Epilogue

Let me tell you a story….

Let me tell you how I sat and cried half way up a mountain in Northern Spain because I never thought I would never get to the top of it.

Let me tell you how I ended up in an Irish bar in Tangier owned by a Moroccan.

Let me tell you how I cycled close to 2000 miles when I was 21.

You’re right; it’s not a very good story.

But it’s mine.

When I was 20 years old I decided I would cycle to South Africa. I don’t remember when I decided to do it or why. Every time I came up with a reason it was different. When I was 20 years old I laughed at everyone who told me they ‘found themselves’ travelling and I pitied them. Were they that insecure that they didn’t know who they were already? When I was 20 years old I planned a trip so thoroughly and with so little regard for other people that I alienated my family and friends and, what saddens me the most, the girl I loved.

When I was 20 years old I was naïve. I had never done anything on my own. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. I was told that if I went to university and played some rugby, enjoyed myself and got a degree I could have any job I wanted. And I believed it. When I was 20 years old I walked through a crowded room full of friends and realised I had nothing to say. I think, honestly, I just wanted to do something. Something different, something that made me stand out.

I have always been scared of three things: failure, myself and never having achieved anything; never having a story of my own. And I didn’t, I lived my life through books and film wishing everyone else’s happy ending was mine. I used to well up in films, not cry, but I could feel the emotion pressing on my skin from the inside out. But not at the sad bits of films. I would well up when I saw the retired quarterback come back for one last game and throw the winning touchdown pass. I would feel it when the boxer that didn’t stand a chance held his own against the Champ. Most of all, I would get that feeling when I saw someone receive a standing ovation. It’s because I wanted it. I wanted to achieve something and was always scared I never would; watching someone else do it was almost enough.

I was scared of myself because I didn’t know anything about myself. I would really want something one day, and have no interest in it the next. I didn’t know what I liked or why, or what I wanted in life. I didn‘t know what I wanted my standing ovation to be for.

And most of all I was scared of failure and because of that everything I have achieved so far in life came easy to me and I never pushed myself to see just what I could do.

When I was 20 years old I planned the trip of a lifetime and when I was 21 I didn’t make it. There is no doubt in my mind that I could have made it though. I can cycle 50, 60, 70 miles a day no problem. I can deal with the attention you get on a loaded bike, with the kids throwing stones, with finding hostels or campsites but for once in my life I’m not going to be selfish. I can’t go further south without insurance: not for me but for my family who would have to bail me out if something went wrong. I would love to go further south and I would love to think that I could be like Andy McNab on wheels, cycling through the desert evading capture until I got to the relative safety of West Africa… but why risk it?

When I was 20 years old I thought the whole world was against me because I was too caught up in myself and what I wanted from life and it wasn’t coming quick enough. When I was 20 and people worried about me I thought they were holding me back, when they gave me advice I brushed it away because I thought they doubted me. When someone gave me their business card and told me to send them a postcard from Senegal and laughed at me I got so angry I couldn’t sleep. When I was 20 I was very different.

I haven’t ‘found myself.’ I still don’t know what I want, or why. But I know what I have and what I had. I haven’t got my story yet, because I’m 21, but I have a couple of chapters. And I haven’t achieved everything I wanted to and I haven’t got my standing ovation. But I will. One day. For something. And I’m proud of myself.

I’ve never felt lower as I have on this trip. Never have I felt so emotionally drained, but equally, never have I felt such elation and such pride. I was half way up that mountain on my second day and I had run out of water, I had no food and I had no idea where I was. There were no road signs, no houses and I wanted to go home. But I got to the top and I’ve never been more proud. Never have I been as happy as when a little head teacher invited me into his home for food. Never have I smiled wider than when I saw the sign for the ferry to Africa and never, not once until now, have I achieved something that I doubted my ability to do. And I did doubt myself. For six months I planned my trip and I forgot that at the end I would actually have to cycle, the day before I left I was frightened, I’d only cycled 50 miles once before and then it was on an empty bike.

