Riad de Tarabel

Within the peaceful confines of boutique hotel Riad de Tarabel, I’m lying in a Victorian roll-top bath tub in front of an open fire. Mr Smith is here too – following what is clearly a very important football match on his phone – but there are no arguments over the stupidity of reading a phone while bathing, or who gets the tap end, because he’s in his own bath. Twin tubs and an open fire? This is my kind of room. Before you imagine a cosy British retreat, I should clarify – we’re in Marrakech and we’ve been sunbathing all day. December is the perfect time to visit Morocco for some winter sun that doesn’t leave you feeling unseasonably summery just before Christmas.

The last time we visited the city Winston Churchill once described as ‘the most lovely spot in the whole world,’ we were here for adventure. A seven-foot tall hooded gentleman followed us down a dark alley before we realised he was escorting us to our restaurant; we got trapped between a donkey and a moped in a chaotic corner of the souk; and we ate unidentified things on skewers. This time we want to relax – we had agreed, somewhat decadently, that we wouldn’t leave Riad de Tarabel from the moment the (complimentary) driver drops us off until the moment he picks us up. Not even Djemaa el-Fna market traders, Chleuh dancing-boys and snake charmers; nor the haggling opportunities of the souks; northe highly recommended Maison de la Photographie, would tempt us outside.

A member of the riad’s staff greets us, dressed in white knee-high socks, cropped white harem pants and a smock, finished off with red Converse boots and a fez. He leads us down a series of dark and narrow alleys we would have hesitated to traverse alone. ‘Welcome to Tarabel.’ We stoop through a fortress-like door into a courtyard, where a babbling fountain and orange-laden trees set the scene for the weekend and instantly confirm our decision to stay put. (Especially as it transpired that the riad has its own shop – no haggling required!)

Inherently inward-looking buildings, riads are often un-noteworthy from the outside, but luxurious within; this is no exception. Built in French-colonial style around three courtyards, the thick-set walls protect guests from the sun and the Medina’s chaos. Alongside two bath tubs and an open fire, our Junior Suite has a traditional tiled floor, a double bed with enormous pillows and marble-topped bamboo tables, a pair of antique armchairs and a shower that’s best described as Moroccan-hammam-meets-Victorian-luxury. The riad’s refined sandy-beige and charcoal-grey palette is the perfect backdrop for wicker furnishings, antique maps and a flock of (stuffed) exotic birds. It’s luxurious enough to make you feel spoilt, without making you worry about spilling your sun cream. It feels like a home away from home, albeit nicer than our actual home – and with staff.

With promised temperatures in the 20s, we head straight to the roof terrace. Each guest gets a mobile phone on arrival with two numbers in the contacts – the kitchen’s and the manager’s, ‘so that if you need something, you can just call.’ Initially reticent to be so demanding (‘You call,’ ‘No, you do it,’ ‘I’m too shy,’), we phone down for lunch, and soon a table is set with a white tablecloth, silver cutlery and green and gold tableware. A vegetable pastilla sends Mr Smith into a state of rapture.

Sated and by now slightly sweaty, we hit the pool. After a bold start, Mr Smith decides that standing knee-deep is just as refreshing as a swim; I busy myself with making watery footprints around the edges. The near-freezing water is no doubt refreshing in high summer, but right now, we’re in danger of losing toes.

We while away the afternoon reading on an ornately carved four-poster day-bed on the roof. Just beyond the aloe-vera-topped walls surrounding us, khobz sellers ply their trade – hawking traditional flatbreads to passers by; burka-covered ladies barter over spices; and family-laden mopeds hare around tiny streets; however, the only sounds we hear are circling birds overhead and the hauntingly beautiful call to prayer sung out from nearby mosques five times a day. Our view: plane contrails in the sky above.

Suddenly starving, we change for dinner and sit by another roaring fire. A recent convert to vegetarianism, I eye Mr Smith’s chicken and green-olive tagine enviously, while he devours both that and my veggie alternative. ‘You can dip some bread into my sauce,’ he offers generously, without a hint of a smirk. Chocolate soufflé finishes us off and only lashings of mint tea save our stuffed stomachs in time for bed.

We wake to the sound of a distant cockerel, revelling in the knowledge that you have nothing to do. Breakfast is served from 8am until ‘whenever you’d like it,’ so we amble up to the roof at about nine. Fruit, yoghurt and pastries are followed by pancakes and cake, and – despite sacrificing the honey to a nearby table to keep bees away – we polish off the lot. We devise a hectic schedule of lunch, massages and dinner. An on-site hammam is in the works, so with relief and disappointment in equal measure, we forego being scrubbed to within an inch of our lives and instead book an in-room massage. We could barely leave our room without someone making the bed, replacing the water, or even ironing our eveningwear, so when we returned this time, it was no surprise to find it transformed with candles, Berber music and massage beds. An hour later, we emerge relaxed from head to toe and that’s how we stay for the rest of the weekend.

We wonder, could we move into Riad de Tarabel? Or at least smuggle some staff members home? We agree on a weekend getaway every December and a new ensuite with twin bath tubs for our new house. In the meantime, Mr Smith will keep trying to crack that vegetable pastilla recipe.