First task - get the bike roadworthy. The lovely old chap, with his old fashioned bike repair shop down the road, obliges. For those ancient enough to remember the bike shops of old - smelling of oil, metal and rubber and filled with all those little oilstained cardboard boxes containing the essential nuts and bolts you always lose? That's his shop.
First trip is in a southerly direction to Temara - about 10km or so. Quite a leisurely ride down the coast, not massively interesting to write about, great to experience though. Sitting drinking mint tea in Cafe St Germain watching the sea. The sun is shining but I think that French general might be right when he called Morocco a cold country with a warm sun.
Now the major road trip par velo in this cold country. The plan is to go to a nature reserve called Lac Sidi Boughaba where there are lots of birdies. And a lake. I book a room at a hotel about 20km from Rabat - the lac is a further 15km. Travel advice from the locals (my colleagues in the Embassy) is not to cycle to this place, the road is dangerous. And there are druggies in the forest. Methinks they live a sheltered life in Casablanca and have never cycled in Rotherhithe. In fact they have never cycled anywhere - only poor people and loonies cycle here.
Come Saturday morning, rucksack packed, one change of clothes, boiled eggs and choccy bar for elevenses in case I get famished on the way (see Van Morrison, Avalon Sunset) I set off. Roads ok til I get to the only bridge across the estuary and it's got cars, lorries, trams on it. Yippee there's a bike lane. On to Sale and I start my long haul up the coast road. This dangerous road is a very well made up dual carriageway with not much traffic on it. And then, to my surprise, the surface changes to brand new tarmac and hardly any traffic at all. Then no traffic and just me on this brand new dual carriageway. Oh how I laugh thinking of what I was going to tell them in the office about this perilous road. Til I come to this:
The Talking Heads tune , "I'm on the road to nowhere" seems appropriate now. Who builds a bleedin' dual carriageway with a u turn at the dead end? I assume the family in the pink house declined to move.
Well I take a right into the field and make my way to a parallel road and continue in the same direction. This is a really nice ride through farms and countryside - narrow road but no traffic to speak of. Usual rural scenes of women driving cattle up the road, women digging in the fields and women carrying baskets of stuff. No doubt the chaps were doing the important things like coffee drinking, smoking and moustache growing.
Then there in the distance is what looks like a massive development of apartment blocks and new roads. And it is. I have arrived at the Plage des Nations deluxe residential development and golf resort. This is where my hotel is. I make my way past the bulldozers, empty apartment blocks and there, down by the beach (I had to go up onto the cliffs first) is my hotel. Or is it an electricity generating power station? Doesn't look too deluxe at all. I arrive to chorus of barking dogs that appear to live in holes in the cliffs. Not burrows or sets or holts - what do dogs live in? The guardien greets me from his sedentary position by the roadside. No point in getting up for a bike rider, he thinks. There'll be no tip for helping him park that. M le guardien does however keep pointing to my bike, showing his tooth in what is probably meant to be a grin and shouting "mercedes!". I take it he rather approves of my velo.
Arrange to leave my rucksack at the hotel, grab a mint tea and saddle up. The ever helpful guardien tells me it's about 16-17 km to the Lac but if I go along the beach (on foot I presume?) it's 4 or 5 km. I must remember that for tomorrow.
It's about 2km to the main road and this is a different proposition. It's a 3 lane road which is fatal for drivers in this and similarly road etiquette challenged countries in that they think it's 4 lanes. This means you can overtake whichever way you're going. So pleased I got a mountain bike, I can cycle along the unmade road at the side where all the pedestrians, horse carts and 3 wheeler goods vans go. The roadside is buzzing all the way. Shops selling pots, tagines, plates, stone lions; lots of garden centres (called pepinieres, I discovered, after seeing about 50 and cleverly connecting the name)
There are also a lot of tailors dummies stationed by the side of the road. there's no indication what the shops/buildings by them might be offering. Nearly all the dummies are female and unclad but they have no heads. Please let me know if you have any ideas. I have discounted voodoo witchcraft emporiums.
