Week Six

I wake up the next morning in a whitewashed, tiled and broken Pension room in Tangiers, and feel briefly like William Burroughs. The hot water tap (the sink only has one tap) turns out not to have any hot water, but I freshen up anyway and pop on some clean clothes. Then I repack my rucksack, or rather Bea's rucksack, which takes a lot less time than my big one would have.

I'm planning to find Tourist Information, get a map and railway timetable from somewhere, and take it from there. I'm also planning to (at least for one day) take people at face value - ie. do the trust thing. Olly's attitude from yesterday seemed only to result in him being permenantly hostile and angry towards Tangiers and its inhabitants (which must be stressful if he lives here). Laid back is the way I'm aiming, though of course it's quite possible I'll find it impossible to be laid back in Morocco (in which case I'll leave).
I wander through the medina, stopping to look in occasional shops and stalls - it's pretty peaceful, since not that many people are hassling me and the temperature is hovering about the low 20s, which is perfectly bearable. There's no fresh produce in the medina (that's at the various more temporary markets), but pretty much everything else is on sale here. Silver and leather goods seem to be the local specialities but there are a number of places selling local (apparently) crafts - again leather and wicker stuff, but also some nice wooden items often with intricate inlays and finishes. The medina's quite small, and beyond it Tangiers is just another city: wide streets, shops, the occasional mosque/church.

It's more or less at this point that I run into Ali (that'll be Ali the Guide): he opens with the usual How Are You/Where are you Going/and so on routine. So I think, okay - how bad can it be, and enlist his services. "Guides" are quite interesting - I think there's something culturally shameful about the whole concept, since they quite like to stay one or two paces ahead of you while going from place to place (I noticed that with a few others out and about as well). Anyway, there were pluses and minuses to Ali the Guide:

Plus : I get to see a lot of the smaller and stranger markets (buckets of live snails, for example), some of which are undercover and disguised from outside, and most of which had a population of street cats.
Minus : I didn't get a map, either of Morocco or of Tangiers - Ali's concept of buying things consists of going into a string of shops owned by friends/relatives and asking (presumably on some kind of commission), rather than looking for likely-looking shops.
Plus : He knew a great place overlooking the bay where we stopped for a couple of glass of strong, sweet mint tea at about midday.
Minus : His idea of the tourist sites was way off and mostly comprised dull mosques and endless views of the sea - oh, and the football stadium.
Plus : He found me an internet place.
Minus : The keys on the keyboards were all over the place - but presumably that's a feature of Morocco, rather than a Minus against Ali the Guide.
Plus : He spoke English,
Minus : but not very well, and ended up lapsing into French, thus becoming at least 30% incomprehensible.
Plus : He knew and recited all the train times,
Minus : but these turned out to be bollocks - I have no idea of the rationale behind inventing them.
Plus : He got me to the station on time,
Minus : on time for a non-existent train, at the expense of most of my Dirhams: Ali claimed that the station was much further out than it was, and that the cheaper mini-taxis didn't go that far. He conversed with the driver before we set out (presumably agreeing the split).
Bottom line I was ripped off, probably to the total tune of about £15, which isn't too bad but is more than I can afford and left me pretty disappointed.

Amusingly, both Mohammed and Ali the Shopkeeper think I'm the spitting image of Ali Baba from the forehead down (ie. without the hair, or rather with different hair).
Mohammed is catching a bus south later (he's been in Tangiers on business), and suggests I visit his home town (apparently there are excellent Roman ruins nearby) instead of Casablanca - to be honest, everyone I've spoken to has expressed the opinion that Casablanca is not worth the trip, simply being a big city. I point out that I have no money, but he doesn't seem to care overly - he can buy me the bus ticket and I can stay at his house. Somewhat surprised by this sudden generosity, I accept (again, how bad can it be), but am duty-bound to point out that I can pay my way if I can change some money. We catch a taxi to the bus station, where Mohammed buys a couple of tickets, and then catch another taxi back into town: the taxi already contains Mohammed's cousin Ismail. We stop at a cafà bar and watch Serie A football while Mohammed changes some money for me (he only gets 15, instead of 16, but since they keep buying me beer and mint tea I figure the difference doesn't really matter - beer is horribly expensive here).

