The Routes

The Drive North: Rabat to Casablanca The drive from Rabat to Casablanca is short, just over an hour. Somewhere between cities, the car had picked up the unmistakable Moroccan layer of fine brown dust, the kind every car collects after a few weeks on the road. A sign it’s been used properly. Along this stretch, people stand by the roadside, waving as you pass, offering car washes. I pulled over. While the car was cleaned, I sat at a small cafe facing the road with a Moroccon mint tea, surrounded by locals doing the same thing; sitting, watching, passing time. The wash took about twenty minutes. When it was done, the car felt reset. Clean again. Ready. As I drove further in, Casablanca opened out. Wide roads lined with palm trees. Modern blocks and cafes stacked into the city rather than spilling out from a historic core. It felt cosmopolitan in a way the other cities hadn’t. Less medina-first, more built for movement. Casablanca is one of Morocco’s newer cities, shaped as much by the 20th century as anything older. You feel that immediately.  Settling In: A Home Base in Casablanca I checked into my Airbnb on Rue Prince du Jour, tucked into a central residential pocket of Casablanca. The apartment opened into warmth: wood-panelled walls, soft lighting, clean lines with a mid-century feel. Outside, the neighbourhood felt lived-in with small cafes spilling onto the pavement, corner shops, locals drifting with no sense of rush. After weeks on the road, it suited me perfectly. It felt like somewhere you could settle, and start moving through the city properly rather than skimming its surface. First Steps in Casablanca After dropping the bags, Roly and I headed straight back out to get a feel for the neighbourhood. We stopped at Soo Beef for a late bite, casual and unfussy. On the way back, I picked up a bottle of wine from Aperik Casablanca, one of those local wine shops that quietly signals the city’s more cosmopolitan side. By the time we walked home, the light had softened and the pace of the street had eased. Casablanca felt easy to slip into. It was the kind of first evening that doesn’t try to impress, it just lets you arrive. Casablanca, From Morning to Midnight The next day kicked off with coffee at % Arabica Casablanca, right on Boulevard d’Anfa. Bright, modern, sharply designed, the kind of spot that immediately sets the tone for Casablanca. Good coffee, city energy already switched on. From there, I headed to Arab League Park on a date with Jamie, a guy from Bristol who’d also escaped the British winter and was spending a couple of months travelling through Morocco. The park felt like neutral ground, where conversation can move as freely as you do. We walked, talked, looped without really noticing the route. Locals passed by in every direction: families, couples, runners, friends meeting mid-path. It’s one of Casablanca’s rare pauses of green in a city that otherwise runs on wide roads and forward motion, and it worked perfectly as a starting point.  By early afternoon, the Atlantic became the plan. We landed at Bianca Café, set right beside Plage Lalla Meryem, and let the day run on its own terms. This part of the coast is pur We walked the beach as the light began to shift. Horses and camels moved along the shoreline, riders cutting clean silhouettes against the Atlantic. Families and couples claimed patches of sand, angling for the best view as the sun dropped toward the horizon. As dusk set in, we peeled back inland. Dinner was at Yoobi Sushi, followed by cocktails at Chez Fred. It was Casablanca in full flow. Coffee to park. Park to ocean. Ocean to night. Wide streets, palm-lined avenues, constant movement. A city that doesn’t slow down, it just changes gear. Casablanca, Between the Moments The rest of my time in Casablanca came from moving through the city, not ticking it off. Window shopping turned into repeat passes along neighbourhood streets lined with independent fashion boutiques, sharp tailoring, European silhouettes, unexpected details that didn’t need explaining. Daily food markets slipped naturally into the pattern. Crates of fruit stacked high, familiar faces reappearing. Casablanca reveals itself in fragments like that: a mural cutting across a blank wall, a mosque minaret rising between apartment blocks, a pocket park carving green space through concrete. Meals anchored the days. A long lunch at Vichos Casablanca, tapas designed to stretch an afternoon without trying to. Pastries at Guest Pastry Bakery, locals drifting in and out with purpose. Casablanca eats well, often, and without fuss. Match Night: Casablanca After Dark That night, the city flipped into full celebration mode. I caught Morocco’s Africa Cup of Nations semi-final on my laptop. When the final whistle went and Morocco took the win, Casablanca answered instantly. Cars flooded the roads, horns blaring in waves. Flags appeared from windows, draped over bonnets, pulled from nowhere. The noise carried late into the night, joyous, relentless, impossible to ignore. It echoed the same charged celebrations I’d witnessed previously in Rabat, the city moving as one, pride loud and unapologetic. Next up is the final. I’ll be watching that one from Marrakech.  