First coffee stop at a garage. As I park the bike, I notice all the chaps at the tables staring at me. What's so odd about a grey haired man in shorts parking a bike in a remote garage in Morocco? A bit further on are some fruit stalls - I buy a kilo of satsumas for 5 dirhams (not quite 50p) I feel I should pay more.
Up and down several quite serious hills for a few more kms and I arrive at the lake. Lovely view from the top of the hill over the lake. can't see it all because it's 7 or km long itself. 2 young boys come and join me as I'm scanning the lake with my binox. They are more interested in the bike which they also appear to approve of. No English or French and my Arabic is a few words only. So I chuck them a satsuma each and swoop down the hill to the lake. At the bottom is a road going - where? Turns out to be some bigwig's house. Who has a drive 3 km long? I did see more magpies in one place than I've ever seen before though.
There follows a long uphill, relatively unexciting cycle ride to the town of Mehdiya. A nice little town with a sea front made for surfers and tourists. I take lunch of an excellent tagine on a terrace overlooking the ocean. Genial!
On my way back, the unexciting ride is made terrifically exciting by the sight of a marsh harrier, a river cormorant and 2 big eagley type birds. Just a beginner in the twitching world, I am.
The road home is long and my bum is sore. I stop to take piccies of local things - like this local taxi that ferries folk up and down the dirt road beside the highway.
Coffee time and I stop at the Cafe Nouvelle Generation. I imagine it was nouvelle some time ago. The proprietor is a welcoming fellow who stops to chat when he brings my coffee. Ah, le cyclisme, he opines. Then he tries out his English. I tell him I work in the British Embassy in Rabat. No worries about revealing that out here in the bush. His English is not bad at all but his topics of conversation are limited. Then, do I know anyone at the Belgian Embassy? No, says I. He moves away. Two mins later he is back with a piece of paper in French. It turns out his niece was refused a Belgian visa, can I help? Those dastardly Flems I say. I'll mention it if I meet one in Rabat.
It's a long road back to the hotel and I stop several times to view the scenery, try and get a pic of the nude dummies and eat satsumas (at different times) I think I discover an ancient Roman ruin of a loo
I had a jimmy in it anyway. And see my bike having a rest too. It uses the loo after me.
Continuing the rhyming slang, I had to climb a tommytucker of a hill just before the hotel. I'm kerry packered. In the hotel, I have a bath! First bath in years and it's wonderful. Just wish I could have a cold beer. Oh, I haven't mentioned the new year res - off the booze.
I spend a pleasant evening reading my kindle, drinking an apple milkshake (I'm sure I didn't order that) and a good seafood supper.
The next day dawns and it's a walk along the beach before brekkies. Besides the fact that it has to be 10 km or more along the beach to the Lac (I followed it yesterday) it's soft sand. it would take a long, boring, painful time to walk to the Lac. I'm not going. Stupid guardien
Breakfast is not the best. Ever eaten rancid butter?
As I prepare to leave, it's spitting with rain. The guardien suggests I and mercedes wait til it stops. The intrepid traveller ignores this advice and sets off. Pretty soon it's pissing down, the wind is my face and it seems like I'm barely going forward. It's like being back in bloody Deal riding along the seafront. I am pleased when I arrive home having fallen off only once, having sopping wet clothes and sorest bum imaginable. Only one thing to do. Have a shower and a cuppa then out to buy all the ingredients for some chicken soup. Marvellous.
