Marrakesh, Morocco

We left Harrow in the crisp night air to arrive at a nearly deserted Luton airport. By six am I was on the way to Marrakesh, not sure whether to sleep or stay awake. The night time seems a blur. I ended up repacking my bags as no liquids were aloud and managed to smear my kaftan in deodrant as I was too tired to realise I was wearing it under my fleece.

A few hours later I found myself chatting to a couple as we waited in line at passport control. They were heading to the Medina also, so after happily being reunited with my baggage we made our way to the taxi rank and haggled mildly over the fare.

Everything I had remembered about Marrakesh seemed emphasised. It was somehow brighter, more alive and even the architecture felt more intense. I felt welcomed once again to this Medieval city, flowing with character. This time, it is no longer Rammedan and people are going about their daily routines in a way that seems to have changed little over the centuries.

I paid a young boy to find my hotel, which turned out to be a beautifully ornate riad with Moorish archways adorned in blue tiles. We wove our way along narrow streets and dusty alleyways, passing donkeys carrying colourful woven bags and locals selling fresh mint leaves. The atmosphere is both magical, exciting and alluring, with souks to explore and old walls to photograph. Everywhere I look is paradise to my unfamiliar eyes.

Hotel Essaouira, Marrakesh.