Moroccan scrub down

Our final day in Marrakesh was spent pampering ourselves at a traditional Moroccan Hammam. These spa venues are everywhere. In the West, they’re what we'd typically call Turkish Baths. Garry and I booked a classic hammam session followed by an hour-long massage. 

Two young women managed our hammam experience in a private treatment room clad in dark blue ceramic tiles from floor to ceiling. What followed was a steamy flurry of showers, scrubs, buckets of water, and plenty of giggling. The venue gave us a pair of disposal shorts for the session, which proved invaluable as we were repeatedly whisked from a heated tiled treatment bench (cushioned by a nylon-clad foam pad) to a shower and back.

A typical hammam session starts with a general wash-down in a tiled room, followed by a steam room sauna. The experience continues with a rigorous exfoliation scrub, plus a head-to-toe mineral clay treatment. Finally, everything is rinsed off and you’re given a final argan oil rubdown. The layers of skin we watched flowing down the drain after our exfoliating scrub was alarming, to say the least.

Our massages proved equally therapeutic. While they weren’t exceptionally firm, we both fell asleep during the session. I guess you know you’re relaxed when your own snoring wakes you mid-treatment.

We then returned to our favourite rooftop bar at Shtatto for a late lunch and a final look across the jumbled medina rooftops. The Atlas Mountains gave us a final showing despite the ubiquitous desert haze. It was the perfect way to finish a truly memorable experience. Although I must admit I think I’m finally showing my age. The dirt, chaos and ramshackle sights were a little exhausting at times. The novelty of adventure travel seems to have worn thin after all these years.

Our flight back to London passed without incident. Although we almost caught the wrong train from Gatwick into town. We finally made it into our Paddington-based Airbnb shortly before midnight. Garry found this venue a few months back. It was a recently renovated flat spread over four levels on a triangular footprint less than 500 metres from Paddington Station and a similar distance from Edgware Road in the opposite direction. 

When we opened a curtain the following morning, we discovered it sat directly over the District Line tube tracks. The track briefly passed through an open cut before disappearing under our building and passing under Praed Street. However, triple-glazed windows ensured that a little muted rumbling was all we noticed whenever trains passed below us.

Unfortunately, Garry woke in poor health. He spent the next three days in bed with a fever while I made the daily trek to Olympia for the London Toy Fair. I met with suppliers, walked the halls, and renewed old acquaintances. One supplier, Indigo Jamm, also took me for dinner one evening.