Morocco, day nine: Fès

Fès is absolutely massive, and there is no way anyone could ever do all of it in just one day, so I planned to visit the University of al-Qarawiyyin, the oldest in the world, and whichever one of the tanneries I found first, because they look nice in the photos.

First, though, was breakfast, which was included in the price of my room, and which was the best breakfast so far. It had been suggested it would be ready for ten, by which time I was on the roof terrace enjoying the view of mountains poking through the haze beyond the roofs and satellite dishes. When breakfast came, I moved to the breakfast room, and was presented with a feast of scrambled eggs, a chocolate croissant (not a chocolatine), a piece of baguette, jam, olives, flatbreads – harsha, msemen, and melwi, probably the tastiest breakfast things I've ever had – orange juice, and coffee.

The Moroccan take on scrambled eggs, which is essentially the addition of cumin but let's keep it exotic, is to die for. From this point in I will never not have scrambled eggs without cumin. Oh. My. God. I could've stayed there, grazing, all day, but lure of the medina was too powerful.

The Fes el Bali is the larger of Fès' two medinas and is the world's largest car-free urban area. Founded in 789, it has over the years expanded to a bustling labyrinthine metropolis of 9,454 narrow cobbled streets and 13,380 buildings, all packed into an area of roughly 2,2km² – which is similar to taking Lisbon's old city and squishing it into the 1st arrondissement of Paris, having removed the cars first. The streets are narrow and very tall, a combination that makes navigation something of a challenge, especially if you're a man leading a donkey behind meandering tourists who are causing congestion. The advantage of the high-walled streets is that the sun has only limited time to beat down on the people therein, meaning that the temperature everywhere remains sensible, even in the height of the day, so the congestion is not a sweaty frenetic affair. It also makes for the highest count of photos taken in portrait that I've ever taken in one day.

There was a lot of walking, and although I have now mastered the sandals my feet and calves hate me. I had plenty more opportunity to take photographs as I was walking around and was only once hounded by someone who thought I was taking a photo of an unfortunate older woman sitting on the street minding her own business while I was in fact trying to surreptitiously consult Google Maps. I was ushered away from that experience by the man's indignation, thinking it best not to get too involved or argumentative, onto a square outside the medina where I found entrances to the tanneries.

That encounter was my only difficult encounter of the day. I briefly spied Not-Guide from last night sufficiently in time to be able to blank him as our paths crossed, and either he did the same or didn't recognise me with sunglasses on. Other than that, people were delighted to have photographs taken of their wares, more interesting for me than people in this context, a quick smile and a photo gesture in more cases than not led to a nod and a hand-on-heart thank you exchange granting authorisation to click away. The one place I couldn't get a photograph was in the Tourist Police station in the middle of somewhere but also nowhere which had wall-to-wall white and blue tiles and incense wafting forth. It was probably the most lush police station I have ever seen.

But I digress.

There were many invites to go into a tannery from there and I was sorely tempted, but ultimately discouraged by the overwhelming stench of goat mixed with a hint of death and solvent. It was not a smell towards which I was drawn, so I declined the offers politely and found my way back inside the walls looking for a vantage point. By chance, I found myself being mistaken for a German tourist by an over-zealous tour guide and was hastily whisked into the Chouara tannery with a group where I understood nothing of what was said for the whole time I was there but think I was momentarily chastised for being a straggler. The smell "up here" was nowhere near as all-permeating as the smell "down there", but I was grateful for my free sprig of mint which I duly squished between my fingers and sniffed occasionally.

There are three tanneries in Fès and the Chourara tannery is sited on the Oued Fes, or River Fez. Nobody really knows how long it's been there, but there are references to its counterparts in documents dating from the 12th century, so it's safe to assume it's pretty old really and that tourists, German or not, have been desperately sniffing mint here for quite a long time.

