Conrad Hurbert Were I Live Now

Oscar's Little Red Blog: More on Fez

Fes, which duelled with Marrakech for centuries for primacy in the Arabic Morocco state, is less comfortable than its rival, which is not to say that our stay there was bereft of modest luxury. We put up in a splendid riad called La Maison Bleue in rooms hardly changed since the owner’s grandmother lived in them.

Dinner was served in the covered courtyard to the accompaniment of live Moroccan music. A dozen dishes of delicious cooked vegetables were typically followed by pastilla (the fish one even better than the pigeon) or couscous and then the ubiquitous tajine.

The local Moroccan wines were part of the deal: a drinkable Semillon and a better Cabernet du President; which president I never discovered.

In hotter weather this riad’s sister establishment, Maison Bleue Le Riad, may be a better bet; it has a spa and swimming pool and a great view over the walls of the old city up to the Merenid Tombs.

It is worth scrambling up to this landmark, or taking a taxi, to get a clear idea of the lie of the land in Fes. The medieval “citadel of fanaticism” (as it was called) is in front of you in the pear-shaped bowl of the Sebou valley; off to the right is the new quarter built by the French and beyond that the road to Casablanca where the young Arab Amar in Bowles’s novel is finally abandoned by the Americans who had discovered him with all his quaint and savage cultural traits.

That the city has been preserved owes much to the French resident- ­general Louis-Hurbert Lyautey in the last days of colonial rule there and subsequently to Unesco. Fes was saved from the fate of so many cities in developing countries where, in a paradoxical gesture of national independence, so much local architecture is demolished to be replaced by pastiche Western.

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