And yeh, I didn’t make it to Cape Town. But I don’t consider that a failure. I truly believe I could have got there and I didn’t mind taking risks to do so, but calculated ones; the juice has got to be worth the squeeze and in this case, the risk outweighs my desire to push on. I’ll take a few knocks on the chin for it, I’ll take the digs and the I-told-you-so’s because I gave it a go.
Not one person told me I could do this when I started. It riled me. Every day I would be told I couldn’t do it and everyday I wanted to prove people wrong. ‘Naive’ is how one cycling magazine described me: ‘affable, eloquent and good humoured. If a little naïve.’ And I was. Although perhaps they got the ‘affable and good humoured’ part wrong. I was before I started planning the trip and I am now but I would do a lot differently if I had the time again; I would have relaxed on holiday in Spain in the summer and not been constantly on edge, I would have been nicer to a lot of people and I would have let the people I love know I cared about what they thought.

The security situation was stable when I left and my insurance valid in all but one country, which I could have bypassed, now the British Foreign Office website tells a different story. As a politics graduate - and after reading countless books about Africa’s turbulent history - I should have realised the volatility of the area but I didn’t think about it. But if I hadn’t have tried I would still be the angry 20 year old with a point to prove, with a chip on his shoulder: who just wanted to prove people wrong. It turns out they were right all along and I didn’t want to see it. I’m glad I gave it a go and I’m glad I got as far as I got. And I’m glad I’m not him anymore. I’ve realised so much, a lot of it too late, and I have a lot of apologies to make. Unfortunately some people will hear, but they won’t listen. Too late, to some people, is the same as never at all and there are some things which I let go which I will never get back.

I think the one thing I have realised is that you never do things just for yourself. Everyone you love and care about owns a little share in you and you need to take that into account. You parents, your friends, your family all have a little bit of you that belongs to them and you have a little bit of them which belongs to you. I wish I realised that before. I’m not good at apologising, or I wasn’t, but to my family who were forced to put up with my single-minded arrogance in the planning stages: I am sorry. For the friends I didn’t meet up with because I was saving money or waiting for an email: I am sorry. To everyone who read this blog or donated equipment for me to use: I am sorry. And most of all, to the person who gave me a list of Spanish phrases on a scrap of card, which I read now just to look at your handwriting, I am eternally and unwaveringly sorry.

As soon as I set up a website for this trip I got emails from all around the world telling me I was ‘an inspiration.’ I hate that word. But if people want something to inspire them take this: try. Try anything and everything you want to try. And if you don’t succeed: learn from it.
I have achieved something I am proud of, but compared to other peoples achievements it is nothing, I realise that. But for once I don’t want what other people have, or what they are doing, I am happy in my own skin knowing I have done something. Other people are cycling through Africa as we speak. Maybe they are foolhardy, maybe they are braver than me, maybe they see the risk differently and at least one has said I am throwing in the towel too early. I disagree. I’m 21 now and I have plenty of time to try this trip again, and maybe I will. I do want to see West Africa. I have read all the books, I have the malaria tablets and the equipment and the hunger and desire are there but I can’t take the risk, not now. Not yet.

At my secondary school there was a sign on the door to my history class:

“It’s better to aim high and miss than to shoot low and reach your goal.”

I used to laugh at it and the black and white image of a basketball player and the pealing laminate and frayed edges. And I suppose I have missed. But this is the first time I’ve aimed high and pushed myself. And it won’t be the last.

There is a phrase about going to a country which says you have to ‘take only photographs and leave only footprints.’ I have left behind a lot of teenage angst which I should have let go of a long time ago and taken with me a sense of accomplishment the like of which I have never felt. I have taken a lot of memories, some good, some bad. I have left behind the chip on my shoulder. It’s not the story I wanted, but it’s mine, and I hope you enjoyed reading it.

I touched down last night at Bristol at 7.30 pm.