From my vantage point I had a view of numerous stone vats filled with different coloured dyes and white liquids, as well as the hides of various beasts laid out or being soaked in a series of liquids made up from a delightful cocktail of cow urine, pigeon shit, and water. This cleaning and softening process complete, the skins are then soaked in mixtures made from natural pigments like henna or sumac, and then laid out to dry in the sun. All this is done without the help of modern machinery, and I think it's likely that the contemporary consumer of maroquinerie probably spares little thought for the poor soul who spent a good part of his weekend standing in a vat of excrement under the relentless sun breathing in dead camel just so they could have something pretty to keep their phone in or post on Insta.

De-Germaned, it was time for food and I found a little café, L'Horloge Café Restaurant, where a jovial soul sold me a mind-blowing falafel shawarma with salad and harissa for 28 dirhams. It was super tasty, and I yummed it down, knowing that I had only to stroll down one covered street of spice and perfume through an ever-changing sensory landscape to get to the University of al-Qarawiyyin, the world's oldest university. Sadly, my visit was not to be because of the praying and visiting hours, but I did splash out a whopping 20 dirhams on the nearby Al-Attarine Madrasa, or  'school of the perfumers', where scholars trained in Islamic law and jurisprudence from the 14th century. The madrasa is undisturbed by the chaos around it, and is a most soothing place to spend a while sitting or taking in the splendour of the architecture and ornate, but not gaudy, decoration.

There is a lot of symmetry, something I've learned to appreciate thanks to a slightly incongruous love of things Brutalist, which conveys serenity and order. Sadly, wave after wave of tourist groups seemed unmoved by serenity and order, so I sat for quite a while in the old prayer hall chatting to a Polish tourist who too was waiting for people to leave so he could take some photographs. Of particular irk was a French girl who needed to have her photograph taken in every conceivable pose in nearly every nook or cranny touching things wistfully, but eventually she too had to influence elsewhere and we eventually got our photos.

Along my travels I also happened upon the Maristan of Sidi Frej, once a mental hospital but now a market in a peaceful little square with a tree, and the Place Saffarine, where metalworkers were banging things with loud bangy things while around the square people took coffee on the terrace and the tourist police kept an eye on what was going on. I walked a little down some of the streets leading off this square, and in little back shops all manner of artisanry was going on in a much more relaxed setting than the narrow streets of the hawkers and pedlars. I unintentionally ended up on the Place Saffarine a couple of times through the day, just checking it was still there.

Somewhere down a street I procured a fridge magnet, one most classy indeed. There were some AI-generated ones which actually amused, but at the time I wanted one I only had eight dirhams in my pocket and the man was resolute that they cost ten. A lucky vendor with a more humble but far superior collection of fridge magnets had one that I wanted even more, for which I was delighted to be asked to part with five dirhams, all of which he got with no hestitation.

Happy that I had completed my cultural tasks for the day, I wandered back towards my riad, taking in lungfuls of perfumes, nuts, and spices - cumin in particular - and some occasional meat, and carried on walking out of curiosity until I found myself at the Bab Boujloud and then the Bab Chorfa. I found a pleasant café where I hid myself in the back for a soothing mint tea before making a plan for the evening, after which I walked back into the Medina and was hit by the irresistible scent of coffee being ground on the pavement outside a little purveyor of loveliness. The smell of coffee being ground is truly magical, so I stood there for a while and breathed it in because on a street in Fès, there is nothing quite like it.

As I headed back to my riad, the Man in the Red Hat spied me and enquired about my whereabouts all day and my current susceptibility to massages, tours, or food, and seemed genuinely surprised that I had managed to actually have a whole day's walking without the presence of one of his friends. We discussed my dining option from his perspective, but when it was time to eat I really didn't fancy going back into the medina again so ventured in the opposite direction and had a salad on a terrace next to a busy roundabout from where I watched a newly-married bridge and groom being carried through the streets like sultans in their amariyas to the soundtrack of tootling nafirs and some occasional spontaneous ululation.

All in all it was a momentous bite-sized chunk of Fès, and I think the city redeemed itself.