‘You paint good,’ said the young man, whose Tuareg robes matched the walls I was struggling to capture. ‘With a little more practice, you can be better.’
I’ll bear that in mind, I thought, as I huffed up and down uncountable stone steps – each in a shade of blue I didn’t seem to have in my palette – looking for a quiet corner where I could see something irresistible, yet not be seen; or at least, not by someone so, ahem, critical. It didn’t seem appropriate to mention I’d been ‘practising’ since long before he was born, as this was unevidenced by my morning’s efforts.
I needed the practice, certainly. That’s why I was there. It was years since I’d visited the Blue City: a cascade of archways, tunnels and stone dwellings with brightly-painted walls; a mediaeval rabbit-warren of cobalt tumbling down the pine-clad hillsides. On my last visit, I had no time to paint. I’d taken plenty of photographs, as every visitor to Chefchaouen must, and it remained in the back of my mind as a place to return to. Some day. When I had time. If I was passing. But I never passed. Now I was back, for three delicious nights and two whole days to become lost, which is inevitable, among the jumble of buildings, and to see how much the place has changed.
In most of the ways that count, it hasn’t. Long on the radar of intrepid travellers and hikers it’s now considerably busier; several attractive riads have opened up, deep within the medina, and the town features on most northern Morocco tourist itineraries. One of my favourite travel photographs, taken with my old Pentax from the public bus as I was leaving town in February 2005, features two old men sitting side by side on a bench in the weak morning sun. The hoods of their thick, woollen djellabas lend them a pixyish look as they lean conspiratorially towards one another, oblivious to the foreigner’s gaze. Today, the bench is no longer there, and the bus doesn’t call into this part of town. The square is filled, instead, with visitors, lined with cafés. Yet the mountains continue to loom above the rooftops and bougainvillea tumbles undisturbed over ancient walls – it’s still a fabulous place. Unmistakeably Moroccan and yet distinctly different, high up in the Rif mountains where the air is clean and cool, the pace is slower, and the chaos of the city seems a world away.
In terms of subject matter, I was spoiled for choice and, in time, I’m sure I’d have got the hang of those chalky, blue-washed walls, or at least identified the extra watercolours I need to bring with me next time. Instead, I turned my attention to a perfectly placed mosque, perched on its very own hillock overlooking the town. Dazzling white in the late afternoon sun as deep shadows spread through the valleys, I sketched it from the roof terrace of my lovely guest house before the sun sank with characteristic speed.
When I return in March I shall look out for Youssef, camouflaged though he is as his desert clothing melts into the paintwork, and he can check if my skills have improved. Who knows, he may even agree to pose.
Chefchaouen is an optional extension to the Painted Desert itinerary, and the next trip is scheduled for March 2026.