It was colder than Morocco but everything was pretty much the same. I was sad to be back in England but unfortunately I couldn’t find a flight further south that I could afford and I didn’t want to risk it in Mauritania. A lot of people have said I’m doing the sensible thing and have been very supportive, a few people have gone the other way and said I’m being too cautious and that I should just go anyway.

The way I see it is like this: There is no doubt in my mind I could have cycled to South Africa. But as long as people are getting kidnapped on a regular basis by terrorists and the British government says that a country is unsafe, then I will not go there. The British government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, I only have a British passport. I also look like the most white man in the world and there would be no doubting that I was European.

If people want to say I am jacking it in early then that is fine. You go for it. But I value my safety and I think my integrity has remained in tact. I have been offered the chance to play rugby in Spain so that is what I will do for the moment. I will still ride my Qoroz Mountain Won and give it a good run around Spain. Maybe in the summer I will see about riding through some of Africa.

At the moment I am sitting in my sisters house near Bath. My three year old niece gave me a big hug and a ‘high five’ when she saw me this morning and I am about to have beans on toast. I wish I was about to get on my bike and do 50 miles, I really do, but this time it wasn’t to be.

Saturday 12:51 pm

I am in Marrakesh airport and have already had an argument.

I woke up and had breakfast in my Ibis Hotel and walked outside to find a beggar, street vendors and taxi drivers in little Fiat Uno’s waiting to drum up custom. I went back inside and saw three piece suits and a swimming pool, people browsing the internet and an a fully stocked bar. I went back outside. It is a funny world we live in.

I first went to find stamps to send the postcards I had bought home but I couldn’t find a post office that was open. I then went on the hunt for cardboard and tape. I found a supermarket and mimed my way to a cardboard box.

“You want a box? For why?” said a bewildered shop assistant.

“For my bicycle.”

“You want to put your bike in a box?”

I think this was too much for him to grasp but I got there in the end and spent two hours trying to wrap my bike as securely as possible in cardboard and bright blue parcel tape. With the help of a porter I squeezed my bike in a taxi and went to the airport.

“You cycled England to Morocco?” he said before squeezing my leg. “it is beeeeg, no!?”

“Yes, they are big legs.”

“How much, how long?” He couldn’t grasp the fact that someone would cycle somewhere for the fun of it. Here in Morocco bikes are everywhere but they are carrying bread or fruit, or being used to get from A to B - it must seem odd that someone would cycle just for pleasure. “Six weeks? You are crazy Engleeesh!”

“Yeh, huh, crazy.” I grinned. It seems funny that people you meet seem impressed that you cycled to Morocco when I am so disappointed that I am not heading further south. It’s hard to explain this to a French and Arabic speaking taxi driver.

At the airport I went to the reception desk to buy a ticket, I tried online but I can’t print out the boarding pass, I didn’t pack a printer in my panniers.

“We are shut.” This was the sort of customer service I expected from Ireland’s leading low cost airline.

“Well, when is the flight?”

“shut” the lady replied before answering the phone. When I worked in a high street shop one of our training videos had this scenario as a ‘what-not-to-do’ part of the video.

“Well, how much would a flight be with a bike and an extra bag?”

“I am not telling you until later.”

“Do you have a complaint form? You’re being very rude to me.”

“I no rude, you come back later, I don’t normally talk when I am busy doing work.” She was at her computer typing in information to a spreadsheet. I gave up and sat down. I have an hour to kill before I can try and book a flight, if that fails I have to wait another 4 hours.

2.44pm

Turns out the woman at the desk was just rude. I came back 5 minutes later and booked a flight with another lady. I am now waiting in the boarding area having spent my last dirhams on a stale sandwich and wifi access.

“We say in Germany that you have to have, how you say, balls” said Stefan darting in front of a moving car. I waited for the next gap in traffic and joined him on the other side of the street. I wanted to cross the road, sure, but I wanted less risk involved. Maybe that is the difference between me and other people, I will take a risk to get what I want but I want to minimise it.

