The dawn calling to prayer (Imsak)– around 6:15 a.m. at present — is nowadays broadcast by amplified speakers from the tallest Minarets. You can hear echoing calls from all over the city … quite a haunting sound first thing in the morning and at nightfall (Isha) … there are three others throughout the day, but city noise tends to blur them).  Apparently there’s an app you can install on your phone to keep track of the times as these will change depending on the time of year.

Breakfast at Le Boulevard … a boulangerie et patisserie.  Superb coffee … and mushroom, spinach & cheese omelet with fresh (still warm)  round grainy breads … you see them everywhere being delivered.  Their counters groaning with breads, pastries, croissants, cakes, and macaroons.  One man went out with SIX French breads under his arm.  Afterwards, a stroll along the waterfront then up into the Petite Souk … where the locals shop.  Almost a shanty town of stalls, jammed together … fruits and vegetables … live chickens in cages, awaiting their fate … handicrafts … nick-knacks … shoes and handbags.  Counters of nose-tickling spices … vats of multi-coloured pickled olives … shelves of medicinal herbs and cures.  Further along the fish market — floors  constantly sluiced with water, merchants in rubber boots … fish of every shape, size and species.  The meat market was a little less appetizing … some of the stalls had various offal draped  unappealingly from hooks, and rows of blackened sheep’s heads which stared at you with eye-less sockets … there was a pungent odour of putrefaction filtering through.  Yesterday, in the more tourist area, it was impossible to walk more than a couple of feet without being coaxed into shops or offered tours … but here we just got curious looks as people went about their business.  We ducked under a canvas roof into a dimly-lit maize of narrow walkways and cramped counters bursting with fresh produce … huge, yellow grapefruit with leaves still attached … earthy potatoes and yams … olives, nuts and spices … the stall owners hunched at the back, staring in disbelief.  This was locals only territory!  However a cheery Bonjour always brought a courteously rumbled Ca va in reply.

On our previous visit to the Kasbah with Mohammed, it hadn’t been possible to take all the photos I’d wanted as we were listening to his talk.  Today, with deep blue skies and a slower pace, the photo opportunities were endless … as you can see!  One small shop, tucked far away from all the rest, had a delightfully eclectic selection of goods for sale … jewelry, postcards, leather pouches, books, antique cameras, pottery, wooden figurines.  While I browsed the earrings, Glen had the pleasure of chatting with the owner … no high pressure sales.  It seems this lane and archway was favoured by the artist Matisse . . . and there were  postcards of the painting to prove it.

Further on, the melodic sounds of an Oud drifted out a window.  Here was an accomplished player … and the music had a decided Andalucian/Moroccan fusion.  A tiny shop offering mint tea and music — we were waved to come and sit a while.  The walls were completely covered with colourful blankets, pictures and assorted Ouds.  We sat and chatted, got to look at and ‘play’ an Oud and drums.  There are 10 strings — 4 pairs and 2 individual with higher tones – producing a beautiful harmony. We sat outside on brightly padded tiny stools and listened as we drank our mint tea.

Taking a wrong turn (despite Miss Google), a polite young fellow of about 8 or 9 was quite insistent that this lane was ferme, and shot off in front of us to lead the way.  It was only one street away ..  he introduced himself as Hamza and he never once asked for any cash . .. just sat on a nearby wall and smiled.  He raced off with a big grin clutching a few coins of loose change as payment.

We had tea on the terrace at the Hotel Continental!  Built right into the clifftop with a commanding view over Tangier’s harbour front and a guest list of the world’s Who’s Who as long as your arm.  But it’s the inside that leaves you gob-smacked.  Every wall, ceiling and floor is intricately tiled — some painted, other’s look like fine paper quill work.  There are Moorish doors and windows . .  . stained glass windows splashing colour across the floors … individual alcoves with lounging beds, fountains and heavyily tasseled curtains for privacy (quite decadent) … gigantic silver tea urns . . . leather camel saddles.  Truly a remarkable sight.  It was mid afternoon and we had the entire place to ourselves, it was only as we were about to leave that a few other people arrived.

Walking along the waterfront we’d hoped to go into the fishing port … but it was securely behind fencing and barbed wire.  Shame, because the boats were so colourful.  We waded our way through a sea of restaurant scouts, all desperately trying to drum up business.  They must’ve been hurting as a result of Covid … but goodness, they were tenacious! We sat on the sea wall instead and watched men long line fishing from the rocks below. How did they get down there?

It’s quite a way.  A young man provided the answer … he piled up rocks against the sea wall, and with the help of his two girlfriends above, clambered up.  He got lots of cheers.

Not particularly hungry, and tired from a long day’s walking, we picked up some cakes and croissants from a nearby bakery (no idea what’s in them – everything was in Arabic) … fresh clementines from the fruit shop next door — still with their leaves, and returned to the apartment to indulge.