We then switch to a bar run by an ex-boxer (aged and shaky now, much like his bar), and have five or six beers, before finally returning to the bus station. The bus itself is an experience, apart from the fact that it doesn't have a toilet. Most people have tons of luggage, generally wrapped in black plastic binbags. I sit next to Mohamed, clutching my (Bea's) rucksack as we head into the night. The girls over the aisle turn out to be quite nice, and I get free Moroccan chewing gum from them (getting to use Shookran, almost my only confident word of Arabic - "thanks"). Despite the bus being packed, it bizarrely keeps stopping and letting more people on.
Heading south (everywhere is south of Tangiers) and into the night (it's pretty dark by now) it is clear that the road is lined with trees and more vegetation than they have in Andalucia. Oddly, I expected Morocco to be all desert - I suspect it is further south. Also lining the road are huge stalls of decorated pottery and glazed earthenware, some of the stalls partially lit by small bare lightbulbs. It's too dark to see if these stalls are manned, and therefore too dark for anyone to browse, but that didn't seem to stop the stalls or shoppers in the medina last night. At the first stop, waves of passengers get off to 1.) pee (including me), and 2.) have a quick smoke. When the bus starts again, there is much furious banging on the sides as the stragglers run to get on.
We finally get off after a couple of hours, at the stop before Mohammed's home town (in fact at the place with the Roman ruins): the three of us (Ismail, Mohammed and I) settle into a second-floor cafÃ/bar/restaurant - the first two floors also seem to be (open) businesses of some sort, but I can't tell what they are. The place consists of several bays, each with a table, and lined with couches (very Roman): the walls and ceiling are covered in intricate and ornate decoration - the bottom half tiled, the rest stucco plasterwork. All the arches are intricate and shaped, which is very Islamic. The only things letting the place down are 1.) the minor disrepair and 2.) the fact that the patterns are intricate and geometric, but they are squint in places to compensate for the fact that the building (corners, windows, etc.) isn't quite so geometric. Obviously Mohammed knows the owner/staff (the waiter is Omar) - all business in Morocco seems to be done on the basis of personal relationships.
Other people drift in and out, many of whom Mohammed knows (a little Arab chap, and a big black guy from Zanzibar). Aso, at this point, I make a potentially dodgy decision and when Mohammed asks me to give him my money I hand over £60 and am only vaguely troubled when he leaves with it. Everything in this culture seems to be totally communal so I figure I (effectively) have to buy my way in - that's not really how it works, but may as well be from a Western perspective. After a while Mohammed returns: God only knows where he got it at this time of night, but he has found me a locally-styled handwoven jacket/smock with hood. When we are out, he explains, I can wear it and no-one will stare. I have my doubts, but try it on to general rounds of applause. The evening wears on - we have 5 or 6 beers and then switch to red wine by the bottle (5 bottles at 12% proof in fact, for three of us): by now there is a lot of dancing, particularly by Ismail - also everyone gets much more physical and there's lots of hugging and kissing and clasping of hands. Among the more interesting comments from the conversation are:
"I know there are mosques in Edinburgh, so I will visit you with my other mind." (?)
"I believe first in Allah, and second in the power of technology." and
"We are all good Muslims."

The talk briefly turns to politics (as it has throughout my brief time in Morocco). The general belief is that the Americans are attacking the Afghans, not just the Taleban - so much for that diplomatic cause. Another widespread belief is that Osama bin Laden was not responsible, since he doesn't have the resources: blame is being attributed to the Russian mafia, or the Chinese. Other objects of local prejudice, particularly with Ismail, are Andalucians and Zanzibarians ("those people from Tanzahnia"): in fact, the drunker he gets the more it seems he wants to start a fight. He ends up in arguments with another table, with the waiter, even with other people at our table: each time it is Mohammed who calms the situation - he obviously has some experience of his cousin.
The secret to Berber/Muslim body language, by the way, is overstated melodrama - there's an awful lot of looking away, hands on hearts, expansive shrugs: they are twice as bad as the French and Italians. It's enormously easy to pick up, though.
We emerge at some Allah-unearthly hour, long after the last bus and ake our way to a taxi rank. Ismail ends up in a vitriolic argument with the local homeless people who live there, while Mohammed negotiates with the drivers. Eventually he works something out and we have a 45 minute taxi-ride further south.
Mohammed's house is on the outskirts of some town (I dunno where we are): I learn the protocol of leaving shoes and socks off - they are both considered dirty (mind you, the locals never seem to change their socks). Also, at home, Mohammed becomes "Hamed". We sit and watch satellite TV (mainly state-owned channels of various Islamic countries): Algerian is not too bad, Syria is dreadful but at least is focussing its propaganda on Palestine/Israel, rather than Afghanistan. Then to bed, or rather divan: the room where Mohammed and I sleep comprises a central table with divans around the walls (very Roman again). I have no idea where Ismail sleeps - possibly on the roof.
Even through the night, Mohammed and Ismail argue vociferously and with passion: there's a lot of stamping and shouting at intervals.