I pulled out my guide book in the hotel and realised it was the end of the line. Rabat is the administrative capital of Morocco and the only place to get a Mauritanian visa. I checked Google for news on Mauritania and it still didn’t fill me with confidence. This was it.

“Maybe tomorrow we can cycle to Casablanca and then to Essaouira and then to Agadir and then I will go to Marrakesh.” Stefan has to be in Marrakesh for the 27th December for his birthday party with his family and friends but was keen to join forces along the coast.

“I think…I think I want to go home, Stefan.”

Stefan told me a great website to check flights. They were expensive. $1000 from Rabat, $500 from Agadir but $130 from Casablanca on Saturday.

“I think I’ll get that one, sorry Stefan.”

My biggest regret about this trip, apart from the way I behaved planning it, will be that I caught the train in Spain. If I had known that I would finish in Morocco I would have cycled every single mile. But there I was on a train again today to Marrakesh to catch an early flight home. I am not with my bicycle.

I went to the station last night, got a timetable and checked whether my bike would be allowed on the train. Not a problem. I turned up today and was told I had to leave.

“This is a station, not a state” shouted the man in uniform at the station, although I didn't know fully what he meant by that odd turn of phrase.

“I checked yesterday and was told it would be fine.”

“No. No fine. Get out! Rabat-Agdar!”

It turns out Rabat Agdar station is a kilometre away. I cycled there in the midday sun and wheeled my bike inside. I was promptly told to leave. It turns out despite what the internet, the guidebooks and the information desks at the station say you cannot take a bike on a Moroccan train.

As I was starting to raise my voice Fadji came to my rescue. She had studied in Paris and apparently been lost in London and been helped by a friendly local and so knew my predicament. I found this hard to believe: I have never seen a friendly Londoner. She talked to the guard and it turned out I could send my bike via the Moroccan equivalent of parcel force and it would meet me at the station the next day.

Fadji took me to a porter who took me to the parcel company where I waited for an hour whilst we sorted out how to ship my bike to Marrakesh by tomorrow night. The porter waited with me and carried all my bags and although I don’t like tipping I was forced to accept that he deserved a few dirham. My bike will arrive at Marrakesh station at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning where I have to figure out how to prepare it for an early flight home.

The train to Marrakesh was beautiful and I was upset I wasn’t cycling through the valleys between red mountains and small villages. I felt very low realising that this was it. I got to Marrakesh and I treated myself to a stay in a real hotel. I changed into the cheap jeans I bought in the Medina in Rabat and my new shirt and I went to the bar to order a drink. I have never felt so wealthy after seeing such poverty out of the train window and now sitting in a bar eating an overpriced Panini in what appear to be brand name clothes whilst outside on the street it is a whole other world.

This isn’t how I wanted it to end. I still dream of West Africa, or Senegalese villages and of Ghanaian street parties and I will come back to Africa, soon. I felt like a failiure on the train, like I had planned something and then not gone through with it but thinking about it, that’s not exactly how it is. I haven’t done what I said I would but I know I could. When I started I was worried about doing 50 miles on a bike and now I know I could do that every day indefinitely. I would like to try again one day. Soon. Maybe I will get a flight with my bike to Senegal in the summer, who knows. Either way I still want to see the places I have read about, the cultures, the music, the people… I want to see what I have been thinking about for months on end.

I didn’t want to pay him but I did. The hotel receptionist had lost it.

“You pay for the room, now you pay for me, 50 Dirham” He said angrily.

I went to the internet café after uttering the French for “I don’t understand” and hid. When I came back he was there with his posse.

“You give him a small something. You English? Where you been?”

“I came from Spain.”

“Ah, my girlfriend is from Spain. She has a beeeg ass. A huge ass. Like a black girl ass. But she have a good heart. I like them to be fun.” His friend spoke English had a penchant for larger women “but you give him a small something, I send him to your room later.”

