Matt Whistler navigates the streets of Essaouira

Last week Kevin was stolen by a monkey and got the hump, this week we hit the seaside with Portuguese, French and Berber architecture that frame the maze-like streets of Essaouira, a western Moroccan city shaking hands with the Atlantic Ocean.

After a long and tense three-hour bus journey from Marrakesh, Kevin slept on the inside of an orange peel, while I pondered patching up the friendship. The bus broke the journey up with a coffee break and turned off into – among other delights – an Argan oil women’s co-operative.

I bought Kevin some jeweled Moroccan slippers and he was grateful and returned back to full robot mode. The bus landed in a vast Essaouira car park, just along the outside of the huge Medina wall, encapsulating the divide between old and new. Our luggage was grabbed and bundled into a wheeled cart and after a minute’s negotiation, while hoofing it to our hotel, the luggage lugger announced we had arrived to the doorway of the outstanding Heure Bleue Palais, resting alongside the entrance to the medina.

Hectic haggling all the way to the front door of our stay and in one minute had a certain comedic appeal. Wearing a great Fez hat the porter had a booming laugh, was very charming and entertained by everything. The suite was palatial and the roof-top swimming pool aligned with dramatic sunsets over the Purple Islands just offshore.
Every time I walked into an art gallery or shop Kevin would telepathically tell me that either Cat Stevens, Jimi Hendrix or Bob Dylan had been here. In the end, I left Kevin with the proprietor of the bar, boutique gallery and library, Cafe Taros.
To be continued.