Marrakesh

Behind the red earth ramparts, the medina moves to the rhythm of handcarts and the muezzin. People come for the cool courtyards, the olive gardens and the light that turns ochre late in the day.

The medina fits inside a rectangle of red earth, and you can cross it on foot in forty minutes if nobody stops you. Somebody always stops you.

Mornings belong to the delivery men. Handcarts pass before seven, loaded with mint and charcoal, and the lanes smell of bread baking in the neighbourhood ovens. This is when the courtyards are cool and the terraces are worth the early start.

By afternoon the light falls straight down and the city retreats into the shade. You understand then why these houses turn inward, why the windows open onto the courtyard and never onto the street.

Around five, Jemaa el Fna changes trade. Juice sellers give way to food stalls, the cooks raise their benches, and the smoke rises straight up when there is no wind.

The souks are organised by craft. Dyers first, where skeins dry across the lane, then slipper makers, then blacksmiths whose quarter you hear before you see. Craftsmen still work in their doorways, and looking without buying is accepted.

An hour away, the Ourika valley gives water, shade and wool. The cooperatives there still spin by hand spindle.