With Rob feeling worse than ever we entered Portugal. I’d taken the lead, usually a recipe for disaster,
Back on the road and heading West back through Tarifa again we paused to watch the impressive display of windsurfers and kite surfers.
The ride from Casablanca was sadly quite dull, being mostly long, straight dual carriageway North past Rabat and for the greater part of the 220 miles before Tanger and the ferry back to Europe.
Casablanca a city, we were told, of some 6,000,000 inhabitants received us in unaccustomedly temperate style. After the searing semi-desert climate of Fes and the baking ride there, the 26c now shown on road gantry’s and electronic signs outside shops seemed positively cool by comparison.
As arranged the previous evening, the “Honda mechanic” Ali arrived at 10am. I was immediately concerned.
It had been the hottest day I’d ever had on a bike, and quite possibly anywhere, ever in my whole life. I’d worked a few years on the beaches of the South of France and spent 9 months on a Greek island, but this was a whole new level. It had never really occurred to us during the planning that Morocco in August would be hot, really really hot.
I awoke on our rocky pitch feeling curiously positive after a couple of days under a metaphorical cloud. Possibly the prospect of getting into Morocco (and our third continent on this trip) held more excitement than I’d previously given it credit for.
At the risk of sounding like a couple of moaning old women, it should be pointed out initially that the few days after Barcelona had been planned in merely as a means to an end.
We woke to the sound of rain, the tranquility of the valley shattered by this angry torrent. It had us tent bound for much of the morning,
Waking like a man possessed Rob had a definite agenda for today. I must admit to being left somewhat in the dark about it (as was often the way!) but I was more than happy to trundle along on a magical mystery tour.