We’re this close, we HAVE to visit!  As the Tarifa owner kindly let us leave our bags behind at the apartment and stay an additional night on our return, we can just take backpacks.  There was absolutely no available parking down by the ferry terminal but a quiet street close by had just the spot.  The FRS ticket office was on the way, so we popped in and a cheerful and helpful lady printed out our internet tickets and even filled out the Moroccan health and safety forms for us … we just have to adjust to speaking French now!

On board, all organization went out the window, however.  Even though we had gone through customs before hand … shown our passports at least twice … it was still required that all passengers line up on board and present the various forms (2 each) and passports yet again, for stamping this time.  We lined up but nothing moved for 20 minutes — then queues formed in at least 2 other directions, all pushing at once towards just two booths.  Complete chaos with frustrations rising … and only amplified when groups of local Moroccan ladies pushed ahead of  mothers with young children and elderly people with walking aids.  None of the crew seemed interested in alleviating the situation.  We barely got through the line up before arriving in Tangier 75 minutes later.

There was a light sea mist coming into port which somehow just added to the allure and mystery of the place.   Passports got dragged out again as we disembarked (yup … we do indeed have an official stamp).  Curiously, all luggage had to go through security x-rays once more… although how anything  suspicious could have materialized on the trip over, I’m not sure.  There were cruise passengers manhandling trolley-loads of suitcases through the machines and hauling them out the other side … I looked over at the person supposedly monitoring the screens, to find him engrossed in his cell phone!  What’s the purpose?

We had three hours to kill before our check in, so we took a chance with a serious young man named Mohammed, who appeared to have official tourism credentials (yes, yes … I know), we booked him for a two hour tour around the city and walk through the Medina and Kasbah … just to get our bearings.  We’ll return at our leisure tomorrow.  Mohammed’s English was exceptional (he’d gone to university in London) and he was a wealth of  knowledge and history. We toured some of the Medina shops — local artisans  who had formed cooperatives to preserve traditional handcrafting … weaving, pottery, silverwork  and leather.  One modest-sized shop was stacked floor to ceiling with hand woven bedspreads in every size, colour and thickness… piles of gorgeously soft silk and mohair scarves and shawls — the colours and patterns mesmerizing. It would be so easy to triple the volume of one’s luggage with purchases … but perhaps we should have gone for the ‘Orrence of Arabia” headdress!!

Tour guide Mohammed checked with apartment host Mohammed regarding when to meet up — and we have until 4:00 pm … time for some food.  The Vandalucia was everything one would imagine in Tangier … up a marble staircase encased in intricately tiled walls … Moorish arches giving tantalizing views into other rooms … padded benches with silk-tasseled cushions … carved wooden lamps … and discrete pictures of King Mohammed VI in his trademark sunglasses.  The owner guided us to a table and suggested a sampling menu of traditional foods.  To start, little dishes of green and black olives, some zaalouk – made from aubergine and cumin, spicy lentils, and a dish of very hot pepper sauce (I wish I had a picture of Glen’s face after trying!) -a basket of bread for dipping.  A delicious Harira soup made from simmered chickpeas, followed by a small salad of beets, tomatoes and greens.  After that a savoury flaky pastilla of crispy filo pastry filled with spiced almonds and dusted with icing sugar (some contain pigeon meat, but I don’t think this one did).   Next were the main dishes .. chicken tajine and vegetables simmered in the traditional domed pot along with preserved lemons … and a delicately spiced chicken couscous

topped with juicy, plump raisins.  Glasses of mint tea to wash things down.  A huge plate of fruit materialized — mandarins, grapes and pomegranates … and to finish, lovely sticky honey-dipped pastries sprinkled with sesame seeds.   All the while, a live band of three gentlemen serenaded the diners – one played an Oud, there was something resembling a stringed ‘violin’, and a drum.  Often the owner joined in, and even our waiter sang along (he’s wearing the red jacket). For those of you who are Fawlty Towers fans — think of an older Arabic version of Manuel.

All that food,  ambiance and music for a paltry 35 euros – around $40 Canadian … for two!  I’m so full I won’t need to eat for a week.

That evening we braved the bustling streets — there’s more vibrancy and tempo than in Spain.  Pedestrians are definitely not molly-coddled here.  Pedestrian crossings are marked in red and white stripes, but very few of them have lights.  It’s a case of grabbing your chance and crossing in a group, if possible … and even then, cars will impatiently nose their way across in front of you, or screech to a halt just feet away.  Honking is the norm for every situation. We’ve noticed two types of taxi … Grand and Petite.  The cream-coloured multi-seat ones will often wait for multiple passengers travelling to the same destination, and the fare is divided equally among them.  The turquoise Petite cabs are for single fares, and therefore slightly more expensive, but more convenient.