Notes from the Road: Casablanca First impression: Big, modern, and confident. Palm-lined boulevards, wide roads, constant motion.  Neighbourhood life: Lived-in streets beat landmarks. Cafes on corners, food markets on repeat, the same faces appearing day after day. That’s where the city clicks. Style watch: Independent fashion boutiques quietly set the tone, clean tailoring, European silhouettes, nothing trying too hard. Casablanca knows how to dress. Food rhythm: Long lunches turn into late afternoons. Tapas, sushi, pastries, wine shops you’ll revisit without planning to. Eating here is casual but deliberate. Coastline energy: Urban beach culture. Lunch slides into sunset, horses and camels crossing the frame like it’s normal. Overall: Casablanca is modern, functional, and cosmopolitan, a city best experienced by moving without agenda and letting the days stack naturally. Now, it’s time for the next route. Next stop: Marrakech

The Drive South: Asilah to Rabat Leaving Asilah behind, I headed south towards Rabat. The drive took a little over two hours and felt straightforward. The kind of road that lets your mind wander while the kilometres quietly pass.  Fishing towns dotted the route, appearing and disappearing just off the main road. About an hour in, I pulled over at Moulay Bousselham for lunch. I stopped at La Terrasse, right on the beachfront. The area felt relaxed and functional rather than polished. Lunch was seafood, with a clear view of the water. It broke up the drive perfectly. Back on the road, things gradually began to shift. The closer I got to Rabat, the more structured everything felt. Roads widened, traffic increased, and the pace subtly changed. You could feel the transition from coastal towns to capital city without needing a sign to tell you. Driving into Rabat, the difference was immediate. One of the first landmarks you pass is the royal residence, with guards stationed outside and staff tending carefully kept grounds. After the softness of Asilah, Rabat felt composed and deliberate. Not loud, not chaotic, just purposeful. A clear shift into the next chapter.  Arriving in Rabat: A Central Base I checked into my Airbnb in the centre of Rabat, firmly rooted in the city’s everyday rhythm. Rabat is more spread out than Asilah, less about drifting and more about moving with intention. The beach wasn’t on the doorstep, it was around a 30-minute walk away. What was close was the city itself. Shops, bakeries, cafes, and practical errands were all within easy walking distance, giving the area a lived-in, functional feel rather than anything curated for visitors. Geographically, it felt like a midpoint. A place to return to, reset, and head back out again. Match Night in Rabat That evening, Rabat came alive. Morocco was playing in the quarter-final of the Africa Cup of Nations, Africa’s equivalent of the Euros. When Morocco won, the reaction was instant and unstoppable. Car horns echoed through the streets in constant waves. People spilled outside, cheering, singing, waving flags, celebrating together. The noise rolled on well into the early hours of the morning. It was impossible not to feel how much it meant. This wasn’t just a football match; it was pride, unity, and shared identity playing out in real time. Standing there, watching it all unfold, I found myself completely swept up in it. From that point on, I followed the rest of the tournament closely, and of course, I was rooting for Morocco all the way. First Impressions: Rules, Rain & Resetting Expectations My first day in Rabat was spent wandering the neighbourhood, getting a feel for the city. Almost immediately, one thing became clear: Rabat is not dog-friendly. Not in shops, not in cafes, not in restaurants, and not even on terraces. It was a stark contrast to places like Asilah and Europe, and honestly, my biggest shock so far in Morocco. Being the capital, it makes sense; rules feel more present here, more firmly observed, and that naturally shapes how you move through the city. It definitely limited my options. With Roly in tow, spontaneous cafe stops or lingering lunches weren’t possible. Add to that it was a cold, wet day, damp pavements and the start felt a little tougher than I’d hoped. Luckily, I found a solution nearby: Tangier’s Bocadillos, just a