So, somewhat unexpectedly, I wake up in a house in a Berber town somewhere south of Tangiers but north of Rabat. After the copious quantities of alcohol of last night, my host is unable to surface for some time after me, which gives me a chance to write up some of yesterday's notes. The noise from the streets outside is of bustling people occasionally punctuated by the cries of streetsellers wandering about with handcarts - it's getting more and more Dune as the minutes tick by.

Mohammed wakes (Ismail is already up), and we go up to the roof to sit in the blinding sun and crystal blue sky (good ol' shades and suntan lotion), and water the plants (and chickens) and sweep up. The views of the local neighbourhood include similar houses, shacks with corrugated roofs, the unpaved roads, and the occasional mosque tower.

Then we go into town (I still have no idea what town) where en route I apparently receive at least one proposal of marraige (I guess they don't get many pale and balding people around here). "Town" is a network of low (2 or 3 storey) buildings, streets with no traffic lights or signs, and a complex bustle of people to-ing and fro-ing. Ismail and I stop for breakfast on a long balcony which overlooks a little square. After fried eggs and olives we tour the market - much better than Tangiers: a tumble of stalls, spreading across 4 or 5 streets, and selling everything. All without the pressure of Tangiers. It's somewhere you could easily spend a relaxed afternoon shopping. And, like Tangiers, it has a huge variety of spices and foodstuffs (in various states of life, and covered in various numbers of insects). We rejoin Mohammed in a dark indoors bar - again with sofa seats and ornately curved detail on the ceiling and walls - he is much more chilled out now, presumably on account of smoking something dodgy - he tells me that he needed time apart from Ismail after their loud disagreement of last night (on account of Ismail waking Mohammed's father, apparently). We stay there for several hours drinking (12 or 13 beers) and smoking (best not to ask) and course-after-course of snack food - salty fish, and olives, and spiced rice, and whole chillies. Mohammed's philosophy, possibly normal, is that since he's the boss (of a large farm), he doesn't need to work and can just chill out all day. They have a general philosophy here that life is just a dream, from which seems to lead the corollary that it doesn't matter what you do all day. I often remark that I'm just killing time until I die, but the people here have it down to an art - they really don't care if they achieve anything. As far as I can tell they spend their whole lives either drunk or getting drunk, whenever possible. Ismail disappears off after a couple of beers and returns with a black plastic bag and two chickens with their feet bound: presumably our evening meal.

