A brutally early start to the day was followed by an excellent journey from Marrakech to Tangier, with a stop in Casablanca. The first-class compartment was extremely cosy and I dozed my way through the Moroccan countryside to Tangier.

Not so impressive was our Straits crossing which left half-an-hour late and ran an hour and a half late, leaving us stuck in the bay outside Algeciras waiting for a berth to dock. We arrived at out hotel two hours late — too late to get any food from their kitchens. Luckily the fantastic hotel barman was able to give us the number for pizza and we had one delivered to the hotel. The hotel Reina Christina is bizarre, straight out of The Shining. It has a very odd feel to it — as though we’ve missed the party sometime in the 1930s — but it has a lot of charm and I’ll sleep well tonight in my art-deco room.

30.03.09 — Leaving Madrid 7:00pm

After so many days of travelling I have been surprised at my alertness and pleasantly pleased that I’ve not hit the wall — well, until a couple of hours ago. I finally succumbed to the strains of the trip home and needed a restorative café con leche to bring me back to life.

Our day started well with a nice journey from Algeciras to Madrid through some of the most beautiful countryside southern Spain has to offer. The train weaved its way between lush green hills and deep valleys, presenting us with some amazing views. As we passed into central Spain and neared Madrid the landscape became noticeably more arid, the greens replaced by browns and yellows. The major drought Spain is suffering from was much in evidence. We arrived in Madrid with five hours to kill before the overnight train to Paris, which we filled with a visit to a museum focussed on Goya’s work, and then a final visit to Sol for an excellent café con leche before catching the Francisco de Goya back to Paris.

We’re weaving our way through the northern suburbs of Madrid now, the sun setting over the distant hills. I feel I know Spain a lot better than I did a couple of years ago — with two visits to Barcelona, two to Madrid and even the dubious delights of Algeciras, I’ve got to know a whole lot more than I did. This is a lovely country, filled with genuinely lovely people. They understand the need to balance life, to find that happy medium between working hard and kicking back. This country has a beautiful heart and their reputation for hospitality is much deserved. I dare say another trip to Barcelona, or even perhaps Bilbao, where the Guggenheim beckons, is looking likely later in the year.

A day in the Medina–cries of “bonjour”, “hello” and “saluté”, people and smells, light streams through the roof slats, perilous corridors, souq mosques behind curtains, leather and metal, fabric and silver. Food, hastily cooked on rusty grills, smoke drifts across the souq, wood turned in tiny workshops, thé de menthe brewed on tiny stoves, shared between friends. People, sounds everywhere, movement, mopeds, donkeys, bikes, pushing, pulling, horns honking.

The souqs were everything I remember, but without the level of hassle I remember, making it a very pleasurable experience. We headed north through the main souq, coming out of the north gate. We visited the Ben Yousef Medersa which was an amazing building, hard to imagine 800 religious students in such small cells, the detail in the main courtyards was phenomenal.

We followed up our Medina morning with another trip with our friend Christian. We took the road to the south to a lake half-an-hour outside Marrakech, Barrage Cavagnac. There we had lunch, looking over the lake to the foothills of the Atlas mountains — the view was superb and only slightly spoiled as the rain clouds descended on us again.

Returning to the city we headed into the souqs again for some more mayhem before our appointments for hammams and massages. I had an excellent full-body relaxation massage, bizarrely to the soundtrack of The Godfather and A Fistful of Dollars. I stifled laughter as she pummelled me into submission. A very nice massage, one of the best I’ve ever had.

Our final meal in Marrakech was in Restaurant Jame, a little family-run place on Rue Riad Zitoun el Jdid which was quite difficult to find, particularly in the torrential rain. The tiny streets of the Medina quickly turned to muddy rivers as we negotiated huge holes in the street (they are replacing the sewers slowly, leaving gaping holes in the street).

The restaurant was a delight, and dry. We sat in the converted riad garden and each of us ordered a tagine, myself a lamb and fig dish and the others a lovely looking vegetable dish. Delicious. The harira soup was spicy and thick, and we followed it all with an orange salad and the obligatory thé de menthe. A fantastic way to finish our time in Marrakech. A wander around the Djemaa el Fna, the sounds, smells and sights still fresh in our minds, was the perfect nightcap.

Marrakech and Morocco have been a different experience for me on this trip — my first visit here in 1997 was amazing, but there were occasional frustrations and upsetting attitudes from a few people, which have not been in evidence this time. It has been an extremely relaxing and easy-going experience this time — Morocco has welcomed us with open arms and we’ve embraced it entirely.

With sadness we left the Riad de la Mer behind in beautiful calm Essaouira. The Supratours bus crashed along the dusty half-built roads to Marrakech, making the journey in three hours. The pollution of Marrakech hit us like a brick and we quickly sought respite in our riad, Jnane Mogador, a bargain place to stay right in the middle of the Medina.

