We’ve never come across a camper-site like this. It’s like the Moroccan equivalent of Chewton Glenn – almost. With proper grass, sun loungers and a fantastic pool. We’d be mad to move on – so we don’t. It’s a no-brainer.
The gentle knock just before 8am wakes us from our slumbers. Two hot and freshly baked khobz delivered to the door. They get sliced, toasted and covered in Dave’s (our friend from over the road) delicious rhubarb and ginger jam. The perfect start to our sunny day of leisure. Cheers Dave!
Manzil la Tortue is so popular, you need to reserve a poolside spot. By lunchtime, virtually all places are allocated or taken. A mix of hotel guests, out of town workers making an early start to the week-end, and us. Campers extraordinaire. The workers appear to be in groups of three to five – females and males. That is goups of young 20s females and groups of young 20s bearded hipster look-alike males. Keep themselves to themselves until a few glasses of wine later. The French love to talk. There is never one still moment.
The pool is the best of any to date. Probably thirty or so metres and no worries about your swimming gear ending up a different colour if you stay in for too long. No chlorine. I can’t resist. Break the calm chatter as I trawl a few lengths. I’m not what you’d call a “tidy” swimmer. My feet spludush a unique syncopated rhythm as my trail sends an alternating splush of water six feet into the air. It’s like watching Moby Dick, but in reverse.
One of the French owners busies himself taking luncheon orders. Returns later for dinner orders. Not many swimming. Poolside legs dangle, drunkenly. Cooling off. The non-stop chatter continues. Only to be interspersed with an intermittent “spludush”
The Frenchies do have some competition on the “chatter front” though. At least twenty or so of their green slimy nemesis namesakes live in a pool-end pond. Although only two to three inches long, their Dizzy Gillespie bubbles reverberate throughout the site.