Through the day, the number of flies at the urinal gradually increases ("urinal" is the wrong word, but I won't horrify you with the details): when it becomes darker and colder they disappear (presumably die), ready for a fresh batch to start again the next day.
Other observations? All the cafÃs and bars have fantastic, intricate, but aged dÃcor - the amount of care and attention to detail which went into opening them hasn't been maintained when it comes to running them. Also, they're pretty much exclusively the province of men and all waiter service: in fact, normally, the waiter seems part of the drinking party (eg. helping himself to cigarettes when he brings food and drink, sitting down for a drink himself, and so on). Most of the chat today, incidentally, revolves around finding a wife for Ismail.
After a few hours we take a taxi to an internet café (clearly unknown territory for Mohammed and Ismail) and they leave me there for half an hour or so. When they return we go for something to eat (more fish, again very salty) and then return to our bar of the afternoon where we spend the next five hours drinking and smoking and talking - at least another 12-15 beers, with snack food (yes - salty fish, and more rice). Among the locals who accost me include the Russian-born Ahmed - wonderful creased face with Isoceles eyebrows ("Hajj Moscow", they apparently call him): Ismail shoos him away when he thinks he's bothering me (Ismail likes to through his reflected weight around, always confrontational and always trying to be in charge).
Mohammed spends a couple of hours at the bar, doing "business" with a local police officer ("I am a big man", he tells me, and I believe him) and then we stagger (yes, stagger) back to the house. There is traditional Berber food waiting - bread which is rock-solid (and may contain traces of rock), some vegetables, and very chewy chicken (I knew those chickens would turn up again). Ismail's black plastic bag turns out to be full of beer, and he and I sit in the pitch black on the roof for a while. He explains that everything with his people is mind, heart and gut and asks what I have learned over the years, what I can teach him. Unfortunately, of course, I have learned almost nothing in the last 34 years (ask anyone), except a.) that I haven't learned anything (which is a bit philosophical for our stuttered English) and b.) that there's no such thing as good and bad (which I suspect Ismail will never agree with - his entire life is founded on everything being black or white). The stars are magnificent in the totally clear sky above us: Orion hangs at a very peculiar angle.
And then to bed (or divan), and unconsciousness.

Up at 09.45 and I have a shower: a "shower" consists of standing in the Arab-style toilet and pouring cups of hot water over myself. I'm now quite used to the squat toilets - the only bad thing is that the tiled floor is always wet, and you're never sure what with. This is worse because most of the time in Mohammed's house I'm barefoot. Breakfast is a large glass of very liquid yoghurt and (naturally) a couple of beers and a few cigarettes (a pack here lasts about 3-4 hours), and then we head into town: I'm beginning to get used to the occasional stares (and the whistles from some of the women, which are flattering). I'm almost beginning to think that it wouldn't be at all bad to be the only white-skinned person in a town like this. As long as I learned Arabic, it wouldn't take long to build up my own network of relationships. The worst reaction I've had so far is curiosity. Incidentally, though Mohammed and Ismail probably wouldn't agree, the Arabs in this part of Morocco are far more attractive than the curly-haired Berbers (though a lot of the Berber guys have fantastic eyes, though often high foreheads and sticky-out ears).
We are earlier today than yesterday, and the streets are full of people from the outlying areas making their way into town. Horsedrawn carts outnumber petrol vehicles and there are masses of people on foot, all in long smocks with pointed hoods: it's like a technicolor Klu Klux Klan rally. The carts, incidentally, all have modern rubber tyres.

We catch a taxi in and stop at a barbers, where Mohammed has a shave and trim and then disappears. After Ismail has the same, he and I wander through town and he shows me the mosque and then a "factory" for producing leather. It's a large outdoors affair, with hides drying in the sun and brick-lined circular pits of water where the hides are washed and cured, and an area where the hides are coloured with herb and plant extracts. The people working there (mostly waist-deep in the pits) stop and wave and smile as we clamber around, and then continue as if we're not there. Then we return through tiny winding alleys, where the buildings are often linked overhead (men are sitting weaving in some of the open doors, with their children holding the thread, crossing and uncrossing it where necessary, most of the way out into the streets), to the bar of yesterday.

Same corner, same seats. Mohamed and Ismail argue extensively - it seems Ismail has spent $7,000 on drink and is seriously in debt (by the sounds of it to some seriously unfriendly people). He has asked Mohammed for $30,000 (and promises to change his ways come Ramadan, in a few weeks). Mohammed gets drunk and angry: he promises a party tonight with girls (which could mean anything). We drink (another 8 beers - seriously, this is really bad) and there is more talk of visiting the Roman remains - however the hours are slipping by again. I'm beginning to think that I should move on - this place (wherever it is) is great: the people in from the hills; the mini taxis; the chaotic road system; the whole pace of and attitude to life (here they say that this life is only a dream - it's only here to go through on the way to Paradise). But I should have come here at the end of my European leg, when my Interrail days weren't ticking by - unfortunately, you can't really get anywhere from Morocco.

