Posted on Thursday, 17 September 2015

Victoria Coach Station at 4am is hardly the most inspiring setting from which to begin a trip abroad, yet it can be the most vivid of counterpoints to a sunny destination. The terminal's joyless, slightly desperate occupants, some of which are periodically woken be security (dozing is not allowed here), are perhaps the antithesis of ‘fun in the sun'.

I munched on a soggy £5 panini and waited.

It was with some relief that I boarded the coach to Luton Airport. I gazed out as night-time north London streamed past, distorted by the rain-streaked window and reflected on how unfriendly the metropolis is just before dawn.

Luton Airport, London, United Kingdom (oriontrail2/Bigstock.com)

Luton

Luton Airport appears to be used by ten times as many people as it can hold. If the average holiday maker needed any more inspiration to get inside a winged aluminium tube with jet turbines on either side, this was it. The only relaxed people associated with Luton Airport must be the shareholders of certain coffee brands that run outlets here; they are chronically oversubscribed.

At security, one has two choices: get as wound up as the passengers and security staff, or try to relax and let it all wash over you. However, as one un-belts against the clatter of plastic trays and filters oneself into the airport security machine, one can't help but feel like a cow en-route to someone's dinner plate.

Holiday Mood

Thankfully, the holiday mood I was looking for arrived soon after boarding. Bright morning light filled the cabin as we lifted higher and higher; the old cliché about it always being sunny somewhere occurred to me. Indeed, it's always sunny above Luton Airport if you're willing to go up high enough.

And I was.

Despite working for a budget airline, the staff on board this plane made a real effort to be friendly and professional. There was, unusually, an older steward in the team – an affable grandfather type who helped create an all-is-well atmosphere. He cheerfully doled out soluble coffees and miniature beers for a pretty penny as we roared towards Morocco at 500mph.

Technically, Morocco is in Africa. I say technically, because it doesn't seem possible that you can reach Africa three hours after boarding a jet in rainy London. But you can.

It was my first trip to Africa and the excitement was building. The buzz was helped by updates from the pilot who calmly described our route down the Portuguese coast, across the Mediterranean and along the northwest shores of Morocco. He name-dropped exotic locations like Casablanca and Marrakech as we nosed through the blue skies towards Essaouira. I could just make out the Atlantic frothing white against dusty red shores.

Stepping off the plane and into the light I was caressed by North African sunshine and a pleasant breeze. Inside the terminal building we were handed small landing cards to complete and I capitalised on the burbling holiday mood by striking up a conversation with a girl; a Polish girl on holiday from Poznan.

After having our passports stamped by a Peter Sellers lookalike, we went about obtaining some local currency and transport into the city. Two exotic girls at the information desk smilingly explained that there wouldn't be another bus for two hours and that we should get a taxi.

An equally jolly taxi driver led us to a tank-like blue Mercedes without working seatbelts and drove us into the Medina of Essaouira. It cost us 150 dirhams (£10).

It's funny how travel can make things happen. After just a few hours on a plane I now knew the name of a Moroccan taxi driver and a girl from Poznan and was gazing out at dusty olive tree orchards and camels.

At the great walls of the Medina we stepped down from the huge car, bid farewell to the driver and entered the crowded alleyways of Old Essaouira. Its residents' long hooded robes and white-washed homes reminded me of Tattooine in the Star Wars universe. Everywhere were market stalls selling spices and strange looking fruit.

As the Polish girl located the alley to her hotel, we agreed to meet later for coffee.

I continued on alone, weaving among bicycles, carts and happy children. Drums and snake-charmer flutes filled the air.

I imagined that the Medina's labyrinthine alleys would be unnavigable, but soon spotted the sign for my hotel. After the heat and hubbub of the Medina, the cool dark lobby was most welcome.

The tiled floors and arched ceilings, the sumptuous red seats and carved wooden tables – all spoke of films like Casablanca and Under a Sheltering Sky.

From the shadows a beautiful Moroccan girl emerged and greeted me with a warm smile. Her hair was uncovered – long brown, curly and adorned with three red flowers.

She made me tea with mint poured from a silver teapot, then with more smiles gave me a map and carefully plotted the city's main attractions.

Perhaps Victoria Coach Station and Luton Airport were just figments of my imagination.

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