Mr & Mrs Smith

Mr Smith prides himself on his exemplary sense of direction. Leaving him to try and find Riad Due in the north medina, I took pleasure in giving him plenty of rope with which to hang himself. A fascinating exercise in the steady devastation of male pride, we traipsed past leatherworkers and lantern-makers down to the main square, and back. And back again. Eventually we gave up and got in a cab, and even the taxi driver had to give up after a while when he got to the edge of the warren of alleys and dead ends that is the city’s market and main attraction. That’s the way it goes in Marrakech – the roads only take you so far.

Mobile phones are another thing altogether and so, amidst the madness (and just to be clear, this was good madness – exciting, exotic, something-a-little-different-from-the-weekend-Waitrose-shop kind), 10 minutes later a tall, handsome young man approached with a luggage trolley. ‘Hello, I am Khalid. Welcome to Riad Due’. Instant calm in a black kaftan.

Khalid loaded our luggage and set off into the maze. We followed him into the alley at a pace several notches above my normal rate of late, being six months pregnant. Khalid chatted to us in embarrassingly easy English as we passed stalls of spices, carcasses and textiles. A few minutes later he hung a left, and it was as if someone had simply press Marrakech’s off switch. It was quiet, and we were outside a wizened, studded wooden door bearing the number 2. After Medina mayhem it was a Through The Looking Glass moment.

Open sesame, and into the Edenic bliss of Riad Due. Khalid showed us to seats by the plunge pool in the centre of the courtyard and brought mint tea and buttery biscuits. Palm trees climbed to the patch of blue sky three storeys up as we marvelled at how two left turns and the turn of a key could lead you in to another world. Jemeiaa, the manager, came to greet us, spread a map of the Medina out in front of us, and pointed out what was worth seeing (and equally as important, what was close.) Khalid was happy to show us the way to our first destination to get us started. After Mr Smith’s adventures in wanderland, this seemed like a fine idea.

Tiled stairs and an ornate wooden doorway led to a balcony and our lodgings. Once left to ourselves we had one of those high-five, whoop-for-joy, let’s-try-everything-out moments. A double-height original carved dark-wood ceiling. A bed so big it needs Google Maps to find the other side. A massive, statement copper bath where the statement is: ‘It’s a massive copper bath – and it’s in the bedroom!’ A floor-to-ceiling sliding door into a bathroom that might as well have ‘covet me’ scratched into the grey-green polished plaster. If this isn’t an intro to Industro-Arabic chic as a decor genre, I don’t know what is. A studious lack of TV or stereo adds complete peace and quiet to Riad Due’s checklist.

We bumbled round the medina, bought a tajine or two and just about managed to resist loading up on silly slippers and trinkets. Back in the solace of the riad we headed up to the roof terrace at dusk. A cold beer for Mr Smith, a mint tea for madame, and a warm breeze as a side order to soothe the spirits. A view of the Koutoubia Mosque’s famous minaret completed the picture postcard, with a distant call to prayer providing the soundtrack. The perfect place for an hour or two of reading, napping and doing not very much.

Breakfast, served in the courtyard by the plunge pool, varied slightly each day. The only constant was freshly squeezed orange juice, which, frankly I could have consumed intravenously. Morocco was, of course, a former French colony, and though we Smiths frown upon colonialism as much as the next couple, you have to say it – it does wonders for a nation’s pastries. A ‘Moroccan breakfast’ therefore, meant a delightful assortment of galettes, baguettes, English muffins, pancakes, doughnuts, French toast… all made fresh on the premises and utterly scrumptious (even with the post-colonial aftertaste)

We were so gobsmacked at le petit dejeuner that we promptly decided to order our dinner at the riad for that evening. Mr Smith opted for a veal tajine; myself I was a little tajined-out after a day or two in Marrakech and so went for the artichoke ravioli. What followed was the best banquet we would have all week – if you want bona fide Marrakech there really is no need to go to the Moroccan restaurants and suffer at the hands of ‘authentic’ tableside musicians. At Riad Due we were treated to a private dining experience with the chef evidently taking pride in his work and keen to impress a captive audience. Complimentary starters of deep fried cheese and vegetables were followed by excellent mains served with another on-the-house dish of slow-cooked broad beans, citrus and olives. The memory of those flavours is seared onto my tastebuds.

‘Shall we go out then?’ said Mr Smith, keen to reassert his inner compass. ‘Go for a wander?’ It was with great pleasure that I could say no way – not for fear of going out, but for the sheer joy of staying in.