Then there were the sidewalk cafes … dozens of them lining the major thoroughfares … almost exclusively inhabited by men.  Morose-looking individuals sitting in a long line, backs against the wall, staring out at the street as they nursed their small cups of strong coffee. What would happen if a woman suddenly went and sat down, I wonder?  Oooo …  the temptation was almost irresistible!

We returned to the apartment as darkness fell.  The temperature perfect for sitting on the balcony to watch the full moon rise.

The morning dawned — foggy, cool and a touch of drizzle.  No … not what we need!  The clouds were so low they almost touched the sea.  Should we put off until tomorrow?  The BBC weather forecast claimed that Tarifa was 17C and foggy whereas Gibraltar was a sunny 24 … such a difference in a relatively short distance.  We decided to chance it.

Approaching Algeciras … there across the bay was Gibraltar, clear and bright. Yess!  Parking in La Linea de la Conception was quite simple … perhaps not the parking lot Glen had found for 3 euros a day — but it was close to the border.   Customs was a breeze … and then, we were walking across the air strip … people all around taking photos (despite notices saying “no stopping on the runway” .. who could blame them.

The first thing you saw was a red British telephone box … then The Casemates square — which is filled with restaurants now.  Main Street was a sea of humanity all looking for a duty free deal, or beer, fish and chips, or a curry.  We struggled against the surge and found John  Mackintosh square  – location of our first apartment in Gibraltar.  Of course the building has been totally revamped, but the square still looks much the same.  Then there’s that distinctive accent … British overtones, but with a drawled Spanish twang.  We had bus passes, but there was a major accident somewhere along the line, and the one-way flow of traffic had ground to a standstill . . . British Bobbies directing traffic.

We walked up one particularly congested street crammed with buses cars and taxis, but scooters were determined to squeeze through regardless of pedestrians or vehicle paint.

The cable car up The Rock was busy.  Two options … ride up, look at the view, see some of the Barbery apes and ride back down – 18 Euros.  OR  ride to the top and walk down through the Nature Reserve (pretty much ALL of the upper Rock), St, Michael’s Cave, the World War II and Siege Tunnels, etc.  — 34 Euros each.  Now, you could walk up to the halfway point — it would be a good workout but you still wouldn’t be able to reach the very top.

There were high clouds, but the view was crisp and clear in every direction …  the whole of Gibraltar spread out below.  The west side with the old town within the walls,  docks, marinas and a lot of new apartments and hotels on reclaimed land … the airstrip, and over to La Linea and Algeciras across the bay.  The east side of Gib — the shady side — with Sandy Bay and more new highrise buildings being constructed near the air strip.  Way off into the distance were Estapona and Marbella along the Costa del Sol.

And then there were apes (actually Barbary Macaques) … with attitude …

everywhere.  Posing on walls … grooming each other …. ambling past, checking out the visitors.  Posters and warnings everywhere — Do not carry food or plastic bags which they associate with food … Do not Feed, Touch, Glare at, Make Faces at the apes … they can and will bite.  Even then, one would suddenly leap on some poor unfortunate person, giving them a scare before letting go.  We rescued one such German lady, visiting on her own . . . and shortly afterwards another ambushed Glen (ape that is, not eine Frau).  Mums with tiny babies clinging … large males lounging indolently on a cement barricade, yawning and showing off their impressive inscisors.

The saying goes, that should the apes ever leave Gibraltar, The Rock would fall … so back during WWII, Winston Churchill had reinforcements brought in from the Barbary Coast in North Africa to ensure against this.  For years  they were members of the British Army … had military numbers … and even an army soldier appointed to look after them.  Today, they are cared for by the Gibraltar Nature Reserve.  This link gives you an interesting background and great photos of the Barbary Macaques.   https://gibraltar.com/en/travel/see-and-do/upper-rock-nature-reserve/gibraltar-monkeys.php

Other attractions are the glassed floor viewing area giving hair-raising views over the eastern side, the Windsor Suspension Bridge providing western visas … St. Michael’s Cave – a beautiful Cathedral cavern with amazing limestone structures, however we thought the coloured light show and loud music an unnecessary distraction.

A welcome ice cream to sit and rest weary feet while soaking in the views and watch cheeky ‘monkeys’ balance on top of the constant stream of taxi vans.  Leaving Glen at the table, I wandered off to find the bathrooms, fortunately

having packed away the camera and my glasses first.  Just as well . . . as one of the Macaques swept in and made a grab for whatever was on the table.  Glen hadn’t seen me secure the camera and feared the worst … but the only ‘prize’ was an empty ice cream pot, which was carried off, thoroughly licked out and torn to bits.

