Riad Jahan

‘Forget a taxi, let’s get the bus to Djemaa el Fna!’ I had declared to a tired-looking Mr Smith at the airport, ‘It’ll be good to get a feel for where Riad Jahan is in relation to the rest of the city.’ And now we’re lost. I’ve definitely seen that pink sparkly babouche stall before but – wait a second – those caged lizards are new to me… and surely I’d have noticed that chicken carcass shop. Our first lesson learned about the Marrakech souk? You need a map. Or a compass fixed to your head. Anything that has a navigational tool to lead you out of the magical maze of twisting alleyways.

Lesson number two: if you’re staying in the medina, don’t try to find your way there on foot, instead, hail a cab and get your driver to drop you as close to your hotel as possible. Although driving is restricted within the ancient walled city, there are handy squares dotted around the perimeter, perfect for a drop-off. If only we’d known.

After taking more wrong turns than Jennifer Connolly in Labyrinth, we finally spied the most discreet of brass plates with Riad Jahan hammered into it. Like so many of the city’s treasures, the property is concealed behind a modest wooden door, which opens out, tardis-style into an elegant three-storey house built around a peaceful, airy interior courtyard.

Ornate silver lanterns and pointy-toed Moroccan slippers are artfully placed on the limestone patio, which is lit by skirting-board spotlights; and encircled by treatment rooms, a small dining room and an azure-blue plunge pool that Mr Smith gazed at like Augustus Gloop eyeballing Wonka’s chocolate lake. As Rachid, the Moroccon-born manager showed us around, with a calm, confident smile that said, ‘No caged reptiles here,’ I caught sight of a large plasma screen ripe for DVD watching.

Up the twisting limestone staircase are the bedrooms, each hidden behind heavy dark wooden double doors. Chambre Najma, was ours, the largest of five. Egyptian cotton sheets covered a handmade cedar-wood bed, which had been coated with, it seems, an entire rosebush’s petals. Two white leather pouffes were set alongside a fireplace (just in case we fancied sitting by an open fire in 42-degree heat). Through a dressing room area was a tadelakt bathroom; here a tub, made of the same lime-plaster finish associated with Moroccan hammams, came complete with an enormous brass showerhead and a jasmine-scented bath soak and soap. Ideal for washing away that ubiquitous Moroccan dust.

Mr Smith was still smarting from his direction-finding failure and needed a beer to make it all better. There’s no bar as such at the riad but what they do have is infinitely more pleasurable: an Arabian-style tent on the rooftop garden terrace. With a glass of Speciale and me with a glass of mint tea, we looked out across the brick rooftops and the distant Atlas Mountains, taking in the scent of the bougainvillea and jasmine. As the call to prayer echoed around the city, our thoughts drifted to dinner. A friend had recommended a chic contemporary restaurant in the medina’s heart – Le Foundouk – but we’d already discovered that wanting to go somewhere, and being able to do so, are different things in the medina. Mercifully we had Rachid on our side: he drew us a brilliant map with instructions. He did advise a taxi back though. ‘After a few drinks, you could be wandering around for hours.’

Directions in hand, we set off, taking a right turn here, a left there, walking under a crumbling stone arch and straight on through a pungent spice market taken over for the night by swaggering stray cats. ‘Make for the big slipper stall as you come into the square, and turn right.’ Uh-huh. Lesson number three: there is more than just the one slipper stall. Demonstrating even less navigational nous than earlier, we bumbled along, in danger of becoming the very guests Rachid had described wandering around for hours – then a small boy aged 10 or so approached us. ‘Le Foundouk?’ he said with a smile that said ‘I see your type every night, every, single night…’

With no other option but to follow, we trailed him as he took us on what seemed like a merry game of lead you up the garden path, but which ended with a flourish of his little hand, and another colossal dark wood door: the entrance to Le Foundouk. While Mr Smith dug about for a suitable tip, I followed the waiter, who was dressed in dark chocolate pajamas, up the winding staircase through two flights of Indo-Moroccan styled restaurant, all dark woods, intricate silver lanterns and low lighting. On the third and final storey, we emerged on to a roof terrace filled with table after table of young, funky things, all under a twinkling North African sky. A chicken tagine, pigeon pastilla and bottle of local Domaine de Sahari later and we were ready for some Arabian nightlife.

Once the sun has set, the only place to head to is the main square, Djemaa El Fna, where stalls selling fish and chips, couscous and tagines are illuminated by strings of light bulbs. As we passed through, one enthusiastic vendor called out, introducing himself as ‘Thomas Hardy, Mayor of Casterbridge’ and informed us that his colleague, the chef, was ‘Virginia Woolf’. He wasn’t the only entertainer in town. Amid the giant food fest, were acrobats, flamethrowers, snake charmers, drummers, all performing under the watchful eye of the great Koutoubia Mosque.

Fighting our way through the hordes of tourists and locals, we climbed the four floors to the top of Café de France, one of the best-known rendezvous in the city. Not celebrated for anything like a beautiful Moorish decor or a sexy, young clientele – but for its view over the square. ‘I think I can see where Riad Jahan is from here,’ Mr Smith piped up. Think again Mr S, we’re getting a taxi this time.