If this was England I would have lost it, but in Asillah I gave the guy 40 Dirham when he marched up to my room, just so I could sleep soundly.

I pulled out of Asillah and ended up down the coast in Larache for lunch time. I went and had a coffee in a place by the sea thinking that they would serve the food on their menu. They did not. The café was a legacy of colonial France with a French name and large, now largely derelict, building that in it’s heyday wouldn’t have looked out of place on the streets of Paris.
I was now desperate for food and wanted a crepe. The night before I had had cravings for cucumber sandwiches but now I wanted a crepe. I went to another café and asked for a plate of crepes. I got a café au lait. I was happy to drink it but I wanted a crepe.

The waiter came back with a beer.

“No, a crepe!”

“A crepe?”

He came back with something else, I don’t know what on earth it was. “A crepe!”

He came back with a menu. By now 40 minutes had passed. I pointed at the shabby cardboard: “Ah, a crepe!”

Eventually I got my crepe and as I was leaving and trying to cross the road I saw another cycle tourist. He stopped and we got talking. We were both going in the same direction and so we decided to cycle together.

His name was Stefan and he became my German wind block, I glided effortlessly up hill in his slip stream and most importantly: he knew the way to go to get to Rabat... And he knew where a campsite was.

We got to the campsite and I pitched my tent for the first time and feasted on the Supernoodles and Cuppa Soup which I have been carrying along with me since I left England. I woke up very cold and very wet. The dew lay like rainfall on the ground and in the trees and everything I had left outside (which was in fact, everything I had) was sodden.

December 9th 2009

Stefan and I set off at 10 after I had heated my instant porridge which my mother had lovingly snuck into my bag before I left. I was actually very grateful for it, unlike when I found out I had half a kilo or oats in my front pannier slowing me down! We headed for Rabat and, apart from the fact that the roads became almost impassable at points where trucks and tractors had devastated the road surface leaving it cratered and pot-holed, everything was great. We stopped for lunch in Kenitra and I ate like I had never eaten before. First came the bread and dips (tomato, split pea and indecipherable), then came half a rotisserie chicken and then came the chips. It was all washed down by a litre of cold cola. I will be honest, the hills felt a lot steeper after that and my stomach felt like it was hitting my knee caps every time I stroked the pedals.

On leaving Kenitra we were followed along the main road by two boys on bicycles. It was an odd looking peloton: Stefan with his neatly packed bike, Rohloff hub and bright yellow Ortlieb panniers, me with me slightly less neatly packed luggage and Brooks bags and my Qoroz titanium steed and the two boys, one on a ram-horned touring bike of yesteryear and one on a mountain bike which made some unusual noises. With little disregard for our safety or theirs they followed us, weaved in an out of us and in and out of traffic.

I had a mixed day with children. The two boys riding alongside us were reckless but fun and friendly with big wide grins. Mohammad who I met rollerblading along the beach asked my name and shook my hand as we rolled along side by side. Some little shit tried to rip my rear light off and pull me off my bike as we went past. Another threw a stone at me and then threatened to shovel sand on me. Another threatened to roll a gas canister in front of me and numerous kids picked up stones and gestured that they were going to throw them. It was okay for Stefan, he whizzed past in front and whilst he shielded me from the wind, I bore the brunt of the juvenile abuse. In a weird way it broke my heart. I had read that I would get this further south, that the sight of a white man on a bicycle would inspire kids to run along side you and wave - and sometime throw stones - and shout in English and French. This is why I chose Africa, somewhere truly different, and it’s all coming to a premature end.

We got to Rabat for 6 and are staying in the old walled part of the city in Hotel Marrakech. 70 Dirham for the room, 7 to use the showers and there is no toilet paper in the loos. I never fully grasped the ‘left hand method’ when I went to India and I still don’t get it. Not that it is a problem. My stomach has gone the other way and I have become bloated with 4 days worth of food. I was seriously contemplating buying the sheep-skull carvery on offer from a street vendor as a cheap way of sorting the problem out.