And a footnote. I joined a gym in Rabat recently which has been a new experience - even though I have joined many gyms in my time. UK gyms where they mollycoddle you so much there won't be any weights in them soon because lifting heavy things is dangerous. Chinese gyms where they couldn't give a rat's bottom what you do. French gyms (Paris mainly) which are full of poseurs and mirrors. As my scottish chum says (and he should know) "In Perris, gyms are for gay men!". So back to Rabat. Gym time is segregated - girls don't mix with boys. Fair enough. A headscarfed lady sits in reception and looks menacingly at me when I turn up. It seems I am the only person who wears shorts in the gym - decadent or what. But most puzzling to me is the fact that I am the only person who undresses to have a shower. All the Moroccans wear at least their shreddies and sometimes vests as well. I'm talking about the men of course, I don't know about the girlies but judging by what they wear outside, they probably put another track suit on. The chaps even put their y fronts on under a towel like you do on the beach. It's a far cry from the changing rooms at Blackheath rugby club where you were quite likely to have your parts flicked by a towel, receive unwanted advances from an amorous prop forward or have beer chucked at you after you'd showered. Happy days.
First trip is in a southerly direction to Temara - about 10km or so. Quite a leisurely ride down the coast, not massively interesting to write about, great to experience though. Sitting drinking mint tea in Cafe St Germain watching the sea. The sun is shining but I think that French general might be right when he called Morocco a cold country with a warm sun.
Now the major road trip par velo in this cold country. The plan is to go to a nature reserve called Lac Sidi Boughaba where there are lots of birdies. And a lake. I book a room at a hotel about 20km from Rabat - the lac is a further 15km. Travel advice from the locals (my colleagues in the Embassy) is not to cycle to this place, the road is dangerous. And there are druggies in the forest. Methinks they live a sheltered life in Casablanca and have never cycled in Rotherhithe. In fact they have never cycled anywhere - only poor people and loonies cycle here.
Come Saturday morning, rucksack packed, one change of clothes, boiled eggs and choccy bar for elevenses in case I get famished on the way (see Van Morrison, Avalon Sunset) I set off. Roads ok til I get to the only bridge across the estuary and it's got cars, lorries, trams on it. Yippee there's a bike lane. On to Sale and I start my long haul up the coast road. This dangerous road is a very well made up dual carriageway with not much traffic on it. And then, to my surprise, the surface changes to brand new tarmac and hardly any traffic at all. Then no traffic and just me on this brand new dual carriageway. Oh how I laugh thinking of what I was going to tell them in the office about this perilous road. Til I come to this:
Well I take a right into the field and make my way to a parallel road and continue in the same direction. This is a really nice ride through farms and countryside - narrow road but no traffic to speak of. Usual rural scenes of women driving cattle up the road, women digging in the fields and women carrying baskets of stuff. No doubt the chaps were doing the important things like coffee drinking, smoking and moustache growing.
Then there in the distance is what looks like a massive development of apartment blocks and new roads. And it is. I have arrived at the Plage des Nations deluxe residential development and golf resort. This is where my hotel is. I make my way past the bulldozers, empty apartment blocks and there, down by the beach (I had to go up onto the cliffs first) is my hotel. Or is it an electricity generating power station? Doesn't look too deluxe at all. I arrive to chorus of barking dogs that appear to live in holes in the cliffs. Not burrows or sets or holts - what do dogs live in? The guardien greets me from his sedentary position by the roadside. No point in getting up for a bike rider, he thinks. There'll be no tip for helping him park that. M le guardien does however keep pointing to my bike, showing his tooth in what is probably meant to be a grin and shouting "mercedes!". I take it he rather approves of my velo.
Arrange to leave my rucksack at the hotel, grab a mint tea and saddle up. The ever helpful guardien tells me it's about 16-17 km to the Lac but if I go along the beach (on foot I presume?) it's 4 or 5 km. I must remember that for tomorrow.
It's about 2km to the main road and this is a different proposition. It's a 3 lane road which is fatal for drivers in this and similarly road etiquette challenged countries in that they think it's 4 lanes. This means you can overtake whichever way you're going. So pleased I got a mountain bike, I can cycle along the unmade road at the side where all the pedestrians, horse carts and 3 wheeler goods vans go. The roadside is buzzing all the way. Shops selling pots, tagines, plates, stone lions; lots of garden centres (called pepinieres, I discovered, after seeing about 50 and cleverly connecting the name)
There are also a lot of tailors dummies stationed by the side of the road. there's no indication what the shops/buildings by them might be offering. Nearly all the dummies are female and unclad but they have no heads. Please let me know if you have any ideas. I have discounted voodoo witchcraft emporiums.
