We spent two nights in Tafraout, wedged in between campervans in a little campsite just out of town, spending most of a day off relaxing under the shade of our tarp and laughing to ourselves at the antics of our campervaning neighbours.

We’d asked about dinner when we first arrived, and the campsite manager Omar had said we could get dinner, but would need a days notice. We found out why the next day. In the morning Omar made several trips into town on his bicycle to buy ingredients for the three tagines he was making that night (one of them ours). He then chopped up all the ingredients on a little rickety table, and cooked the tagines on a gas stove in the back of his small room at the corner of the campsite.

That night we had one of the best tagines we’ve ever eaten delivered to the door of our tent. It had a whole butterflied chicken (skin on), 6 different kinds of vegetables, olives, preserved lemon and raisins. We sat cross legged on our picnic rug, digging into the tagine with spoons and Moroccan bread, grinning from ear to ear at an experience that could only be had in Morocco.

We were up early the next morning, ready to catch the 8am bus to Agadir. We’ve only got a short time left in Morocco, and we decided we really wanted to see the coast. Much to our delight, the bus had mechanical problems and so was 2 and a half hours late leaving. The driver decided he needed to speed to make up for lost time, and so I spent the 6 hour bus ride watching Matt turn different shades of green.

Safely off the bus in Agadir, we made a beeline for the beach and sat enjoying an ice-cream and a cool sea breeze. We’d gotten used to the dry inland heat, and the humidity on the coast instantly made everything feel hotter. Good preparation for things to come when we get back home perhaps.

Cooled down somewhat by the ice-cream, we set off along the very busy N1 in search of a campsite just out of town.

The first campsite we came to was, much to our surprise, apparently full, so we headed a further 10km up the road until we found another. The campsite was run by a larger than life French lady, and because we were just staying one night she picked us out a stunning spot to pitch our tent with uninterrupted views of the ocean. The campsite had a restaurant, so we decided to save our gas and try our luck with the food, which turned out to be a true stroke of luck. While it’s not on the menu, the owner had treated herself to moules frites for dinner. We were ogling them so much that she decided we could have the two serves of mussels that they couldn’t fit in. They were absolutely delicious, made all the more so by the surprise find and the fact that the campsite also sold wine (a particularly rare occurrence!!).

The next day we continued along the busy road before turning off to the tiny coastal town of Imsouane. It was a fairly uneventful day, and we really just put our heads down along the highway and tried to avoid being squished by the campervans and busses that ploughed their way along the route. Finally off the highway, we made our way up the last hill before enjoying the traffic free descent down into Imsouane. We found a pleasant little campsite just out of town with sandy pitches and hot showers.

The next day we decided to take it easy, with the plan to avoid the highway for as long as possible, potter along the small coast roads and find a wild camp somewhere by the sea. We headed into town to stock up on food and treated ourselves to some crepes for a second breakfast, before setting off up the coast. The coastal roads turned out to be a winner of a decision. They switched between asphalt and piste, but the surface stayed pretty good and we had the roads, and stunning ocean views, all to ourselves.

We stopped a couple of kilometres before Tafedna (a small fishing village) and found another beautiful wild camp for the night.

The next day, and coincidentally the last cycling day of our trip, turned out to be a real slog. I couldn’t help but think that maybe the cycling gods were trying to make us feel a little better about having to head home soon. The day started with a bone shaking ride down a rough dirt track to sea level, and then was followed by about 600m of climbing in stinking hot humidity, and finished up by 45 kilometres straight into a brutal headwind that halved our speed. Apparently Essaouira, our final destination, has been aptly dubbed the ‘Wind City of Africa’, and it certainly lived up to its name on the day of our arrival.

We arrived on the outskirts of town, tired but happy, and found the campsite almost straight away. The site, although it did have a least some shade, looked run down and uninviting, which coupled with the fact that my mattress has been slowly falling apart, made camping suddenly not such an appealing option. We made a beeline for a cafe with wifi to look for other accomodation options. Not surprisingly, the wifi didn’t end up working (there is no polite way to say it – the internet in Morocco is utter rubbish) so resorted to lonely planet and the old fashioned method of calling to see if we could track down a place to stay. We had luck by the second call, and headed into the medina to find the hotel. It couldn’t have been more perfect for us. The hotel is clean, and rundown enough that we don’t feel bad about bringing our dusty bikes in, the staff are friendly and it was well within our budget. Pure gold. We showered, went for a walk to find yet another yummy dinner, collapsed into bed and fell asleep mumbing things like how nice it was to have real sheets and pillows.