Mohammed is getting angrier and angrier with Ismail (I don't follow the conversation, obviously, since they switched to Arabic a while ago), and eventually we leave the bar with some haste. Good lord, are we going to the Roman ruins? No - we are going back to the house. When there, Mohammed asks me to check my passport and papers (no problem) and my money: guess what, all my money's gone from my Berghaus, which is hanging in the bedroom.

Well.

Yes, Mohammed comments: during their argument Ismail just admitted searching through my things and taking all my money.
This is potentially very bad, and I run through an interesting mix of reactions:
First off I mix anger with panic (foreign country, dunno where I am - how will I get home?). Almost immediately that switches to a very non-Western reaction of personal affront at the fact of the theft, rather than over what was stolen (ie. "he stole from me", rather than "he took all my fucking money" - which, although they sound quite similar, are actually totally different). Another part of my brain is also trying to work out how much was there. I know what he spent it on, of course - that black bin bag of beer and yesterday - but that doesn't help much because beer is enormously expensive here (I'm also not sure about its legal standing). The calculating part of my mind kicks in and points out that this is a perfect opportunity/pretext to leave here without being rude. Also I casually check my credit card, which is okay, so I'm not stuck here. I also have a wallet with about £50 in various currencies, stashed somewhere else.
Meanwhile, as the situation demands, I've gone into melodrama overdrive: this I can do better than these people, even though it's their culture. I stare silently and intently out the window with my arms crossed, which Ismail stands in the corner. He offers me a cigarette, I push his hand away without meeting his eyes. He goes to the kitchen and makes me something to eat, I push the plate away. After fifteen minutes of this, he tries words (a medium in which he has no hope, especially since we're in English). Amongst our little exchanges are:
"But you do not need the money - you can stay here for nothing: for a month, a year."
"Why should I stay here? So you can steal my bag? So you can steal my shirt?"
"I would not steal these things from you - I love you like my family."
"And this is how you would treat your family? You would steal from your brother? From your father? Your mother?"
And all this time I'm thinking I'm even sounding like one of them, for Chrissakes (you didn't see the hand gestures which went with these words). I'm also thinking It was probably only £50 or £60, and having seen what Mohammed's been paying for entertainment over the past couple of days I reckon he's spent at least £160 just on me. Finally I'm thinking Why am I being so relaxed and calculating about this, when I have no money and no way to get out the country?
After we've argued for a while Mohammed (who seems to be suffering a little after all the beer) asks if I will stay. I cannot stay, I tell him: I forgive Ismail, but I cannot trust him so I can't sleep under (or on) the same roof as him. Mohammed seems to agree with this bizarre and twisted logic - I consider asking him to make good Ismail's theft, but since I don't know how much that was it'd look really stupid (I also don't want to just pick an arbitary figure).

Mohammed and Ismail and I take a taxi to the bus station, immediately after I've packed Bea's rucksack, and Mohammed buys me a ticket to Tangiers and makes sure I have enough money for the ferry back to Spain. Ismail becomes (or stays) very emotional in the little cafà by the waiting room: you have a good heart, I tell him, but sometimes your mind is stupid. He agrees with this stupid homespun homily.
I don't know what Mohammed has said to the other passengers on the bus, but when I board at 18.50 everyone is suspiciously accommodating - women stand up to give me their seats; the guy sitting beside me nips off at the first stop and buys me food and a yoghurt drink; and when I get off at one stop to check my rucksack's still in the hold (I was a little paranoid that the whole thing was a set up), the driver and conductor enter into a state of sheer panic just at the thought that it might not be there.
Overall, the little town (which research now leads me to believe may have been Ksar El Kebir) was just a town - but with the carts, and Berbers, and market/medina, and generally cool and relaxed ambience, gets 3/10.

Back in Tangiers wearing my Berber jacket, I get cirtually no hassle from anyone - a serious improvement. I make my way back to the Pension district (between the medina and the port) and check back into the same Pension as before. This time the room is twice the size as before, has no insects (they've been burning incense), has a double wardrobe, and opens onto the balcony running round the inner courtyard. Excellent. The guy thinks about charging me 60 Dirhams, but reverts to 50 after a little chat. I nip out to get something to eat, without my Berber jacket (I'm sure they were really "in" in the 80s) and am again besieged by hawkers - wierd.
I believe Mick Jagger was here ages ago and did some hash somewhere. As a result, every second hash-smoking cafà claims to be the Mick Jagger cafÃ. It's quite sweet, but not remotely tempting. Back at the Pension, I listen to the World Service for a bit (and catch quite a good poem called Lucifer's Mother - good old BBC), wish I'd taken more photos - particularly any of Mohammed and Ismail - and then crash out.