First coffee stop at a garage. As I park the bike, I notice all the chaps at the tables staring at me. What's so odd about a grey haired man in shorts parking a bike in a remote garage in Morocco? A bit further on are some fruit stalls - I buy a kilo of satsumas for 5 dirhams (not quite 50p) I feel I should pay more.
Up and down several quite serious hills for a few more kms and I arrive at the lake. Lovely view from the top of the hill over the lake. can't see it all because it's 7 or km long itself. 2 young boys come and join me as I'm scanning the lake with my binox. They are more interested in the bike which they also appear to approve of. No English or French and my Arabic is a few words only. So I chuck them a satsuma each and swoop down the hill to the lake. At the bottom is a road going - where? Turns out to be some bigwig's house. Who has a drive 3 km long? I did see more magpies in one place than I've ever seen before though.
There follows a long uphill, relatively unexciting cycle ride to the town of Mehdiya. A nice little town with a sea front made for surfers and tourists. I take lunch of an excellent tagine on a terrace overlooking the ocean. Genial!
On my way back, the unexciting ride is made terrifically exciting by the sight of a marsh harrier, a river cormorant and 2 big eagley type birds. Just a beginner in the twitching world, I am.
The road home is long and my bum is sore. I stop to take piccies of local things - like this local taxi that ferries folk up and down the dirt road beside the highway.
It's a long road back to the hotel and I stop several times to view the scenery, try and get a pic of the nude dummies and eat satsumas (at different times) I think I discover an ancient Roman ruin of a loo
Continuing the rhyming slang, I had to climb a tommytucker of a hill just before the hotel. I'm kerry packered. In the hotel, I have a bath! First bath in years and it's wonderful. Just wish I could have a cold beer. Oh, I haven't mentioned the new year res - off the booze.
I spend a pleasant evening reading my kindle, drinking an apple milkshake (I'm sure I didn't order that) and a good seafood supper.
The next day dawns and it's a walk along the beach before brekkies. Besides the fact that it has to be 10 km or more along the beach to the Lac (I followed it yesterday) it's soft sand. it would take a long, boring, painful time to walk to the Lac. I'm not going. Stupid guardien
Breakfast is not the best. Ever eaten rancid butter?
As I prepare to leave, it's spitting with rain. The guardien suggests I and mercedes wait til it stops. The intrepid traveller ignores this advice and sets off. Pretty soon it's pissing down, the wind is my face and it seems like I'm barely going forward. It's like being back in bloody Deal riding along the seafront. I am pleased when I arrive home having fallen off only once, having sopping wet clothes and sorest bum imaginable. Only one thing to do. Have a shower and a cuppa then out to buy all the ingredients for some chicken soup. Marvellous.
And a footnote. I joined a gym in Rabat recently which has been a new experience - even though I have joined many gyms in my time. UK gyms where they mollycoddle you so much there won't be any weights in them soon because lifting heavy things is dangerous. Chinese gyms where they couldn't give a rat's bottom what you do. French gyms (Paris mainly) which are full of poseurs and mirrors. As my scottish chum says (and he should know) "In Perris, gyms are for gay men!". So back to Rabat. Gym time is segregated - girls don't mix with boys. Fair enough. A headscarfed lady sits in reception and looks menacingly at me when I turn up. It seems I am the only person who wears shorts in the gym - decadent or what. But most puzzling to me is the fact that I am the only person who undresses to have a shower. All the Moroccans wear at least their shreddies and sometimes vests as well. I'm talking about the men of course, I don't know about the girlies but judging by what they wear outside, they probably put another track suit on. The chaps even put their y fronts on under a towel like you do on the beach. It's a far cry from the changing rooms at Blackheath rugby club where you were quite likely to have your parts flicked by a towel, receive unwanted advances from an amorous prop forward or have beer chucked at you after you'd showered. Happy days.
