Back in October, I decided to do an internship the next summer in Cape Town. With so much going on, I put it to the back of my mind. But the summer came around so quickly and I became tentative and wondered if I shouldn’t have explored the alternatives that were, perhaps, a bit nearer to home. As soon as I arrived however I was thrown into a completely different culture and environment, with a family that embraced me from the beginning, and I began to live the next five weeks as a Capetonian. I would need a whole book of memoirs to do my trip justice, but here I’ll just focus on a few highlights.

The brilliant thing about staying with a family is that they can tell you places to go to that, as a typical tourist, you would never know of or discover in a guidebook. Langebaan for example, a beach north of Cape Town, was not only stunning but safe for children, perfect for my host mum’s adorable grandchildren, and safe from sharks. I will willingly admit that the notion of sharks did tend to scare me, slightly. With the South African coastline hosting ‘shark alley’ at certain times of the year, (where Great Whites come to feast off the abundant seal population), I was tentative about venturing anywhere near the ocean, even just to dip my toes for a Southern Hemisphere mid-Winter paddle. Luckily the surfers are not so scared and False Bay, on the southern seaboard, boasts some of the best waves in the world. Or so we were told by a dude who, at the summit of Table Mountain in a biting wind and chilling mist, was still wearing a T-shirt and flip-flops, sported a tattoo of the WWF panda wearing sunglasses, had three duvets in the back of his car for his surf boards and lived his entire life according to the maxim ‘hike, surf and party.’

Most of our leisure time was spent wandering around and though I felt obliged to go to the Castle of Good Hope and the Company Gardens, afternoons spent hidden in cafes amongst wood carvings and beaded necklaces in Greenmarket Square were much more interesting. The same went for a shopping mall on the way to the Waterfront, where we felt completely at home in the Food Lovers Market or when staring into the ocean at Kalk Bay harbour a group of oversized seals appeared, hovering around for the insides of the day’s catch of snoek. Or Camps Bay where we took a trip on the first mildly warm day to lie on a deserted beach for the afternoon; the locals knew they had plenty of time to enjoy the sun when the summer properly arrived, but we as opportune Brits who head to the beach at the first sign of sun were not going to spend the time inside.

One of the things that struck me most was the wildlife. Even the Cape Peninsula is remarkable. I just couldn’t get used to virtually guaranteed sightings of penguins, seals and often dolphins in the water around Table Bay, and springbok, baboons and ostrich when venturing out further into the veld- I’m lucky to see a wild rabbit at home! On the boat to Robben Island I virtually leapt out of my seat every time a seal poked his head out of the water, to the amusement of my friend from San Francisco who remarked, ‘you don’t get many seals in England, do you?’ We also got to see a few Southern Right Whales in Hermanus, where in gale force winds we clung on to the rocks at Gearing’s Point in the chance that they might leap out of the water as they seem to do all of the time on television- they didn’t. We also managed to squeeze in a sizeable amount of wine tasting. As someone used to the cheapest bottle of bubbly from the Co-op, I put on my best wine tasting face and engaged in some proper wine chat about the ‘herbaceous’ and ‘woody undertone’ quality of the Pinotage grape. It seemed, at the time, a completely sensible idea to have 12 bottles shipped back to England… Though after a while, one wine did tend to taste just as fruity and rich and sweet as another, and I think instead of leaving the winelands with an educated pallet, I managed to just get steadily drunker as the afternoons progressed.

Despite one weekend driving as far into South Africa as the distance from London to Newcastle, I barely managed to scratch the surface of the country in terms of the amount there is to see. But the experience of living and working in Cape Town, coming home to a Cape Malay curry on the Metro or Long Street the night before the South Africa v Argentina rugby game made for the most fun, exciting and busy August, and it was just a bonus that it meant I managed to escape London’s Olympic hysteria!

Having a mother with a phobia of flying isn’t the easiest of problems to deal with. Our annual family holiday has always had a certain ritual to it; the three of us stand in horror as she marches over to the Duty free whiskey counter before boarding the 6am flight (because apparently the doctor won’t prescribe her strong enough sedatives). The other downfall is that long-haul flights are a no go. Don’t get me wrong, I have loved my family holidays in Europe to date, but when I say that over the 19 years of my existence I have possibly seen every cathedral in the continent, I’m not lying. So this summer I decided to jet off to Africa with two of my best girlfriends. I say “Africa”; Morocco is really only just-beyond Spain, but nonetheless it felt like a real adventure.

