Goodbye Morocco

Chefchouen did not start well. We spent the night in a hostel recommended by Lonely Planet which seemed decent enough until Ellie woke up the next morning 'bitten to shit' by bed bugs. We have subsequently renamed the trusty travel guide 'lying bastard'. The next day we set out regardless and it certainly lived up to its reputation as one of the most beautiful places in Morocco.

That evening we brainstormed about what else we would like to do with our remaining week. Lying down, in the sun, on the beach won outright so we set off to El Jadida on the Atlantic Coast. We quickly realised that the 'lying bastard' was living up to its new name once more as the only sunbathing to be done was in the company of hundreds of young men playing football. The staring is bad enough fully clothed. We went for a dip regardless in the best 1950s swimming attire we could manage, mainly so Ellie could cool off her blazing bites.

Suffice it to say, we didn't stay long. We decided to give the Lonely Planet once last chance and headed to Oualidia, a recommended spot, but were prepared to roll our eyes once more.

Faith was restored. It was perfect. A lovely, small, seaside resort built around a crescent shape lagoon where you could sunbathe and dip in the clear waters of the Atlantic, safe from the crashing waves but with them still in your sights. We also managed to bag a room with a verandah so topless tanning was on the agenda in a last desperate attempt to rid ourselves of the horrendous tan lines we developed in ShAgadir (I wore socks at one point. Don't ask.) As I'm sure you can imagine, we stayed for as long as possible.

We then had to get to Marrakech and reluctantly said goodbye to the comfort of the CTM buses. It was time to sweat on a local bus just one more time. It wasn't pretty. Driving past a motorway crash with two dead bodies lying on the ground made that brief moment particularly unbearable.

But we made it in the end. We always do. When we arrived at the riad it smelt like they were doing some spring painting. It turns out they were ridding an infestation in the woodwork the clue being the pile of dead cockroaches in our shower and the others scuttling around still alive.

It is time to come home.

But what a trip. Highlights have been numerous. Hanging out (in more ways than one) with local women in the Hammam, the views from the trek in the Atlas Mountains (though maybe not the trek itself), camel riding in the desert, the brilliance of Fez and the beauty of Oualidia. Low points are equally easy to list. Ear infections, groin injuries, bed bugs, 'Fezzy belly' and falling asleep to gangaster Arab hip hop to name but a few. When you travel with the same people for weeks conversations tend to be themed. Ours centred around Sex and the City, how hot we are, pervy men, Klondike technique and anything begginning with the question 'would you rather?'. Our biggest regret? Not buying the chick. Our most sensible decision? To not buy the chick. We've met people who 'turn', people who just want your money and people who just want to help. We'll miss chocolate gallettes, Moroccan hospitality and our old friends the sweat tashes most of all. I have found out more about my friends than I could have possibly imagined - family, life without eachother, Kate's strange childhood antics, Ellie's ability to believe anyting you tell her if said with enough conviction and my inability to find anything or anywhere (very embarassing admission for a Geographer).

Morocco has been wonderful and I hope it won't be goodbye for good. People travel for lots of different reasons, often it is to experience something different and unique. But what I have realised by travelling with two of my best friends is that it is not what you do that makes the experience special, but who you share it with.