Manzil la Tortue is not a camp site as such. It’s an out of town boutique hotel, restaurant and pool complex. Created, we imagine, for the local monied French community. It just happens to have add-on space for MOHOs.
We’re getting closer. It’s been another long and tiring drive.We skirt past Marrakech’s medina’s walls. The stunningly impressive red stone perimeter encircles the inner city. It’s rush hour. We daren’t take a short cut through. We need to double back on our tracks at one point when we can’t find or see any camp site signs. At this stage of today’s journey it’s the last thing we need. Eventually find it – we think. Not too sure. The ride into “camp” is way off the beaten track. It’s also on a beaten track. We stop and question ourselves as to whether we’re going to end up doing something really silly and embarrassing – again. Ah well, in for a penny . . .
The tightening in the pit of our stomachs starts to niggle. It just doesn’t look right or feel right. If it is down here somewhere then this is the weirdest way in to a site we’ll have ever experienced. The map shows us to be on a “white” road. We know that’s bad. We’ve agreed never to wander off a red or a yellow route. 2k down a winding, bouncy and muddy track we come to an unsigned junction. At least there’s life here. A scooter flies past.
I edge Beastie forward. Yippee. A sign to the left we recognise. Onwards and upwards. A further K and Beastie is now passing alongside the front doors of a row of dwellings. Surely this is wrong? Did we miss-read the sign? Then a gang of four nippers spot us. They rush over. “Bon-bons, monsieur?” We’ve come prepared and duly oblige. They come over all Oliver, but we move on slowly. Then suddenly, voila? A walled bastion. We cross the divide and breath a sigh of relief.
It just so happens that today is this place’s birthday. It’s heaving with guests. The music and dancing goes on till mid-night. We’re promised it will be quieter tomorrow. We don’t mind, we have a taxi booked to take us into town.