ten-minute walk from the apartment. Fresh wraps made to order, quick, warm, and exactly what I needed. I took lunch back to the Airbnb, sheltered from the rain, and reset. It wasn’t the most cinematic first day, but that’s travel too. We were only here for a couple of days, and despite the slower, more restricted start, I was still determined to make the most of Rabat, even if it meant adjusting expectations and pace. Rabat, Between the Plans The next few days in Rabat were actually some of my most productive. With Roly being a hard no in most attractions, I naturally slowed down. Instead of fighting it, I leaned in. I stayed in, put my head down, powered through client work, updated this blog, and cooked proper meals again. All hail Glovo for making that part easy. The Airbnb helped. It was spacious, had a balcony, and didn’t feel claustrophobic, a decent setup for a few low-key days after months of near-constant movement on the road. It felt grounding in a way I didn’t realise I needed. Around that time, I’d also befriended a Moroccan guy, Simo. He lives in Rabat, works as a surf instructor, and suggested we meet later in the week when the weather improved. The plan was: harbour, medina, souk, beach to see the city, with someone who knows it well. When Rabat Opened Up When the sun came back later in the week, Rabat shifted again. I met Simo and we headed out properly, starting along the Bouregreg Corniche. This is where the city breathes a bit. The river is wide, restaurants line the edge with people walking, talking and passing time. It felt social, but not showy. Rabat at ease. From there, we walked up into the Kasbah of the Udayas, a 12th-century fortress built to defend Rabat’s coastline, now one of the city’s most recognisable historic quarters. The shift is immediate with heavy stone walls, palm-lined steps, then a sudden wash of white and blue. Narrow lanes, weathered doors, cats stretched out in the sun. Inside the kasbah, the city noise drops away. It feels enclosed, almost self-contained, perched between river and ocean. We stopped for traditional Moroccan mint tea overlooking the water, the Atlantic stretching out beyond the walls, one of those pauses that lands exactly where it should. Down at the Beach We walked down from the kasbah onto the sand, where Rabat feels stripped back. The beach sits right where the river empties into the Atlantic, so the water is darker and restless, constantly shifting. It’s not the kind of place you come to sunbathe. People were walking, standing, watching the tide, letting dogs run, kicking a ball around. Above us, the kasbah walls stayed fixed and heavy, like the city was still keeping an eye on the ocean. Into the Medina From the beach, we headed back inland and slipped into the Rabat medina. Shops bled into each other: baskets stacked high, trays of nuts and sweets, snacks and household goods packed tightly behind glass counters. People moved with purpose, shopping, chatting, stopping mid-walk to greet someone. There was no hard sell, no pressure to buy. Just stalls open to the street, food sizzling, and the quiet chaos of a place that functions first and entertains second. We wandered without a plan, cutting down side alleys, stopping to look, moving on again. It felt real, unfiltered and exactly the kind of place that rewards curiosity instead of rushing you through it. At the Hassan Tower We ended at the Hassan Tower and the Mausoleum of Mohammed V, one of Rabat’s most symbolic sites. The 12th-century minaret rises from an open square of stone columns. Beside it, the Mausoleum of Mohammed V feels pristine and ceremonial. Guards watch while visitors move slowly around the space, instinctively lowering their voices. Pigeons lift off and resettle against the ancient walls. It's a place where Rabat’s political, religious, and historical layers meet in one wide, open breath. Notes from the Road: Rabat Rabat asked for adjustment. It wasn’t instantly easy, especially travelling with a dog, and it didn’t offer the same softness or spontaneity as Asilah. It’s a city shaped by rules, structure, and function, and you feel that quickly. But once I stopped expecting it to behave like a coastal town and let it be what it is, Rabat made more sense. It’s a capital first. Purposeful. Grounded. Lived in. A place where daily life runs alongside history rather than being built around it. What stayed with me most was the contrast. Quiet working days followed by streets erupting in celebration for football. Administrative order balanced by moments of warmth, generosity, and connection. Ancient sites woven directly into modern routines. Nothing polished for show, but plenty to notice if you paid attention. Now, it’s time for the next route. Next stop: Casablanca. 