Overall Morocco? Well worth whatever money I spent/lost, and the first place which was alien in places rather than just having a different language: all that despite not getting to any of the places which I had planned to go. I could easily have spent a couple of months here, with little more than my passport and a credit card.

I wake up, clean up and check out. With Bea's rucksack and just a week's worth of stuff, it's quite possible to walk about without having to find lockers or somewhere else to dump everything (I'm going to have to find a solution to that before long), so I wander around Tangiers. I'm back in tourist clothes, so I get the normal hawks, but deflect them (and the shopkeepers and stallholders) fairly easily and a damn sight more politely than Olly managed. So I just check out the kasbah and medina, looking at stuff. I also answer a few emails and add some text to my website (the third internet cafà I've used in Morocco - they don't even try to rip you off, or barter: I wonder if that will change in time). Also, now that I'm shopping in detail, I notice a number of the local pre-packaged items have prices printed on them. Tangiers suddenly isn't so bad once you're used to it, and I give it 3/10.
I buy my ferry ticket without hassle, get done on the exchange rate back to pesetas (but only for a quid or so), meet an unsavoury and drunk character at the port (I buy him off with another quid's worth), but then as a final touch I get taken in by an offical at the port and lose another couple of quid. I must remember not to trust people in uniform, however un-British an attitude that is.

Travellers' Tip for Tangiers: it's worst around the port (cost me a fiver).

The boat leaves from a secondary pier, and is much smaller and grubbier than the boat in - still okay, but mostly empty. Despite this, they stowed all the vehicles on one side (presumably expecting a late surge in traffic), so the boat lists to one side throughout the voyage. A little worryingly, it's called the "Bismillah" (no, we will not let you go). I meet a couple of Kiwis onboard. Dave (very well-travelled) and Robyn (brother and sister) and they kindly offer to give me a lift north (they have a car waiting in Algeciras) since the boat is half an hour late and gets in too late for me to catch my connection to Madrid.
I whizz by the station just in case the train is running twenty minutes late (perfectly possible in Spain, even though Algeciras is the starting point) and then return to the roundabout outside the port, where they pick me up. They are heading for Toledo tomorrow, and fly back to London the day after. Tonight they'll drive until tired and then stop. Their route, when decided, takes them via Granada - a good direction for me too.

We get something to eat at a small restaurant which seems to be run by an English woman and mostly filled with English customers: natural result of being so close to Gibraltar and the Costa del Sol, I suppose. After than, into the night chatting about Pulp lyrics and the non-durability of The Cure. At about 01.00 or 02.00, just past Malaga, they stop for the night in a layby off the main road and I crash out there, wrapped in my Berber jacket and hoping that there are no wolves in this part of Spain.

Up just after dawn, covered with dew, and in the daylight the view from where we are across the mountains is pretty impressive. And then on to Granada, stopping briefly at the out-of-town airport to pick up tourist maps. And then in, to park at the Alhambra carpark: Dave and Robyn briefly consider seeing Granada instead of Toledo, but then decide to push on after getting something to eat.
Me? I pay my money at the visitor block (this is by far the most developed tourist attraction I've seen in Spain), and enter the Alhambra, not really knowing what to expect.

Let's see - the Alhambra is a castle/fortification/palace complex built on a hill next to the Albaicin, the hill on which the old town of Granada was founded. Originally Visigothic, it was updated and used by the Moors, who eventually made Granada their capital after the Emirate of Cordoba fell. It comprises the Alcazaba (the fortress at the tip of the spur); the Palacio Real of Carlos V; the Nasrite Palaces; and the slightly separate Generalife summer house and gardens. The rest of the hill outwith these buildings is covered with the foundations/sites of some of the other defensive and accommodation blocks, and extensive and magnificent gardens. The whole affair is walled around. Because of the vast numbers of tourists, they only sell a finite number of tickets on any given day, and each ticket has a fixed entry time into the Nasrite Palaces - this controls the flow in, but once inside you can spend as long as you like there.