We’ve certainly done very well for accommodation, finding two very well priced places which fit our needs perfectly. I slept very well, especially given the noise of the locals and their homicidal mopeds continuing long into the night.

After visiting a couple of historic sites, the Bahia and the Tombs, we met with Vicki and Ralph’s Italian friend Christian who took us into the Ville Nouvelle and showed us an entirely different side of Marrakech.

A series of expensive bars and restaurants, frequented by rich Moroccans and Europeans, followed. Odd in their style and immature in their sophistication, they were the price of a gastro pub in the UK and are the height of sophistication here.

It was fascinating as an experience for one night, but not one I would want to repeat. It seems to be a lifestyle which many European expats are entirely used to — the European post-colonials live well here.

28.03.09 Marrakech 10:30am

After a brilliant stormy night we had breakfast on the terrace in Marrakech for the first time. The sun is attempting to break through and I’m browsing the souqs with my shorts and flip-flops. I’m not sure how easy it will be to go back to wearing jeans and shoes.

Essaouira is a strange meeting point — a place where European influence meets Moroccan tradition, where western politics meets Arabic sensibilities, where French and Portuguese architecture meets Berber house building. One thing all can agree on though, is that nothing has to happen in a hurry. Essaouira is the same haven of tranquillity as 12 years ago, and even the souq traders, so overbearing in other parts of Morocco, are of an altogether more easy-going nature here. I paddled in the Atlantic this morning, followed by a slow wander through the souqs and on to the bus station to get our bus tickets to Marrakech. We’ll ask Saida to arrange an early breakfast on the roof terrace tomorrow morning, we’ll need the insanely sugary thé de menthe to give us the energy for the trip to the city.

26.03.09 — Essaouira 11:00pm

A day of discoveries, of relaxation, of a pace so slow as to almost stop. Of kittens, kittens everywhere.  Of young Moroccans enjoying themselves, throwing aside the shackles of Islamic tradition and letting go a little. Laughter is everywhere and entirely addictive. Of pot salesmen, offering me hash, space cakes, everything and anything, “hey want a smoke?” and the irony of me not acquiescing.

Cats, feral cats, cute cats, diseased cats, kittens, kittens everywhere. Gelato on the quay, watching the giant boats being made, holding our breath as the smells filled our nostrils, fish, smells of fish, everything smells of fish here. French books in bookshops, French girls in the bar, pokey little bookshops, dusty, filled with dubious charms. The spice souq and the fake pyramids, the “Moroccan Viagra” of questionable origin, the silver souq and hands, all hands, but not the one I desired.

Shadows, deep shadows in the bright afternoon sun, dark alleys leading to darker alleys, leading to darker doorways. Pool tables in tiny bars, boys playing while the afternoon heat subsides. Mint for 2 dirhams, where’s the bargaining, it’s already less than 20 pence, lovely mint tea, thé de menthe on the terrace as the sun goes down on our last night in Essaouira. Red wine from the tiny shop, dusty bottles and cheesy labels, tasted better than we thought, crêpes, crêpes with honey, crêpe aux miel, hunting for crêpes, the best snack food, mint tea and crêpes.

Pizza in the darkness, shivering in the chilly Atlantic breeze with Moroccan pizza and Moroccan wine, telling war stories. Walking the Medina in the darkness, the shops finally closing their doors, the cats slinking home, the cries of the traders muted and tired, the lights slowly fading on another long but slow and seductive day in Essaouira. Sad to be leaving early tomorrow as Essaouira has once again taken hold of my heart.

There have been a few firsts on this journey — my first trip outside Europe since 2003, my first time in Africa since 1997, and my first time asleep on a sleeper train ever. Although we were naively expecting old-world colonial opulence in our first-class couchettes, the garish orange functional compartment turned out to be the most comfortable yet — we all got a great night’s sleep.

Arrival in Marrakech was a calm affair, the new station greeting us in a grand but cool manner. Marrakech itself is the same polluted asylum I remember — we made our way from the station to the grand taxis through choking fumes, glad of our hastily arranged Mercedes for the escape from them.

Our driver Abdi, a grinning toothless Berber local, tore across the plains and hills to Essaouira with glee. Essaouira itself has changed little in 12 years — it is no longer the semi-secret traveller haven it was, with a few coaches turning up during the day and a number of new hotels built further down the beach, thankfully away from the Medina and port. What hasn’t changed is the wonderful laid back atmosphere which is every bit as addictive as I remember. We wander at a very slow pace — nothing needs to be done in a hurry here.