Early Morning Crossing to Morocco The alarm went off early. Bags packed, car loaded, Tarifa still quiet. I drove north along the coast to Algeciras as the sky started to lighten, ports silhouetted against soft colour. Check-in was straightforward, and before long we were boarding the ferry with Balearia. Roly settled quickly, watching the activity from the deck as the harbour pulled away behind us. The crossing itself took just under an hour and a half. Spain faded into the distance, and slowly the outline of Morocco came into view. A passport stamp, a change in weather, a sense of crossing into somewhere new.  By late morning, we were pulling into Tangier Med. Africa, officially reached. The Drive: Tangier Med to Asilah Once off the ferry at Tangier Med, the road south towards Asilah takes just over an hour. The drive quickly became less about getting somewhere and more about taking it in. Goats and cows wandered across the road, people walked the verges, and the landscape stretched out in greens and soft hills. It felt like crossing into a completely different pace of life. That pace carried straight into Asilah Arrival in Asilah I stayed at a guesthouse called Maison d'hotes Berbari just beyond the town edge, off the beaten path and firmly part of everyday Morocco. Local homes nearby, animals moving through the land and life unfolding around you. Peacocks wandered the grounds. Roosters cut through the mornings. Dogs slept wherever the shade landed. From the nearby mosque, the call to prayer drifted in at regular intervals. Breakfast was communal and generous. A full spread, and a mix of guests who naturally ended up talking from French and Spanish families, young couples, travellers passing through, and the owners’ dogs drifting between chairs. No forced interaction, just shared space done well. Evenings revolved around home-cooked Moroccan food. Tagines, slow-cooked meats, dishes made to be eaten together. We gathered in the main living and dining room with log wood and fire going, records playing, the room lively without being performative. It wasn’t a stay built around activities or “must-dos.” It worked because it felt honest, shaped by the people running it, the land it sat on, and the everyday routines unfolding around it. New Year’s Eve New Year’s Eve was spent at the guesthouse, gathered with the other guests and, inevitably, the dogs in an easy, celebratory mood. Dinner was a proper home-cooked beef tagine, rich and comforting, shared around the table. Later, I caught up with friends and family on the phone back in England, slipping between conversations and the room around me. It felt balanced and grounded. No rush, no excess, just good food, familiar voices, and a calm sense of closing one chapter and opening another. A solid way to see in the New Year, and the right lead-in to a full day of exploring Asilah the next day.  New Year’s Day: Exploring Asilah  New Year’s Day was spent on foot, getting a feel for Asilah. Blue doors against white walls, cats stretched across doorsteps and car bonnets, unbothered and unmoved. Each turn revealed something different, small details stacking into a strong sense of place. Asilah Medina I wandered into the medina. This isn’t a hectic souk like Marrakech or Fez. It’s residential, artistic, and distinctly Asilah. The lanes are lined with whitewashed buildings edged in blue, a colour code that’s become part of the town’s identity. Small stalls sit open selling snacks, scarves, ceramics, paintings, and clothing. Nothing is stacked on top of itself. It’s spaced out, easy to browse, easy to move through. Art shows up everywhere, but casually. Painted doors. Murals on corners. Framed pieces leaning against walls as if they’ve always been there. It’s woven into the fabric of the place. Creativity feels lived in. I wandered without a plan, doubling back, cutting down side streets, letting the medina open and close around me. Asilah’s Murals & Painted Streets The murals appear without warning. One street looks ordinary, the next opens onto a wall painted with fish, birds, faces, geometric shapes, coastal scenes. Much of this comes from Asilah’s long-running International Cultural Festival, where artists are invited