It's easier to list the bad things about the Alhambra than the good things: firstly, the infinite number of perpetually stopping tour groups - mostly German, but some English, Japanese and Spanish. Secondly, the weather was grey and overcast when I was there - it actually rained in the afternoon, which was a pity since I had 100ASA film in the camera (so all the pictures will come out dark and dull). Thirdly . . . actually, there is no thirdly. Absolutely everything else about the Alhambra was excellent - whatever you happen to be into, the Alhambra's probably got it - from Renaissance Church and Palace, to the brooding walls, to the magnificently ornate Nasrite rooms and courtyards. Be warned, though, it's not small - I spent about 3 hours there, which could have been a lot longer but not much less.

Traveller's tip: for a few hundred pesetas each, the English language versions of the Escudo de Oro guides are well worth the money: they give walking tours and daily excursions, with maps and good background detail. There are about 50 books covering all of Spain.

The rest of Granada kind of pales in comparison with the Alhambra: the old town on the Albaicin hill was winding and interesting, and had quite a few good churches (also the best views across to the Alhambra was from there). The new town, on the flat ground below the hills, is most interesting around the Catedral where the old Islamic University used to be (partially preserved/restored in La Madraza), and the old market area (there are still a lot of shops and stalls, but they seem mostly to cater solely to the tourist trade). Granada as a whole gets 4/10, which is 2 more than it would have without the Alhambra - a good base to do the area from, perhaps for a week or so.
I board a late afternoon train which takes me through the Sierra Nevada (that would be the original Sierra Nevada), which are craggy and largely solitary mountains. Again, this train cost me over 2000 pesetas - there is obviously a system of supplements which I haven't worked out yet (there's a whole range of great trains that only cost 500). If I was spending time going through Spain by rail again, then I would really have to either figure it out in advance or ask somewhere.
Into Madrid at about 22.20 and then by metro to Bea's flat, where she remarks that I am visibly blonder, after only a week further south: over a beer, I tell her all about my time in Morocco, and she tells me all about her imminent trip to Australia, and then to bed - a nice, comfortable, (indoors) bed.

Up at 09.00 and a nice long shower; clothes into the washing machine; and wash my hair. What would I have done without wonderful Bea? Probably frightened people away with my offensive body odour. And then a nice lazy day in cool Madrid (the temperature doesn't get above 25 degrees).

We post my bext batch of photos home, and go for a wander across the Plaza Mayor, through a great old market, and hang out for a bit opposite the Palacio Real. Then we find a pretty excellent laundrette (to dry my clothes), and a cheap and nasty LIDL supermarket to pick up supplies for the next couple of days (I've got some major travelling planned with three consecutive overnight trains, if it all works out). One final circle round to pick up Mars Bars and digestive biscuits (and incidentally to try pieces of garlic in honey, which are excellent and you can buy a fairly expensive jar of), and then repacking the rucksack. Bea is disappointed with how small her rucksack looks now she has it back - part of her packing list to Australia includes nine pairs of shoes . . .

Finally a bottle of red wine and then listening to (and singing along with) Vivaldi and Nyman (she has Draughtsman's Contract!) and Abba, and finally something to eat.
On account of its bulk, I leave my Berber jacket with Bea - it's a little large for her, but she promises to look after it until we meet again. And then, a little drunk (feeling it's later than it is, and singing/whistling Abba songs through the metro), we make our way to Chamartin station where I buy my overnight reservation (500 pesetas - yippee!), and chat with Bea on the platform until the train leaves.
I'm joined in the compartment by three Americans (two from Oregon, one from Pennsylvania), who only just got here - if the train had left on time instead of five minutes late, they would have missed it. They're touring Europe with Eurail passes (from the sounds of it, they're actually touring the beaches of Europe, but hey - it'll keep them out of my way). They spend half an hour with my copy of Thomas Cook - they had one, but it separated from them together with the fourth original member of their party, in exchange for the information that although the main Brindisi-Patra ferry stopped at the end of September, there is still one occasional operator taking Interrail (or at least Eurail) - so that's the way I'll go.

