Ten days of surfing every session at Taghazout leaves you with shoulders like a wrestler and a brain like a wet towel. Essaouira was supposed to be the wind-down. It has, famously, wind.
The blue boats in the harbour are the photograph everyone takes and I took it too, twice. But the thing I'll keep is the quay at noon: sardines on a grill made from half an oil drum, a man who could fillet faster than I can type, a plate for forty dirhams and a cat that took its cut.
We didn't surf. The wind was onshore and howling and the kitesurfers were having the time of their lives. We walked the ramparts, bought a rug we had no plan for, and slept nine hours again, which is the real souvenir.
Back on the ward on Monday, shoulders still humming. Someone asked if I'd had a nice rest. I said yes. It was true in the way that matters.