to paint directly onto the medina walls. What makes it different is what happens after. The art stays. It fades. It peels. It gets painted over, reworked, replaced. Some pieces look fresh. Others clearly carry years of weather. A painted wall might belong to someone’s home. A doorway becomes part of the artwork. A mural wraps around a corner and disappears into everyday life. You turn down one lane and catch something new. Walk the same route later and notice what you missed before. The medina doesn’t stay still, it shifts through layers. Above the Medina From the medina, I climbed a set of stone steps that led up to the ramparts. The view opened suddenly. The Atlantic stretched out below, the beach running along the base of the old walls. Asilah stacked up in white and blue. Down to the Water I walked out of the medina and followed the path down to the Plage d’Asilah. A group of locals were gathered on the sand playing steel pan drums, the sound carrying across the beach. Nearby, kids were mid–football game, running barefoot, shouting, laughing, stopping only when the ball rolled too close to the water. There was movement everywhere. It felt open, social, alive. Roly immediately was in full joy mode, sprinting the length of the beach, charging into the waves, then racing back out again before repeating the whole thing. He didn’t hesitate once. Wet paws, sandy fur, completely in his element. A young Moroccan boy came over and started throwing a stick for him. We got chatting. He spoke four languages, very impressive. It was one of those easy, unforced exchanges that just happens. That’s something that kept standing out in Asilah. The friendliness felt genuine. From people on the beach, to locals in the streets, to the guesthouse owners, conversations started easily and kindness felt baked in. The town felt open, welcoming, and comfortable to be in. Just along the edge of the beach is Port d’Asilah, the town’s fishing harbour, where rows of small blue fishing boats are moored along the water. We strolled past it for a while, then headed back into town to find somewhere for lunch. Late Lunch at Dar Al Maghrebia I headed back into town for a late lunch at Dar Al Maghrebia, tucked into a small lane just off the medina and grabbed a table on the terrace. I ordered a seafood tagine, rich and tomato-based, served with fresh bread and lemon. Around us, tables filled and emptied on repeat. It had that mid-afternoon energy, lively and felt like a fitting end to a day spent wandering before heading back to the guest lodge.  Working Days & Wandering Further The rest of my time in Asilah settled into a steady pattern. Mornings working from the guesthouse, afternoons drifting back out into town or along the coast. It’s an easy place to balance both. One morning I stepped outside and there was a donkey tied up beside my car, calmly grazing. Not something you see often in the UK. Back in town, lunches stretched long. I stopped in at Port XIV Restaurant, and watched the harbour activity drift past. Other days were spent on the beach watching the surfers, kids running football matches across the sand, and sunsets. One day, I drove further along the coast towards La plage de Sidi Mghait, just outside town. A line of beach restaurants, including Chiringuito Morchid, sat facing the sea, all shuttered for winter. With no crowds and no soundtrack beyond the waves and wind, it felt like seeing the coast in its in-between state; stripped back, unfiltered, and entirely itself. Why Asilah Stuck With Me  💌 Asilah stayed with me because nothing felt curated for show. Life unfolded in front of you on the streets, along the coast, inside the medina without needing to be explained or packaged. It’s a place where daily life and visitors overlap naturally. You’re not separated from it. You’re walking through it. People stop to talk. Kids play football on the beach. Fishermen move in and out of the harbour. Artists paint directly onto walls. Conversations happen easily and kindness shows up without effort. From the women running the guesthouse to strangers stopping to chat as you pass, there’s a sense of ease that’s hard to manufacture. Now, it’s time for the next route. Next route: Rabat