The train stops and sits at Barcelona for an hour, so that it will reach Cerbere on time (the clocks went back, all across Europe), and then we're off again, through Figueres where I'm tempted to get off because of the Dali connection, and over the French border. Good old French: they still have border controls - checking passports/ID and doing the customs thing. Possibly they're just being French, or possibly they have some reason for not trusting the Spanish, but it seems that nothing's really changed regardless what's happening in the rest of Europe.
I catch the first train (to Toulouse) from Cerbere and watch the French Mediterranean coast go by. My two options for today are Aigues-Mortes and the Camargue, or (after it raised its profile while I was in Toulouse) Carcassonne. Carcassonne wins out on account of a.) I don't even have to get off this train, and b.) Aigues-Mortes will involve mucking around with buses and stuff. The Camargue drops onto my "next time" list, together with 3 days in Karelia in summer; Oslo-Bergen; three weeks in Morocco; and at least a couple of days in Lisbon (forgotten how good it was). As if to taunt me, vistas of étangs and white horses begin to pass the train as we near Narbonne. But half an hour later I'm in Carcassonne.

Carcassonne is really two towns: one of them is flat and lies between the river Aude and the Canal du Midi - it's a nice little upmarket provincial French town. The other is the medieval fortified town, on a craggy rock overlooking the Aude, and it's just magnificent. Most medieval towns like this are only partially intact, since walls and buildings have been demolished or re-used as the town grew. Apparently not in Carcassonne, where the nice flat bit presumably proved easier to expand onto. The station is on the outskirts of the new town, which isn't that much of a problem since Carcassonne is quite compact. More of a problem is the fact that there are no lockers at the station - the hotel over the road (the 3-star Terminus, which looks quite nice) takes in luggage for 15 francs, which neatly solves the problem.

The most noticeable thing about the old town is the walls, partly because it has twice as many of them as any other town that size: as well as an inner and outer curtain wall, there's a high-walled castle inside. It's the kind of place that Jack and Tucker Jenkins would be out with their theodolytes making blueprints for their next scale-model sand castle. Between the two towns is the Pont Vieux - I don't know how Vieux it is, but it looks early medieval. There are entrances for pedestrians at intervals all the way, including a large one facing the new town, but I circumambulate the whole structure to the main entrance on the opposite side (trying to get some good photos - the sun was in an awkward place, and didn't look like moving any time soon). Once inside the curtain wall, I then walk all the way round between the two layers of walls: there's a space, up to 50 metres and down to 5 metres in places. The outer wall is thick bulwarks and bastions; the inner wall is higher, more vertical and has some very fancy towers. At the points where the walls are close to each other, there are high arches and narrow passages leading through.

And then, finally, into the old town itself. There's everything in there, amid the winding cobbled streets (which you feel probably haven't changed a huge amount in the last 500 years, except that they're cleaner): a cathedral; a youth hostel; a magnificent chateau/castle; they've even fitted in a nice little square - the Place Marcou - with cafés. Since half the streets are filled with shops and restaurants (and a couple of hotels), there's a definite sense that the whole look and feel of the town hasn't changed over the ages.

Horribly photogenic (and the bright weather helps), Carcassonne uses up half a roll of film: if you're into fortifications, especially walls (and I kind of am), then this is a great place to come. In fact, if you hired a car it would be a great place from which to explore the Cathar sites for a week as well. Even without a car, Carcassonne would be a great little place for a weekend away, and gets 3/10.

Pausing only to spend most of my remaining francs (frong) on a burger from McDonald's, I get on a train to take me back to Cerbere: there's a train that leaves there to the Italian border at 23.55, so this journey is one of those back-tracking jobs to give me a more convenient start point. But, God, Cerbere's a dump to wait at. It's desolate until 22.00, when the last train from Spain arrives - a little cafÃ, and a bureau de change suddenly open, and the station is full of through traffic - weekend tourists mostly (it's Sunday night) and smelly backpackers (which probably includes me).
I board early, to get a good seat (I don't have a reservation), and am intrigued when an overnight Spanish Talgo goes by - the Talgo is the one that can run on normal gauge track so now they can run direct services into Europe. Presumably they don't have to go through French border controls, which must really piss the French off.