Marrakech

Flying into Marrakech, The 45-degree plus heat hits you like a stinking pile of camel-dung. Even with our Magicool and tourist fans at the ready, we definitely weren’t prepared for these kind of inescapable temperatures. A short taxi ride and we were in the centre of ‘The Red City’ surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the Jamaa el-Fnaa, the market square of the medina quarter of the capital. A luggage boy came to greet us and carried our rather bulging suitcases in his wheelbarrow all the way down the back streets to our hotel riad.  A slightly dubious goodbye greeting involving excessive pecks on the cheek and a cheeky bosom grope – which we were subsequently reassured definitely isn’t custom in this orthodox Islamic culture –  and we were welcomed into a haven of Arabian luxury. We happened to be the only guests staying in the 6-bedroom riad for the week, and consequently were spoiled by the staff with mint tea and fresh Moroccan dates at every opportunity.

It isn’t until the evening that the Jamaa el-Fnaa really comes alive. Rather aggressive looking monkeys owned by equally aggressive looking Moroccans are hoisted onto your shoulders as you stroll through the thick, hazy heat to the melody of snake charmers. The air smells heavy with saffron and freshly squeezed orange juice. Local women are having their hands embellished with brown and orange henna. It really is the most exciting and vibrant of experiences, only slightly ruined by the constant tourist-hounding. Being called “Shakira” and “Spice girls” solidly for 6 days quickly lost its initial charm.  We became quite fond of the friendly waiters at one of the pop-up restaurants, who tended to lure in the tourists with their witty British banter; they seemed to know more about East Enders, Gavin & Stacey and Manchester United than the three of us put together. Plus, who wouldn’t want to eat at a place with the slogan: “117 takes you to heaven”? Their lamb and prune tagine certainly did take us to heaven… several times over.

One thing that you can’t miss in Marrakech is the souks: a labyrinth of vendors trying to flog their metal teapots, fez hats, Moroccan tassels, Sex and the City 2- style slippers and copious amounts of jewellery. Having been warned that the value of most of the goods was only about 35% of the original starting price, we would completely lose track of time wondering around, getting lost and haggling with the locals. One afternoon, we ended up in an Aladdin’s cave style lantern shop, where the owner, who was rather keen on one of my friends, invited us for couscous with his mother whilst he tried to convince her to convert to Islam and become his wife. As flattering as it was, she decided that no marriage vows would be taking place any time soon, especially considering she was worth at least 10 camels more than he was prepared to offer for a bride price.

On our penultimate day in Marrakech, we decided to check out Nikki Beach, one in the chain of the global beach-club brand. It was absolutely stunning; a gigantic pool surrounded by white sun beds, and orange parasols, with beautiful people swanning around in cut-out swimsuits and heels. There wasn’t much time for sunbathing as before we knew it, the DJ decks behind us were blaring out house music and everyone was dancing round the pool in their bikinis. Having been deprived of a drink in what is mainly an alcohol-free culture, we went a bit overboard and started ordering magnums of rosé the size of our torsos (and in the process burnt an unjustifiable amount of our budget for the two weeks). Looking back at the rather shakey video footage we took on our phones, it looks rather like an episode of Boozed Up Brits Abroad: Classy Moroccans trying to relax by the pool, with us re-enacting a scene from Park End’s R ‘n’ B floor, screaming out the lyrics to ‘Rack city b****’.

Essaouira

Next stop on our trip was Essaouira, a relatively small city on the coast, directly West of Marrakech. It was beautiful; white washed buildings with blue shutters and doors. Even the taxis are blue. The other noticeable difference to Marrakech was the climate; the sea breeze brings the temperature down at least 15 degrees. However, this gave us a bit of a false sense of safety in the strong African sun, and we’d end up lobster-coloured after a mere few hours of wearing factor 30. Sadly, by the time we arrived in Essaouira, we had all gone down with a bit of a tummy bug. (On our last day in Marrakech we had seen the locals filling up mineral water bottles with a hose, which was slightly disconcerting considering we had been drinking it all week.) Nonetheless, we still managed to make the most of our time there; exploring the jewellery souks and watching the sunset over the sea every night.

We had been pre-warned about the so-called “Essaouira Boys”, who often have their hair in dreadlocks and wear tourist-like clothing to try and befriend – and potentially seduce – western women. We definitely met many an Essaouira-boy on the beach, who insisted on ‘complementing’ us by reiterating how white we were and referring to us as ‘crepes’. This just made us all the more determined to spend longer on the beach. In hindsight, this may have been part of their plan.

Taghazout

After a rather uncomfortable bus ride, where the advertised air-conditioning materialised as a small half-open window, we arrived at our final destination in Taghazout; a tiny fishing village further south along the coast from Essaouira. It is so quaint and beautiful with blue fishing boats lining the beach, alongside the camel-trekking route. There isn’t really that much to do in Taghazout unless you are into your surfing- it is globally renowned for its “good surf.” And with a day’s surfing instructing being so cheap, we thought it would only be right to try our hands at it. Needless to say we didn’t really learn a vast amount in one day, especially considering these large waves were probably best left to the professionals.

All in all, our visit to Morocco was quite simply amazing. Despite the slight hiccup in the middle of us getting poorly (most probably rosé and 45 Celsius induced), we would all go back in a second.