Essaouira

What a lovely town. Old city walls, wave-lashed ramparts, a fishing port and a medina packed with souks and a wide square and streets of tempting shops, cafes and restaurants. Again, the shop-keepers and stall-holders are laid back, not nagging you to buy, making browsing and shopping a relaxing experience. Essaouira also feels very mediterranean and although it is running with tourists, there's a lovely atmosphere.

In a spice shop I stocked up on various delicious mixtures while the shop-keeper gave me cooking advice. These mixes were heavenly, almost sweet, making you want to go back again and again for another inhalation. I wandered all day with Esther and Katrina, enjoying the atmosphere, a bit of shopping – the textiles are sumptous beyond belief – and a few refreshment stops. We were invited for tagines, family visits and of course repeat business by a range of exuberant characters. One hugely enternaining man couldn't quite believe that we didn't all need jellabas to wear when riding our camels back home in Australia. Another man came down from a ladder to give me a present: a nail. Hope this is not symbollic. But as he mimed using it to clean out his ears, probably not.

We even found something we've been looking out for – sticky sweets. Little Moroccan pastries and sweets, stickily packed with honey and nuts and who knows what else. The best were little pastry balls, the size of a large marble, filled with moist figs. Delicious.

Esther, Katrina and I started the next morning with a visit to a hammam, a traditional bathing house. After a bit of fluffing about unsure of the routine and etiquette we entered the main room. Low arched ceilings and dim lighting gave the place a crypt-like feel, but what with the warm steaminess, mosaic-tiled walls and floor, it was immediately relaxing. I sloshed hot water over myself, while two generously proportioned women wearing nothing but huge, soaking wet underpants began to wash Katrina and Esther, who had opted for the full service wash. I gently steamed, failing to surpress giggles as they were then scrubbed energetically with scouring mitts which made no allowances for nipples or any other body parts. Then they were smothered in liquid mud and left on the floor while I was given my massage. This was very gentle but not unpleasant, the argane oil seeping into my skin easily as I tried to avoid being slapped in the face by low-flying breasts. Getting up was a slippery comedy act, atop the wet, oily floor. The others also had a massage and we spent the day glowing and squeaky-clean and most of all delighted to have sampled this most traditional bathing ritual – even if I'd been too chicken to have multiple layers of perfectly good skin forcibly removed from my inner thighs.

We walked on the ramparts the sea on one side, the town on the other, shopped some more and had a point-and-grill lunch of fresh sardines, baby squid and calamari at one of the many stalls on the sqaure by the fishing port. Followed by the most chocolately chocolate ice-cream at a small cafe. Essaouira really is a wonderful chill-out town and it would be easy to potter here for a few lazy days.

Mid-afternoon we took a bus to Marrakech, playing chicken with the oncoming traffic, deranged bus-baiting old men and a donkey with a death-wish.