After a well-deserved early evening doze in our riad, which incidentally is a self-catered delight, we ventured out for some food. Our riad, Riad de la Mer, sits just inside the Medina walls, down a dark alley filled with tiny shops, shadowy doorways and feral cats. We wove through the dark streets to Restaurant Les Alizés where the food was delicious and the service incredibly discreet.

We started our evening drinking Moroccan wine on the roof terrace, the lights, noises and smells of Essaouira drifting up from below, the Atlantic becalmed in the distance. We finished the evening well-fed and content, the calm Atlantic air certainly agreeing with us.

I started the day with a nervous mixture of anticipation and trepidation. We were about to undertake a relatively large and complicated journey — starting the day at 8:00am at Madrid Atoche Renfe station and finishing 24 hours later in Marrakech. Leaving Madrid was easy — the first class tickets to Algeciras were fantastic, giving us a lovely air-conditioned carriage to ourselves and a pretty decent breakfast. I managed to catch a little sleep and also re-read Arkham Asylum which I’d accidentally packed for the trip. The Spanish port of Algeciras was a friendly little place, not nearly as bad as I’d been led to believe. It did have that “edge of the world” feel to it, probably a good precursor to Tangier’s other “edge of the world” feel.

The ferry to Tangier was a little bit of Interzone on the high seas — a converted former cross-channel ferry with a mosque replacing the cinema, a very quiet duty-free shop, an almost food-free cafeteria (still with the original English signage) and a cast of passengers and crew straight out of the Twilight Zone. We sat on the very top deck outside and watched our slow progress through the Straits of Gibraltar, reflecting sadly on the incredible levels of air pollution in the channel. We finally arrived two and half hours later and after a comical docking and beautifully simple customs (we set off all the alarms but nobody seemed to care), we headed out into Tangier.

Memories flooded back as I peered through the darkness to the Medina beyond. I felt surprisingly happy and calm to back in the insanity of Tangier — as though my demons of recent have been somewhat purged. My earlier trepidation turned to elation as I sipped my first thé de menthe in twelve years. I’d forgotten how amazingly refreshing I used to find them and all of a sudden I was peacefully and happily returned to my time in the Tangier Medina. I’m laying on my couchette on the overnight train to Marrakech, watching the Moroccan countryside and the lights of distant towns drift by in the darkness. It certainly feels good to be back.

After 14 hours on the Francisco de Goya, literally flying through the southern French and northern Spanish countryside, we arrived in a dry and bright Madrid. This leg of the journey took us through some stunning countryside, with snow capped mountains and grand retreats in the distance. I’ve not had much time to appreciate Madrid as yet, but the coffee and pastries are delicious.

23.03.09 — Madrid 6:30pm

Madrid is a slightly odd city — it seems on first impressions to be very small. It just doesn’t feel big like other cities. I don’t have enough time here to prove this either way, so it’ll have to wait for another visit. Visit of the day was the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, a glorious example of the architectural old and new coming together in harmony — why can we never get this right in the UK?

This was primarily an excuse for me to finally see Guernica, but the centre houses many other excellent works and a few temporary exhibitions. The Paul Thek exhibit was at first disappointing and thereafter intriguing — I’ve never heard of him and yet his importance to 60s and 70s art is obvious. Another show, Dependencias by Eulalia Valldosera, was great fun with some interesting audience participation. Everyone had a play and we left the Museo, after a visit to their ultra cool café, happy people.

23.03.09 — Madrid 11:30pm

Narrow streets, cool bars, tasty tapas, beers, rude waitresses, lovely hotel, rose sellers everywhere. We hit a nice tapas joint for some tasty Galacian treats in the evening, delightful food but the moodiest of service, the locals seemed to love it and we were lucky to get a table. From there we settled in to Bar Populart for some Cuban jazz, nice crisp beers, and enough smoke to make me feel as though I’d gone back to twenty a day! It all made for an awesome atmosphere. Great music, and I got some nice photos as well. A great end to our short stay in Madrid.

Listening to Tom Waits singing “Somewhere”, the suburbs of south west London a blur to my left, beside me the Marrakech and Madrid guides which will keep me entertained on the journey. I feel wonderfully calm, looking forward with excitement, and a small but healthy touch of anxiety, to the long journey ahead. This is a trip I have meant to do for some time now — I’m finally on the first leg of the longest train journey I’ve ever embarked upon. Tom’s “Blue Valentine” is the perfect accompaniment.

22.03.09 — Paris 11:00am

The dull light of an overcast Parisian morning still hurts my eyes. Memories of sangria and cognac slowly filter through. We returned to an old haunt of mine, L’Ecurie, for steak and sangria in the claustrophobic cellar, then on to the 10 Bar in Odéon to continue the sangria. The same grinning and winking barman served us, we watched as he gleefully emptied litre after litre of red wine into a barrel, followed by a bottle of anonymous clear alcohol, for which I’m blaming my hangover. Squeezed onto a tiny table in the cramped wine cellar, we shared the evening with a young student crowd. The atmosphere was refreshingly clear compared to previous visits, as the locals now venture outside for their Gauloises Blondes. Parisian bars without clouds of smoke is a new experience, it’ll take a little getting used to. I’m going to head to the Pompidou today for some much needed culture, hangover permitting.

