The next stretch of road took us through the Middle Atlas mountains, across miles of barren hills. The sun beat down, the grass was straw, and the rocks became bigger. We passed through a little town on market day, and, in our big, yellow car, we were the object of only mild curiosity. The owner got up from a game of cards and sent someone out to buy ingredients, and we lingered over bread, salad and cheese. At the centre of town is a square, the Djemaa el-Fna, where a million stalls sell orange juice, and others purvey brains, intestines and other delicacies.
People crowd around storytellers, and boys stage impromptu boxing matches.
In the souks, there are shoes, pots, kaftans, and, again, a remarkable absence of hassle. It is classic Morocco. We rested in the heat of the day, and strolled around at night, and we did some more shopping. A few hundred kilometres on is Essaouira, on the craggy Atlantic coast. By the harbour, stalls fry up the day's catch, and the smoke blows in your face as you pass.