Dar Zemora

I’m sitting at the tiled table on our private terrace in Palmeraie-set sanctum Dar Zemora. To my left, my Mrs Smith lies on an outdoor bed with a white canopy that billows softly in the breeze. Past her, an olive tree, heavy with black fruit; through the leaves, a glimpse of the hallucinatory bright blue of the swimming pool. The only sounds are the birds, the chugging of the sprinklers over the lush lawn and the far away, melodic adhan (call to prayer). We feel marvellously tranquil and alone; and yet, think of anything we might want – a steaming mint tea, a plate of cookies – and the discreet staff, dressed in flowing white during the day and black at night, miraculously appear. It’s impossible not to feel like royalty here, complete with the sprawling palace and gardens. 

From the instant we arrive at the airport, there’s an unspoken promise of luxury. Other taxi drivers await their charges with paper signs, but ours (easily arranged through pleasant emails with the riad’s English proprietor, Lindsay) holds an elegant rectangle of carved wood with engraved, looping letters spelling ‘Dar Zemora’. The name means ‘Zemora’s house’ and the proprietors chose it in part for the sonority of the word, reminiscent of ‘amour’. In the seven volumes of press clippings displayed in the hotel’s entrance, this riad is listed over and over – deservedly so – as Marrakech’s most romantic. Rarely have Mrs Smith and I spent a weekend so cocooned, so wrapped in each other’s arms and thoughts. 

The taxi speeds us from the airport through Marrakech’s lively streets, and I jostle my Mrs Smith with childlike excitement: ‘Look! Camels!’ Having grown up in Algeria, she’s not quite as awed. ‘Those are dromedaries,’ she corrects me, laughing and stroking my hand. The taxi turns a corner, and honking scooters fall away, replaced by birdsong. We enter the Palmeraie district – the Beverly Hills of Marrakech – where verdure overflows from behind salmon-pink walls. An arched doorway swings open for us. We enter a magnificent garden. Amina, in flowing white, emerges to shake our hands. She leads us on a tour through a dizzying series of spaces. From the grand circular entrance with its high domed ceiling, we visit the Casablanca room with its handcrafted couches, the plush Omar room, the intimate library. Each space balances local architecture and artisanship – ancient carved-wood doors, chandeliers of intricate metal lace, richly hued rugs — with a familiar western cosiness: couches arranged by fireplaces, lamps and coffee tables within easy reach. Mrs Smith immediately spots an elegant chess set and her eyes widen. I try to distract her – ‘There’s a croquet set on the lawn! Scrabble! Cards!’ – but to no avail. She’s devilishly good at chess, and I realise I’m in for another defeat at her hands. Amina whirls us outside again, past the pool, to the spa centre. She shows us a massage room so serene my shoulders un-knot at the sight of it, and a traditional hammam. ‘Like a sauna,’ Amina tells us, ‘…only wet. And Moroccan. And very hot’. 

Amina saves the best for last, swinging open the door to our Zahara suite. I gape as we move from the foyer (yes, the proper foyer) to the living and sleeping area. It’s larger than my one-bedroom apartment in Paris. The tadelakt walls, polished with natural black soap, have a rich, chocolate finish, and though the ceilings are tall and the spaces vast, the room feels very intimate. 

That first afternoon, we sit on our terrace and drink mint tea into which we dip sweet, crumbly cookies. I break the last one in half to share it, but Mrs Smith leaps up and rushes inside. She comes out with a purple tagine and a bashful grin – ‘I noticed there were more cookies in the room,’ she says, unveiling them. ‘I never want to leave,’ she says, leaning across the table for a kiss. We brush the sugar from our lips and wander the grounds, saying ‘salaam alikoum’ to neon-yellow parakeets and the frogs in the decorative lily-pad-strewn pond. The staff soon come to tell us lunch is ready: cumin and curcuma carrots, home-baked bread, and grilled chicken. 

It’s difficult to tear ourselves away, but as the sun begins to set, we ask for a cab and make our way to Marrakech’s bustling Medina. We walk among snake charmers, monkeys perched on shoulders, mountains of spices, fortune-tellers, street players and the calls to prayer from several mosques at once. My heart surges with that elusive feeling, so precious to travellers: I am here, I am alive, I am living. We plunge into the Souk. Vendors call to us: ‘Take a look, wouldn’t you like a magic dress, a magic box, a magic mirror?’ My bag fills quickly with argan-oil soap, a carved wooden box… We rush away, afraid we’ll find ourselves with a carpet that’s impossible to transport on Ryanair. The vibrancy of the city is invigorating, but it’s with some relief that we find ourselves back in a cab, winding our way towards our new home. We play chess till late in the fan room, sitting on plush pillows, surrounded by candles. I lose, quickly and often, but Mrs Smith’s laughter, her smile in the moonlight, her kisses as she leans across the board, make me want to keep playing forever. 

By the second evening, the housekeeping staff adorn our bed with flowers. Whatever hesitation we may have felt, as two women in love travelling to Morocco, Dar Zemora’s staff treated us with a respect and hospitality so lavish we never once worried. With our every need met before it was felt, in quiet, in calm, we saw and heard only each other, and fell even deeper in love.