Bustling Tangiers is a sophisticated city

WHILE waiting to move into our long-term rented house in the Alpujarras mountains, south of Granada, we left Spain and went to Africa, arriving at midnight in Tangiers with no arrangements made.

Later, from a fifth floor hotel room, I watched the harbour lights shimmer on the moving sea, as does light on water everywhere. It reminded me of the single light at the end of the pier at home. Here, below me, fronting the sea was a long beach of pure white sand 200 metres wide, with a broad cornice running along the landward side, palm trees on the central reservation and two lanes of traffic each way.

Even at 2am on Friday morning, traffic was still moving.

Tangiers is a busy city at night, and now I know that what I see from Europe, from the southernmost Spanish town of Tarifa, is not spindle-shanked men on donkeys, carrying lights (these are common in the country) but modern automobiles, trucks and taxis. Tangiers is a sophisticated town, now trying to attract European tourists by various measures, including security for overseas investors, and keeping the hustlers off the streets.

Our hotel was a four star, which really should have been three-and-a-half. It had elements of dodgy plumbing without which Morocco wouldn’t be Morocco, but many attractions too, including its location and the lucky happenstance that there was a man at the bar (to which we repaired at 1am, requiring relaxation after our 250 miles drive to Tarifa port and then the night crossing) to whom we got talking. A Moroccan high school teacher, he knew a town near us in south-west Cork well, having had a long-term paramour who hailed from there.

Sadly, each had their hearts in their own countries and, despite their deep affection for one another, found, after five years, that neither could settle in the foreign land. It was a heart-rending tale. The following night, having apologised for his battered “teacher’s car”, our friend took us to see some more Moroccan night life. He insisted on sharing the cost of the drinks; he had no agenda other than an enjoyable, hands-across-the-ocean evening. Despite the measures to stop tourists being harassed by bazaar salesmen and self-appointed guides, one cannot say the same of everyone who says hello in Morocco. However, we were never hassled as one is in India or — worse still — in Marrakech.

The hotel, costing 48 a night for a double, en-suite, sea-front room, was a purpose-built, 1960s edifice of 500 rooms and a lobby like Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas.

Breakfast — as much as one could eat — was included. It had fine gardens, were I spotted chiffchaffs (just like those at home ...) and there was an impressive swimming pool, open from May.

Apparently one of the problems the city faces in trying to provide the ambience tourists would like is that many prime locations for parks and so on belong to the embassies of the foreign powers which, at one time or another, ruled Tangiers.

In the days of Barbara Hutton, Tennessee Williams and William Burroughs, Tangiers was known as an anything-goes “international city”. Moroccans were disempowered and outsiders owned (some, still, own) large swathes of land especially on the high ground of the old city, which overlooks the Mediterranean and the Atlantic at once.

Hopefully, some of this land can be recovered. It seems unjust that embassies which now represent only a handful of expatriates should retain large territories to no useful purpose.

Returning to Spain days later, we moved into our rented house, and find we were higher above sea level than Carrantouhill. Mornings were fresh — sometimes, very — and in the evenings we burnt well-dried olive and live-oak wood in the glass-fronted stove.

Jays woke me in the mornings, noisy, attractive birds which are occasionally seen in West Cork. The house stood in its own terraced fields, with a deep barranco on one boundary (the incautious could fall 100 feet) and woods of poplar and scrub from which wild boar sometimes emerged. Wild and cultivated olive trees, almonds, pomegranates and live-oak dotted the untamed landscape. The hills rang with goat bells as herders passed. I met a man who milked 110 goats per day, having walked them 10 or 15 kilometres up and down the steep slopes and along the river courses.

Last night, seeing bonfires on the mountains and hearing bangers echo between the hills, I took myself to my local village where they were dispensing freshly cooked pork and local wine. It was the feast of San Antone, marking the commencement of the pig-killing season. Good news for the ham curers, bad news for the pigs.