The first time I went to Morocco was when my Irish boyfriend, Tomas, and I had come to the end of our mini-adventure from Dublin to Paris, Paris to Barcelona, Barcelona to Granada and then to Algeciras at the very bottom of Southern Spain. Algeciras was already a place with a strong Moroccan influence - evidenced in the architecture, the food and in many of its inhabitants - due to the thriving harbour and the years of mutual trade which had left an indelible mark.

When we arrived in Tangier however - our first port of call in North Africa - it was definitely not all ‘Arabian Nights’ as my romantic imaginings had led me to believe, but a busy, modern city such as you might find anywhere in the world. To my great dismay, it was a bit dilapidated with some ugly modern, functional buildings and weather-beaten boats and to be honest, not a lot else to see!

Thankfully, I perked up when we were on the train, looking earnestly out of the window and waving goodbye to Tangier, and I remember thinking how wonderful it was that I was finally in Africa; a continent I’d longed to visit since I was a child. It wasn’t the Sub-Saharan Africa of my mind’s eye, but as we whizzed past greying modern cities and high- rise apartment blocks and moved on to great, endless stretches of empty scrubland with the odd acacia tree scattered about, it felt like a new frontier.

It’s such a long time ago now that it’s hard to give a truly linear account of where we went and when but I think my favourite place in Morocco is still Fes, a dream-like city that seemed to be frozen in time, almost like a beautiful dragonfly set in amber. I don’t know what it’s like these days and I’m sure things have changed just as the rest of the world has, but when we were there it was the closest thing I had ever known to time travel.

There was a huge archway to the old Souk with delicate blue and white stones decorating the perimeter, and then you were plunged deep into a labyrinth of winding stone pathways. These ancient paths weaved in and out between stalls of colourful and fragrant spices, cages of squawking chickens, women in hijabs and veils and men with little hats, big beards and elaborate moustaches. The odd weary donkey with jutting hip bones, or a clapped-out bicycle with a withered seat rattled by, loaded with sacks of vegetables, shoes and clothes, or bottles of perfume and sacks of herbs and potions for the local shopkeepers.

There they sat in shady doorways chatting amiably, bargaining and bartering, laughing and arguing or minding small children who wouldn’t sit still. Scrawny cats would suddenly appear around people’s feet, rubbing up against their brown leather sandals, and store-holders would try to persuade you to visit their tailor’s shops, displaying many brightly coloured fabrics and rugs. They would try to seduce you with mint tea, poured from great and fragrant heights, and if you weren’t careful, you might be sat there for a very long time, before walking away with a carpet you had never intended to buy.

Tomas and I had our picture taken in traditional Moroccan dress but we then felt obliged to spend money on outfits we never wanted, on a budget that had no wriggle room. In retrospect, we were quite naïve to have allowed the photo in the first place, but we never stood a chance anyway.

We were totally green and were no match for the incredibly charming and experienced Moroccan traders. I loved all the old buildings in Fes, the sounds of Arabic music and prayer floating through the narrow streets, and the unforgettable smell of the many barbeques and the myriads of different spices, such a turmeric and cumin. We were taken to some rooves over-looking the city where there were lots of clay pits full of different colourful dyes, and people were busy moving between them with great bundles of fabric in their arms, sweeping, washing and sitting on well-accustomed haunches, pummelling the great swathes of material in the baking heat of the sun. I took a photo but as soon as I had captured the image below, an old man with a broom threw it down in anger on seeing what I was doing, and my face flushed bright red with embarrassment. The guide told us that he was angry because many Moroccans in traditional parts of the country still hold on to the suspicion that a camera will take your soul. Whatever the case, I’m sure he considered it an invasion of his privacy and I hung my head in shame, suddenly feeling liked the over-zealous, beady-eyed tourist I was.

Marrakesh was another mind-boggling hub of activity and there were even more people everywhere you looked.

There were kids and teenagers in little groups and a million sellers and performers doing everything from selling water in traditional dress to charming snakes with old-fashioned flutes.

There was hot, steaming food in every direction, piles of oranges, monkeys on bony old men’s shoulders and huddles of curvy women bustling about, ushering little children along before they were literally gobbled up in the chaos.

As night fell in Marrakesh, the crimson sky was filled with the sound of a thousand drums, and there were huge plumes of smoke from the many grills rising up into the air like the cobras on the ground below. There were even more people after dusk and many wooden benches and tables where you could eat communally if you wanted to sit and rest.

Tourists and locals alike enjoyed a mint tea or a very strong coffee, a kebab, perhaps some goat meat or a bowl of cous- cous and vegetables, all served with thick, discus-shaped bread. And then we returned to our guesthouse, high above it all, up the old stone steps, where the geckos on the wall were awaiting our return.

Another place in Morocco that I truly loved was Essaouira, a windswept seaside town of all blues, whites and gold that got cold at night and was like an oven in the day. It had huge, never-ending beaches that stretched out to the horizon and craft stalls selling hundreds of hand-made drums, carvings, fabrics, carpets, paintings and artifacts of all kinds, in a dazzling array of shapes, sizes and colours; most of which were still out of our price range. What made Essaouira feel so different to Fes and Marrakesh however was that the air was so fresh. There was a sea breeze and endless space instead of crowds of people, hustle and bustle, noise and mayhem.

Apparently, this is where Jimi Hendrix wrote the song ‘Castle in the sand’ and a bunch of hippies – high on the counter- culture movement - had flocked to in the 1960s, to smoke pot, braid their hair and find themselves.

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