medical) cannabis and crushed olives on the wind #passmetheedibles. Sparkling reservoirs.  A day off en route, gazing down on the impressive El Wahda Dam.  A muffled daily cacophony blowing off the surrounding hills; cockerels morning chorus, donkeys terrestrial foghorns, murmurings of families as they beat olives from trees for seasons harvest and the nightly never-ending barking dogs; who pass out in the shade of the day, ready to rock, roll and bark like it’s the end of the world each night.  Morocco, bar the dogs, perhaps at it’s most peaceful.

We’re now in Chefchaouen, nestled in the Rif, spilling out from it’s original 16th Century built fort.  Nicknamed the Blue City, the medina’s hues of blues and whites and meandering stairways, a last chance to soak up this part of the world.

Time to reflect on this North African odyssey as the cool wintery winds tickle our toes. An unexpected turn from a Brexit barrier.  Life isn’t always easy. Neither should we expect the adventures, relationships and loves of our lives to be either.  Without the tough stuff, our growth and inquiry into our own and shared human experience wanes. New perspectives are not revealed, reached, shared or discussed.  Morocco has woken us up, tired us out, tested our physical and mental states, limits and relationship. Given us a view and pinch on the nuts, you only find on journeys like this.  Lots to ponder on the road ahead.

A last few days in the saddle and we meet Becky and Kas in Tangiers.  The ferry to Tarifa, a mini-break of catching up, cooking and sharing stories before heading North through Andalusia. More memories to make, undoubtedly more challenges to come.

From Africa with love.

B&T/D&H