22.03.09 — Paris 4:00pm

Some good exhibitions today — a visit to the Pompidou led to a surprise show, a retrospective of Alexander Calder. Split into two parts, the curation was excellent and the sense of childish wonder came across entirely. I particularly liked the use of spotlights on his wire sculptures, adding, literally, another dimension for the viewer. Wonderful and incredibly serene. Also at the Pompidou, the Voids exhibit left me cold — I might have enjoyed it under other circumstances but my fuzzy hung-over brain could not happily process the existential content. Shame. Later in the day we visited the Maison Européenne de la Photographie which had five concurrent exhibits. One or two were not really worth the effort, but some quality black and white work, in particular some modern ethnographical work which was fascinating. By this time I was relatively clear headed and able to appreciate the subtlety of the work. A successful day of culture.

Right, change of plan — I figured I’d make my way over to see a little Gaudi and then up to Montjuic to the Fundacion Miro and the Mies van der Rohe and then head back to the town and finish up my day with coffees and bocadillos. A fine plan I thought. So a long walk, a lot longer than I could work out from the map, up to the Plaça d’Espanya and I was already tired. I wandered up into the hills and headed to the Fundacion Miro to find it closed — this was really disappointing, it was only 2 o’clock in the afternoon and it had just closed, I couldn’t believe it.

I didn’t have the energy to walk over to the Mies van der Rohe so I headed back to the familiar territory of the Raval and Born and got back to the serious business of taking pictures, drinking coffee and generally hanging out in downtown Barca. These paint splats are everywhere — I love the CMYK sentiments, a man (or woman) after my own heart!

I love the stencil art in this town — there’s just so much of it, I could have taken five times as many pictures. Like Paris there are many collage pieces as well, but I find the work here a little more original in approach if not quite so sophisticated.

The piece below is by far my favourite of the trip — it has a wonderful Donnie Darko feel to it, its presence is amazing. This head was all there was but I feel there’s a whole piece in there given the right canvas. Spooky.

So my last day in Barcelona was a funny one, by turns frustrating and rewarding. I finished up with some tapas and beers in the Born and relaxed before getting back on the train for Paris. Nothing could quite match the lovely heat and sunlight of Saturday, wandering around the city in my t-shirt, sampling the food and hitting the galleries. I’ve managed to see only a fraction of the things I wanted to but that just leaves more for next time.

Like Paris this is a city I will continue to visit over the years. What a wonderful place.

The night before became a slow bar crawl around first the Raval, then over to the Born to finish off. I was pretty tired so climbed into bed reasonably early, about midnight, for a lovely long sleep. I could certainly get used to very drinkable glasses of red wine for 2€ a time.

Saturday turned out to be a beautiful day — the temperature hit 20° and the local population were out in force. After a visit to the Picasso Museum in the morning, I decided to find one of the beaches to the north of the city and enjoy the weather in style — the beaches aren’t the nicest in the world but after a long and grey London winter I was in heaven. I kicked of my shoes, threw off my shirt and went for a paddle in the Med. Lovely! The sea was as calm as a millpond, and all I could hear was the gentle lapping of the water on the shore.

Heading back to the city I passed this Juan Muñoz sculpture, caged and set in the middle of a large open area near the beach — it was nice to see his work out of the gallery. I wandered back and checked into the hotel, before heading out again for some lunch and a wander over to Raval to check out another exhibit. Over by the MACBA I couldn’t resist joining the locals for some late afternoon sun, sitting against the wall with a café con leche and a book.

From MACBA it was a wander through the back streets of Raval to the base of Montjuic — I couldn’t find the railway so I walked up the hill to get what is apparently the best view of the city. Unfortunately as I reached the top a huge bank of fog rolled in from the sea and, although I could still see a lot, obscured the view of the harbour. It was still a great view, but I realised I preferred the hustle and bustle of the narrow city streets and headed back to the madness.

I must have walked 10 miles today! My legs finally started to ache and I headed back to the hotel and then out into the city for some food and drink. I watched the France v England rugby in an Irish pub in Raval where I met an interesting man call José, a Dutch guy who’d moved here a year ago and wanted to know the rules of rugby. Friendly but a little strange, I stole one of his really strong cigarettes and talked about Barca locals. From there I headed back to Born to a cute little bar where an Italian barman made me some wicked mohitos and we chatted about which city made the best cocktails.

I hardly remember going to bed, I passed out happy and exhausted in my giant king size bed.