Plan-free London to Morocco

Around 20 years ago I announced to my other half that I was bored and had itchy feet. In response, she bought me a one-way plane ticket.

Luckily for me, it was a ticket from Morocco. All I had to do was find a way of getting back to Blighty that wasn’t boring.

Fast forward to now and I want to recreate my little jaunt but this time keeping my itchy feet on the ground.

A few years ago I decided to single-handedly save the planet by avoiding airports and since then, I’ve been looking at how to travel less conveniently in different ways.

What price freedom?

My latest fad is traveling at the last minute - no planning ahead - just work it out at the time. So now, I’m going to meander to Morocco without a plane or a plan.

During last autumn’s Interrail sale, I picked up a pass with 25% off so I could travel whenever I felt like it. Interrail passes aren’t the cheapest way to travel, but they promise you something very precious - freedom.

The airline dynamic pricing model which developed in our information age has also infected hotels, railways and a fair few coachlines. We micromanage our journeys into the future to save money at the price of freedom to be spontaneous. In total, I paid £320 for a four-day pass, including the sneaky seat reservation fees levied by rail companies (they never promised to be our friends).

It’s mid-January and, after getting the green light from my better half and daughter, who have just marked my time away on the calendar as holiday for them, I reserve a Eurostar seat to Paris for the following morning.

When the fun stops, stop

I’m on the Eurostar, I look at the Interrail app and I see there’s a direct train from Paris to Barcelona leaving at 2:42pm and arriving in the Catalan capital at 9:30pm. Occasionally I’m in the mood for a really long journey (14 hours on a day train is my record) but today this feels like an endurance test so I book a seat to a nearer Catalan town, Perpignan. Of course, I can get off the train earlier if I feel like it…

As the train heads through the Massif Central and so from Northern to Southern Europe, I toy with getting off at Sète and seeing if that little bar at La Pointe Courte is open, but looking at the weather, I decide to go to the bar on the train instead. At least at Perpignan I can wake up to a view of the snow-capped Pyrenees.

From the brilliant to the sublime

It’s a gloriously sunny morning and after a wander around up to the Palace of the Kings of Majorca (Perpignan hasn’t always been French) and the last remnant of Vauban’s defences against the Spanish, I catch the train to Madrid.

Passing through Figueres, Girona, Barcelona and Tarragona gives me some ideas about where I might want to stop on the way back.

As the train whips along the Ebro valley into Aragon and then skirting Bardenas Reales, Terry Gilliam’s nemesis, I remember that I was meant to go for a trek across the desert landscape a couple of years ago. Oh well, maybe another time.

Arriving in super-sized Zaragoza Decicas station brings back to mind a trip I took from Zaragoza to Valencia passing through Teruel - the town that doesn’t exist. Now that would be a really good place to see some Moorish masterpieces. Too late, the train doors are shut.

When we reach Madrid, I head for El Retiro Park - the sun is shining and doing its best to contradict the view that Madrid is too cold in winter. I grab some whitebait and a glass of house white at El Brillante and think about where I should head this afternoon.

I’ve never been to Cadiz, but it’s 4 ½ hours away and I’ve spent the whole morning on a train. Malaga is only 2 ½ hours away and I know some good places to eat, but in the end I plumb for Seville - I want to see something Moorish.

Evening in Seville starts with a paseo via a couple of bars and takes in a chance to mangle some Spanish with some old boy with food in his beard. Wandering around the sublime Moorish masterpiece of La Giralda sets the tone for tomorrow’s crossing.

Dodging the Pillars of Hercules

The following morning I catch the coach to Algeciras after a classic breakfast at the bus station of pulped tomatoes and olive oil on a pillowy toasted roll.

On arriving at the port, seeing the crossing times and having a pang to arrive directly into Tangier, rather than the industrial port 60km away, I changed my mind about which ferry to take and catch the bus to Tarifa. If I had planned ahead I’d have been able to get the bus from Seville directly to Tarifa. ((I would have to forgo the view from the ferry sweeping past the pillars of Hercules (Gibraltar and Jebel Musa). I’ll do it on my way back.))

The bus to Tarifa skirts around the very edge of Europe with Africa always in sight to the little port with its well-used fortifications.

Passing the statue of St Peter at the harbour exit with the fortress behind is a reminder that crossing between our native Europe and exotic Africa is freighted with symbolism and cliche.

Maybe it’s time to ditch some things on the way. ‘Travel light’ has become something of a personal motto - sure, bring as many items of luggage as you want to carry but leave your prejudices and assumptions back at home - just take things as you find them.

Of course there’s also a case for planning. When George Orwell and his wife, Eileen, were here in 1938 on their way to French Morocco they failed to properly check their tickets and ended up having to make their way across Spanish territory by train - pretty risky for someone who had a passport showing they had fought against Franco.

Tangier

And so the boat pulls into the harbour and I realise I ought to find somewhere to stay. Time to get some mint tea and make some plans.