The same cannot be said of the border, which seemed to be under the management of the Marx brothers. One hour and many forms later we were on the road South and could start to enjoy the day. The Rif mountains rear over green fields with sleeping shepherds, almond trees in blossom, cattle ploughing in pairs. It is quite a change from France and Spain, where the countryside is deserted, with even the animals indoors.
We were flagged down by a family who were out for their Sunday picnic and managed to get their little Renault van wedged in a ravine. I was looking forward to using the winch for the first time, but it was not possible as the nose of the car was a bit buried. In the end it was easy enough to just bounce the car into a better position and drive it out.
We turned off the road to this little mountain town, which is like a white and blue painted anthill. We parked right outside the medina, the warren of stepped streets in the centre, and found a pension with a bright room on the roof terrace; €10. The owner claims to recognise Con, who's passport copy is on the same page as mine. It's possible.
The place is completely relaxing, only 10% touristy, the rest full of little workshops and hole-in-the-wall shops. Lovely cafés, no beer, but mint tea and fresh orange juice. This is the view from our room, and the main square.
