I am on holiday, Day 12

We are in Scotland now, on Skye, and it feels just right:  both like I remember it and far more astonishing than I thought it was. Marrakech was the dogs because we were there for my little brother's wedding, but somehow it wasn't surprising, and I felt like I had already been.

On top of and in addition to the vague lack of surprise, it was hotter than a mosquito's tweeter, and I am the enthusiast of the colder climate as, also, is my "husband", a French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist who is able to walk uphill on ice.  (I am also an enthusiast of food, esp the 'cuisines' of the Middle East, and I was astonished that I didn't like specifically Moroccan food more; it is very sweet, and I do not like very sweet things much.   Highest per capita consumption of sugar in the world in Morocco, apparently. Yarp.)

I had allowed 7 hours to get from Heathrow from Euston to get the sleeper to Inverness, but no need, Oh no, for Royal Air Maroc were efficient and also on time, and we emerged burping into the tube strike at Paddington like two sunburnt food-poisoned moles concentrating hard on holding in their waterpoos.   We chanced our arms: using the power of our mouths, could we bend the minds of the coach attendants to persuade them that our 23p inflexible ticket could be transferred to the 9.15pm sleeper to Inverness rather than the 11.50pm to Edinburgh? Yes we could. We achieved this feat by me keeping my mouth shut and my "husband" asking Lucille, the attendant lady, about Manitoba.

Eleven hours, haggis, neeps and tatties, half a bottle of red wine and some surprisingly peaceful sleeping later, we arrived in Inverness. Because I am trying to be true to the original point of this "Travelblogue", I will now show you the bed we slept in last night.  I had the bottom, and my enticing "husband" the top:

The drive from Inverness to Skye is the bollocks. We stopped at the famous castle that has excellent fake puddings in its fake kitchen: 

And we drove slowly behind Bert and Elma, who I think were invented before the Highway Code, and were therefore incapable of driving faster than 32mph: 

And then we got to Skye, and we went to the supermarket and did not buy this: 

And we found our cottage and sat by the window and looked out of it, because what we saw out of the window was better than the best film you have ever seen, e.g. Working Girl or Terminator 2. 

Tomorrow, for a walk, our knapsacks full of nuts and cheese sandwiches. 

Pip McPip

NWM

I am on holiday, Day 11

We are back from the Marrakech and in one  piece, despite being accosted by a henna lady and despite it taking over 23 minutes to buy two wooden snakes. Tonight we go to Inverness on the sleeper. I am losing my voice but am in good spirits, and am glad to be in a climate that is cool and that threatens rain.   More tomorrow once we are in Skye, but in the meantime, here are some more photographs.

To start with, here is the ceiling of the bathroom in the second bathroom we had in our hotel. If you look carefully, you will see a bird's nest, and perhaps a bird. But not the poo it left in our bath.

Here are some photosnaps of Marrakech. The problem with taking photosnaps in Marrakech is that every single one has probably been taken better by someone else a million times. Still, some of them are pretty. I like the old man best, even though "Arjun" probably means "fuck off, tourists".

We flew back to Heathrow with the charmers that are Royal Air Maroc. Despite their astonishingly bad reputation, the flight was on time and our baggage arrived before we did. NOT ONLY THAT, but they had my secret favourite pudding for lunch (that weird French custardy stuff), which more than made up for Mystery Meat and Rice of Damp Wool:

Most intriguing, however, were the safety card things. Not only does it seem to be frowned upon to kick fellow passengers out of the door,

but kicking them out of the window is also not recommended: 

And neither is strolling up and down the aisle smoking a poo.

And now to the train, and Scotland!

Pip McPip

NWM

I am on holiday, Day 10

There is not much to say, other than my brother, Runningmonkey, is now married to the loveliest girl in the world. It was good, and everyone is happy. Particularly them.

I am on holiday, Day 9

"I have a friend", says my father, "with a cat organ, who made Prince Charles cry with laughter".  "Not only that",  I add.  "He lives in a biscuit factory and once made a keyboard out of biscuits for Tony Banks." "I won't get in to how we met", says Monkeyfather, "but I would like to talk to you about him."

We are sitting on top of yet another astonishing riad in Marrakech that looks from the outside like it might be a ladies' prison but, once inside, is a hotel of fancyluxe of the kind that makes me confused. Still, the view from the terrace on the top is worth the climb and the sausage rolls are nice, and we are drinking the rosywine and wondering if it is sensible to move from Canada to Africa.

Something passes across the face of the man we are talking to. He is a publicist. "I should tell you that I represented Andrew Lloyd-Weber for three-and-a-half years", he says, looking at his shoes.

We are not quite sure what to do with this information, so we change the subject instead to the incident in which the words "... so he stuck a pound coin up his anus which meant he could get the bus home" wafted across the pool at a volume higher than was (we are sure) intended, and drink some more wine.

Later that evening we eat the food of Morocco.  I order badly, because however delicious the pastilla in question, I have never been very good at the sugar/meat combo. The couscous of my 'husband' is however magnificent, and I am quite the fan of the oranges, despite the glace cherries.  A fight breaks out about these. "You don't see those much in England anymore", says an Englishman.  "What are you talking about? Have you been to Tesco recently?", says his other 'arf, a Frenchman who knows more about British cookery than Jane Grigson.

Still. On Saturday (which is today) is it my brother's wedding, so here are some pictures. Until then, I remain

NWM

I am on holiday, Day 8

A dark day yesterday. The Waterpoos began in the night; a day out of joy for my future sister-in-law was cut short by the sweats and an inability to eat a delicious breakfast, and finished in a bed wrapped in jerseys and blankets, despite it being 98 degrees outside.   The evening was spent with a club sandwich and sorbets of various fruits and the first two episodes of the BBC's Sherlock Holmes.

I am recovered now, thanks to sleep and the ministrations of the two Doctors (one my husband, a pathologist, and the other the sister of my sister-in-law and now sister of mine, a person doctor).

The club sandwich was breakfast; here it is:

The pre-sweat attempt at breakfast at the Jardin Majorelle offered many delights, including:

We were not sure what would happen if you cupped the pistachios near the banana slit, but we thought it best not to think about it too much.

I also met my cousin, Nonworkmonkah. Here is a hurried snapshot of him protecting the handle of the mint tea teapot.

Later, to the Medina on a bus. There will be photographs. You mark my words.

Pip Parp Pip!

NWM