CAMELS are grazing on wild grass that borders mile-long sands, then a fortress comes into view, bathed in the golden rays of a fast-sinking sun.
“That’s where they filmed scenes from Game Of Thrones,” the taxi driver casually informs me.
We ditch the car because the medina (old walled city) is traffic-free, and I’m led through shop-bordered alleys to Riad Baladin, three traditional houses with central courtyards that have been turned into a boutique hotel.
Fountains burble amid soaring palms, and a welcome pot of fresh mint tea is waiting for me on arrival.
Not for the first time that day I question if it’s really possible that London Stansted is only a three-hour flight from here.
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If you’ve not been to Morocco, the fortified city of Essaouira, which lies on the Atlantic Coast, has a little bit of everything that makes this country so alluring — vast sandy beaches, vibrant markets brimming with leather goods and spices, delicious food, and indigenous Berber culture to explore.
Once the country’s most important ports in the 18th and 19th centuries, the medina of Essaouira was named a World Heritage Site by Unesco in 2001, and its buildings received a deserving restoration.
Locals will tut if you mention that their city is referred to as Marrakesh-by-the-sea, because beyond a similarity in its city walls and thriving markets, it is much less touristy and a bargain in comparison.
In fact, you can stay in luxury for under £100 per night.
Neither do you have to fight off persistent touts, which makes browsing in the souk and medina far more enjoyable.
It is chock-full of tiny shops, cafes — pop into the female-owned and run The Three Little Birds for lunch — and artisan workshops (don’t miss Centre Artisanal D’Essaouira on Avenue Sidi Mohamed Ben Abdellah).
To make sure I’m soaking up the best of everything on offer here, I take a tour with Rachid from Tours By Locals.
We begin at the fish market, unchanged for centuries, where stray cats prowl and the town’s iconic blue fishing boats knock together blown by what the locals call the taros, meaning ocean breeze.
There are prawns piled up into pink pyramids and crate upon crate of sardines on ice.
I even spot spiky purplish-blue sea urchins bobbing in a bucket, a 200kg bluefin tuna up for auction, and stallholders selling oysters as snacks to passers-by.
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Rachid, however, is keen to divert my attention to an arched stone gateway.
“This place, more than anywhere, is the essence of Essaouira,” he says, pointing up to a Jewish Star of David, an Islamic crescent moon, and a Christian rose sculpted in relief on the stone.
Here, you can see that Essaouira has always been a place of tolerance and understanding, where people of different faiths get along.”
Tolerance is also why the place has long attracted bohemian travellers (book in for dinner at a flamboyant restaurant such as Le Love By Caravane and you’ll still find them), and the city’s biggest claim to fame, is that Jimi Hendrix stayed and wrote several songs here in the summer of 1969.
Thriving surf scene
You’ll hear his music playing from the abundance of pretty rooftop bars, including Salut Maroc, which can’t be beaten for a sundowner with its views over the ramparts and menu of classic cocktails.
However, Rachid does tell me to take the claim that Hendrix jammed here with Bob Marley and Cat Stevens with a large pinch of salt.
Traditional holidaymakers looking for nothing more than a beach and buffet travel 108 miles further along the coast to the less windy resort of Agadir.
But what Essaouira has instead is a thriving surf scene, and when the kite-, wind-, and board-surfers come ashore, there are a string of stylish beach clubs and seafood restaurants to keep them happy.
With a cooking class taken (book into L’Atalier to learn how to make a traditional tajine, a savoury stew), and my purchases in the souk made (spices, leather sandals, and trinket boxes made from native thuya wood), I head to Ocean Vagabond to soak up some sun.
The laid-back beach club has a restaurant attached, serving snacks and pizzas from a traditional wood-fired oven, but the real reason people come is for the water sports on offer with kite-surfing, wind-surfing and wing-foiling all on site.
I go for the more relaxed option of lounging on a sunbed.
With lively French banter all around me — a hangover from French colonial rule, the language is spoken widely — and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc beside me, I could be in the South of France if it wasn’t for one thing . . .
“Camel ride?” comes the hopeful shout, from a passing cameleer, who has skilfully caught my eye.
Now, you don’t get an offer like that in Saint-Tropez.