Working our way across The Rock, we had left the Great Siege Tunnel till last, only to find it had closed early! At least  we had a great vantage point for the plane just taking off.  Stood chatting with Brigitte – the German lady from earlier – she mostly in German, us mostly in English.   Somewhat older than us, she was happily driving herself about, seeing

the sights — having left her husband behind in Dresden – I gather he had no interest in traveling.  Hope we have her adventuresome spirit in a few years.

A delicious curry and an excellent masala tea … a bus to the border (again a breeze) … the car still where we left it (you don’t want to know the cost after over 9 hours) … and back to Tarifa.  The road up to the house is quite the experience in the dark!

Certainly a village not to miss is Vejer de la Frontera.  Now, you ‘re probably thinking that we’ve seen FAR too many white pueblos  already this trip, but honestly, this is a beauty.  Mid week, it was quiet … the sky was that impossible deep blue that only the Mediterranean can achieve … every doorway enticed you into hidden patios with luxuriant potted plants and trickling water — each better than the one before (they are probably very competitive!).  Tiny shops with displays of goods on the walls outside — wonderfully smelling leather goods  … or intricately woven straw products.  That aroma immediately transported me back to childhood, with straw shopping bags or sombreros.  There was an old windmill on the hill . . . and the brightly coloured tiled fountain in the central plaza had frogs spouting arcs of water into the air.  The kids loved it.

The scenery between Vejer and Tarifa was rolling grasslands …  Cattle country.  Fields were a desiccated brown after the summer but the hills were covered with a green woolly fleece of cork oaks. Harvesting of cork is now highly regulated, and can only be done for a couple of months

each year — usually around June and July.  A highly skilled process of cutting through the outer bark without damaging the under layer – the sheets of cork are pulled off and stacked for up to 6 months to mature.  You could drive past these piles of apparently scrap wood and not realize this is a highly valuable commodity …  https://www.andalucia.com/environment/cork.htm

As our next apartment near Tarifa was somewhat rural, the owner (Gisella) offered to meet us at a restaurant on the main road and guide us in. And what a place — Right on the edge of a nature reserve!  An unmarked road, which technically was ‘paved’ but was so ancient and uneven the car rocked wildly from side to side – over tree roots and around rock walls.  In through some high wrought iron gates, the garden path wound its way through a veritable jungle of lush vegetation, palms and enormous cactus to a spotless villa . . . with a spacious flag-stoned patio overlooking

the Straits to the mountains of North Africa!  Originally from Germany, Gisella and her husband had lived in Tarifa the past 4 years, so we toured the house and property in a peculiar mix of German, Spanish and English … but it worked.

Tarifa is the windsurfing/kite-flying capital of Spain . . . the winds off the Atlantic make it the perfect location. Every second store along the main street  either sells, repairs or teaches these activities, and it seems the rest are yoga places … offering yoga on the beach … or even mountain yoga retreats.  But  there’s a lot more to Tarifa … the old fortress walls

and arched gateways into the city … the ubiquitous narrow cobbled lanes – now strung with Christmas lights.  And we were treated to the most glorious, firey sunset that went on and on and on — for the best part of an hour … deepening, changing … far out across the Atlantic, with trees and mountains as black silhouettes.

Making sandwiches the following day,  I could hear a cacophony of sound that appeared to be getting closer …

somewhere between steel drums being played badly and an array of pots and pans clanking together.  Goats … and a lot of them!  I rushed out, camera in hand, and sure enough along the lane in front – a flood of goats.   Filing in single line at first, then a veritable sea of brown and white .. all with clonking bells round their necks, or smaller ones jingling from their horns. Bringing up the rear a dog — and the goatherd riding a

mule — eating his lunch!  He waved his sandwich in greeting .. and carried on down the lane.  No wonder we had been warned to keep the gates closed.  There’d have been nothing left of the lush garden if that lot had got in!

Then, as we drove out and bumped and rocked down the road … Cows …

laying in front of our neighbours house … chewing the cud and enjoying the sunshine.

There’s a whole Roman city just down the road in among the sand dunes … and this time we weren’t disappointed. It was easy to see the excavations of marketplace, villas, bath houses, with their under floor heating, fish-salting tanks, amphitheater … and of course columns and statues.  I wonder if they had gift shops in those days? … get your crypt magnets – only 5 denarii!

Not a bad video of the area leading to Tarifa and the Roman ruins … You can skip over the museum bit and rejoin the video around the 6 minute mark.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUWXkfDEMO4

It’s positively therapeutic to sit on the patio, listening to the birds and the never-ending stream of ships glide by.  Tankers, freighters, tugs, cruise ships, container ships the size of small islands.  Mostly east to west – from Suez through the Straits of Gibraltar.  A naval ship was obviously on patrol between us and the Moroccan coast – cruising back and forth.  Looking for smugglers? pirates? migrants?