Coming up for air

I can hear a Sardinian Warbler in the low hedge opposite where I am sat, occasionally it hops down onto the ground and has a peck at something before vanishing again. It's warm, the sun just beginning to touch the worn tiled floor of the terrace where I'm typing. It was cold when we awoke, the pool steaming gently, but this chill has been replaced by a gentle warmth. Soon we'll go for breakfast, I'm particularly looking forward to the orange juice. When we arrived last night I could see orange trees across the lawn, a sure sign we were not in London any more.

Good grief it has been miserable, one of the most tedious starts to a year I can remember, Grey, damp, indescribably depressing. Six weeks in and we have come up for air for the first time. Half term. We lost no time in leaving, and now, the next morning, there is that clarity of light beginning to make itself known that can only mean one thing,

Morocco.

Unusually I am sat down. Normally at this time of day in Morocco I would be crawling across stony ground or working up a wadi, but this time it's different. I am on holiday, an actual holiday, and I'm in flow at this early hour. Something stirred yesterday, who can say what, but in an instant I find myself able to write again. An invisible switch has been flicked, and already I have written about as much of last year's trip to Thailand as I managed in the whole of January. 

January was hard. February has so far been harder, the most draining I can recall. Half term couldn't come soon enough, thank goodness that we planned ahead and could escape, even if it is fleetingly brief. Mrs L has never been to Morocco, and much as I wanted to head over the Atlas and show her the delights of desert we're playing it safe and staying close to Marrakech. Hence I am in a garden with Bougainvillea tumbling down the wall and Common Bulbul chattering away in the background. I have managed to slip into that slow, relaxed, care-free frame of mind that so irritates Mrs L. Incapable of making a decision about the smallest thing, slowly I am driving her crazy. She describes it as like being with a toddler. I see it as a perfectly legitimate response to a sudden absence of stress, no longer needing to treat everything and anything as the most important thing that has ever occurred. That's next week. For now, tranquility reigns.

A rooster crows. You don't get that in London. Last night I was thinking about Red Jungle Fowl and about how behind I am. Thailand was in November, how can I have let it slide so quickly when I had worked so hard to get caught up at the back end of last year? I might be on holiday but I have set myself a goal to get up to date. The desire to do this wasn't present even two days ago, where has it come from? Where has it been hiding? How can I summon it on demand?

Mrs L is reading next to me. The Caliph's House by Tahir Shah. When in Morocco... The occasional giggle emanates. I remember that book well, I enjoyed it very much. Set in Casablanca it chronicles a foreigner's journey to establish a life in Morocco, the house, Dar Khalifa, the backdrop and the starting point for many tangential stories. Sat in what feels like a similarly grand house, albeit in Marrakech's Palmerai, I wonder if I have a book in me. It is said that everyone does but that's just a saying, I have no idea what it's based on. I read the second book too, In Arabian Nights, about the rich history of story-telling in Morocco. Both books I found hard to put down. Simple, affectionate humour.

I'm rereading The Lost Continent by Bill Bryson. It has been many years but I remember it as if it were yesterday. Some books are like that, others vanish without trace. American road trips have always struck a chord, but this one is a masterful chronicle, and with many years of America within me I read it in a certain light and in a certain voice. Recently I went to Arizona, and before that to Orgeon. Perhaps reaquainting myself with Bill Bryson has played some part in this morning's desire to catch up where I am so very behind? Who can say. What I do know is that this post is meandering. Which means it is time to stop.