Anyway, tomorrow I am going to look around Rabat. Stefan has a guide book with all the things to do and places to see and its fun looking around with someone else. I felt a bit bored and redundant walking around Spain and Tangier on my own. Seeing the sights is great but it’s better when you have someone to share it with! Today’s sightseeing highlight was buying ‘ICE’ soft drinks, which are made in Morocco. I got Cola and Citron flavour and Stefan got apple. The cola is 5,50 Dirham for a litre and is, dare I say it, nicer that real coke. The lemon is nice too. Although I am concerned that the sugar content might be off the scale. Either way, it is the first time I have seen a soft drink in Morocco which is not made by the Coca-Cola company.

Ahh

The man in my hostel has gone nuts. He is suddenly asking for double the money. I have paid the hotel, but 'not for me' he says. I legged it to an internet cafe.

He looks game for a fight and I am not happy.

Over,
Sean

Saturday December 5th - Monday December 7th

Tangier - where east meets west.

Or north meets south.

Either way there is a definite clash of cultures in Tangier. I think this was best highlighted by the mini-skirted Moroccan girl walking next to another Moroccan lady in a full Burka… with “Dior” written in big letters down the side of it.

I won’t lie - I haven’t so far, and if nothing else this blog is truthful - I was petrified in Tangier. I have never been offered more drugs, more women or heard such dark stories about a place.
***
“The thing is, they are all after some money. About six months ago some coppers chopped up this guy and left him in the woods, he owed a lot of money, like, and I think they wanted t’wild pigs t’eat him, like.”

This was Craig. My tactic of beer for food was working admirably. I had had two small bottles of beer and had had six tapas dishes: fish, burgers, chicken, salad, beetroot, you name it, I was given a tiny fork and a plethora of tiny food. I sidled up to the bar and heard two English speakers so I pulled out a line I have always wanted to use in a bar:

“I’ll have what they’re having.”

“Come and sit with us pal, pull up a chair” said Tony. “what’s your story?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try us, we’ve heard the lot, haven’t we Craig?”

“I was trying to cycle to South Africa.”

They hadn’t heard that before.

Craig and Tony were pushing 50 and had lived in Tangier for 15 years apiece. They had done the lot and had some stories to tell.

“We’ll show you around like, won’t we Craig?” and Tony and Craig did show me around. From the smart little 555 bar with wifi we went to Brownies and the beer was flowing.

“There is just one piece of advice you need to know, like, never get caught in a car after midnight with a slapper. If she’s not your wife, you can end up in prison!” Tony and/or Craig told me this advice and I had no intention of being anywhere with a ‘slapper’ after midnight.

Fast-forward to one in the morning and I’m sat in a car with Paddy Maroc and a ‘slapper’ - I’ve had four beers and the tapas is running through me. I think it might have been the burgers.
“Paddy, I need to go home. It’s my stomach!”

Paddy Maroc, which wasn’t his real name, was Irish if you hadn’t guessed and he knew the ‘craic.’

“Dontcha worry dare Sean, everyone’s stomach plays up when they first get to Morocco. You’ll come to a slapper bar wit me wontcha?’

“Is it near the hotel?’

“Aye, sure we’ll get you one near the hotel.”

“I don’t want prostitute, Paddy. I’m not into all that” I really wanted to go home and didn’t want it to be Madrid all over again.

“That’s jus’ how they wantcha to think dare, Sean. You’ve been brainwashed.”
***
Paddy had turned up to Brownies halfway through the night. He was wearing a smart suit jacket and jeans and he spoke Arabic, French, Gaelic and English.

“The thing is Arabic and Gaelic are pretty much the same dare Sean. What’s your surname again there? Maher? That’s a strong Irish name dare Sean. A strong Irish name. There was a General Maher, you know? So whatcha doing in Tangier?”

