This Time Tomorrow in Marrakech

When considering where to take Mr Smith for his 40th, and with just four nights of childcare secured, I was after the biggest cultural shift and the most reliable winter sunshine, for the shortest flight possible. And this is how we found ourselves stepping over live chickens, dodging mopeds and being side-eyed by old men drinking coffee. 

Enter This Time Tomorrow in Marrakech: a tranquil riad hidden deep within the medina, offering the feeling of being very far from home without actually travelling that far at all.

The transfer sets the tone. Our taxi dropped us in the chaos of the medina, where hotel staff were already waiting; one disappearing with our bags, the other guiding us through a tangle of lanes we never, ever remembered our way back through. It’s a full sensory experience before you’ve even checked in.

Stepping through the riad’s doorway felt like someone had hit mute. A courtyard of Venetian-pink plaster, turquoise tiles and leafy shadows. A welcome mint tea materialised the moment we sat down; This Time Tomorrow excels at immediate decompression.

There are only five suites, each arranged around the courtyard, and ours was frankly outrageous for two people checking in with hand luggage. A fully tiled ceiling looked as though it had been lifted from a Renaissance palace. There was a four-poster bed, a chaise longue, a sofa, and an enormous fireplace we admired from afar (no need for flames in this heat). The bathroom was vast, stocked with mineral-rich black soap and a homemade scrub for a mini in-room hammam moment. If you’re prone to interior-design envy, brace yourself. I informed Mr Smith we’d be needing a full home renovation on our return.

What sets This Time Tomorrow in Marrakech apart is that the experience starts long before you arrive. After booking, you receive a questionnaire about your interests — art, food, photography and so on — and a personalised itinerary appears soon after. For a long weekend, it’s genius: no dithering over Google Maps, no arguments, just a tidy little plan that makes you feel suspiciously accomplished.

We hit the ground running with lunch at nearby L’Mida. With inventive tacos, a smoky aubergine dip and kofta meatballs, it quickly became clear there’s far more to Moroccan cuisine than traditional tagines. From there, it was straight to Le Jardin Secret for more tile appreciation (a theme of the trip), followed by a brew at Bacha Coffee. As parents, the sheer decadence of queueing for an hour to drink something hot and uninterrupted felt like an act of self-care.

That evening, we worked our way through the cocktail list at buzzy Petanque Social Club, before dinner at Sahbi Sahbi, run by an all-female line-up of chefs cooking in an open central kitchen. Both were recommended by our hotel 'curator', who somehow managed to secure us a coveted table just hours beforehand, after I was crippled by decision paralysis. I needn’t have worried — it was exactly what I’d had in mind. We’ll add mind-reading to the list of guest services on offer.

Back at base, we discovered that turndown includes handmade Moroccan slippers to take home. Hilarity ensued when we accidentally tried on each other’s pair, resembling two well-meaning clowns attempting a quick-change act.

The Atlas Mountains filled our second day: a full exploration organised by the hotel, winding through terracotta villages and dramatic valleys, before stopping at a converted Vespa serving espresso with a backdrop so staggering it rendered Mr Smith temporarily speechless. A birthday miracle.

After a long day, returning to the riad felt like exhaling. You can wander into the kitchen at any time for freshly baked cake or juice, which we did with the enthusiasm of unsupervised children. Sadly, no wine though — the riad doesn’t serve alcohol, which acted as a gentle, entirely accidental detox. (Mr Smith insists it added 'clarity'. I remain unconvinced.)

Instead, we spent the early evening on the roof, learning the art of mint-tea making — turns out there’s more to it than sloshing boiling water over a tea bag — as the sun sank behind the rooftops. It felt like a relief not to venture out for dinner; negotiating with taxi drivers in Marrakech becomes exhausting fast. Instead, four courses of traditional Moroccan dishes appeared before us, with the peaceful hum of the evening broken only by the call to prayer.

Breakfast each morning was a similar multi-course affair: fruit, yoghurt, granola, fresh juice, and a daily-changing egg dish revealed from beneath a tagine lid. The kind of breakfast that could seriously derail a sightseeing schedule if you’re not careful.

But with just a few more precious hours of childcare left, we squeezed in a session at the on-site marble hammam. Thankfully, it operates a private booking system, as I don’t think Mr Smith’s heart would have coped with a traditional hammam experience. He looked shocked enough when he glanced up from his mint tea to find me in nothing but a disposable thong, being lathered with black soap by our lovely therapist.

Clutching our personalised itinerary like a completed homework assignment, we begrudgingly headed to the airport. Marrakech may be mayhem, but this riad is pure calm — the perfect place to turn 40, reset, and remember what uninterrupted coffee tastes like.