After four beers of unregulated strength I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. But I wasn’t paying for the free-flowing beer and I was at the ‘I love you’ stage of beer-drinking.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, I just want my girlfriend back. The thing is about women…I love you Paddy, Tony and Craig. This is why I went travelling, to meet people! I love you all.”

“Dontcha worry about women dare. Shall I show you an Irish pub?”

The Irish pub couldn’t have been less Irish. It had a Moroccan décor, no Guinness, no green, a Moroccan owner and Spanish omelette Tapas. I’d also give the loo in their a miss, I blame the Tapas.

That’s when I explained that I now felt ill and had griping stomach pain and that is when we went to a ‘slapper bar.’

The bar, inside a hotel, was crawling with beautiful women. All prostitutes. I was left at the bar with a coke and a prostitute and introduced.

“Hello, you speak French.” said the beautiful girl next to me.

“No, I’m English.”

“Ah English! You okay?”

“Yeh, great. I’ll see you then.” Again I had run away and was now sitting on my own. There was no sign of Paddy so I was going to run. He turned up again just as I was leaving.

“Wontcha stay for another coke dare, Sean?”

Anyway, after a coke we finally left and I was sitting in a little blue fiat uno taxi with Paddy in the front and me and a girl in the back and I was now ill and terrified of being arrested. But luckily it was okay. I got back to the hotel and Paddy walked me to my room.

“Now ifcha need anything just call me!”

It had been an eventful night and I had met a lot of nice people and had made it home alone, without being arrested. I arranged to meet Craig the next day at the 555 bar for a drink, this time nothing but coke!

I was sitting in 555 when he pitched up with Bob. Bob is a truck driver. The long and short of yesterday is that I went to use wifi visiting the same websites in order: Gmail, Facebook, Skype and the FCO website. But I found out that Bob is driving to Marrakesh with a shipment and if I get there by Saturday I get a lift back to Tangier in an 18 wheeler. Anyway, three Cokes and a Sprite and lots of free tapas later I went back to the hotel to wake up for 5.30, leave by 7 and smash out 130 km. I have real trouble getting to sleep, that has always been the way. Maybe I think about things too much but as soon as my head hit’s the pillow, no matter how tired I am, I stay awake for hours just thinking. I am however, very good at sleeping through alarms once I finally manage to get to sleep.

My first night in boarding school when I was 16 there was a fire alarm. I slept through it and I rudely, although half-asleep and not compos mentis yet, told my housemaster to ‘bugger off’ when he came to wake me up. A similar thing happened today when my alarm went off and I slept through it until 10.30. I was out of the hotel by 11 and eating pancakes in what looked like an upmarket bar. A quick nip to the loo, however, uncovered the fact that the food preparation area wasn’t likely to be spotless as the loo was caked in grime and stank to high-heaven. If I described the conditions in detail I would lose a lot of readers so I will leave it at that. At 11.20 I was cycling and after 10 miles of cycling around and around in circles I finally found the road south to Asilla.

Conditions were grim with a fierce headwind and I only covered 30 miles (plus 10 going around in circles in Tangier which don’t count). I found a campsite where I could have camped in car park next to the beach on concrete for 100 Dirham (10 pounds) and then I settled on a little hostel where for 100 Dirham I get a room and shower and a garage for my bike. I would have been happy with the campsite until I was told by a small grubby man in a high-viz jacket much like the one I was forced to buy in Spain:

“You pay me 100 Dirham, later men come and make trouble for you so I pay them 5 Dirham and fight them away so you stay safe. No? How much you pay?”

“For this, err maybe 20 Dirham?”

“No, no, 70 Dirham and I stay up all night to fight the men off”

“Why would you be fighting men off?” I was a bit worried about this scenario

“Not safe! But I sleep tomorrow so you sleep tonight.”

“No I’m good. I’ll have a look around, thanks.’

“But I protect you and fight men, huh! Pay them to go!”

And with that I pedalled off.