Morocco, day three: Tangier

I don’t think I have ever felt quite so excited getting on a train as I did this morning.

It was an early start.

My alarm was set for six so that I could be showered, caffeinated, and on my way by seven as I fancied a look around Madrid Atocha – Spain's busiest railway station and Madrid's first – and I had, in a moment of madness, decided to book an 8am train so that I could make the journey to Algeciras and the crossing to Tangiers in one day. It was dark when I arrived at the station, and this didn't really help my quest to take in the majesty of the old station as the façade and the area around it is undergoing renovation work and hidden by tall screens which conspired with the darkness against me. Nonetheless, I did get a good potter about inside and marvelled, under the Gustav Eiffel-built roof, at the 4000m² of botanical gardens and plaza containing cafés and shops – and apparently a nightclub – while eating a croissant and a coffee (4€) in the shadow of the mother of all banana trees.

When I booked my tickets for this journey, I spent more time than was perhaps absolutely healthy trying to work out which would be the best seat to choose, given that the Renfe web site won’t show you where the windows are. My best guess for the 8:05 to Algeciras – based on the hypothesis that a table seat would have a window to it and that therefore two seats behind a window seat would be ideal – was wrong. Seat 6A was another Kafka seat and I was not impressed, but once the doors had closed I found the guard and did my best early-morning smile and a few moments later was officially (because I saw him do tappythings on his tappydevice) in seat 7A, which had an entire splendid but slightly grubby window to itself. The moral, should you be travelling from Madrid to Algeciras in the morning is to avoid booking the even rows as they’re next to pillars, or whatever the correct train nomenclature is for not-windows, and go for the odds.

For the first hour or so, things were slightly subdued outside as the day’s full light hadn’t yet started to make everything pretty, but we were soon charging along at speed through kilometre after kilometre of sturdy trees set against either lush green or barren brown, depending on their mood. As if in some kind of time warp, screens suspended from the roof were showing something that could have been Bollywood or even classic Spanish cinema - it was difficult to tell, the picture quality was so bad. The subtitles were of no help at all because my Spanish is limited to “pintxos/tapas/vino/falafel por favor”, although I knew that every now and then there was a suggestion that people should go somewhere.

It was curious to watch, and for a while I found myself transported into eighties or nineties classic Iberian cinema, or so I thought, until a smartphone or modern car appeared momentarily and shattered the illusion; this was not classic cinema displayed in all its glory on modern equipment, but in fact contemporary cinema simply made to look shit by the tatty screens from another age suspended from the ceiling. In the modern age, nobody pays attention to such things anyway, which is probably why nobody’s thought to check the cables on the back of them, and those who weren't looking at their phones or laptops were congregating around each other's seats and having long conversations about, well, I have no idea, but it was loud. If I’d thought it would've helped my comprehension of the on-board entertainment, I could have listened to the dialogue by plugging my headphones into the old-timey airline-style entertainment system, but for the first time in ages I’m not travelling with earphones that have actual cables.

In contrast to yesterday's journey, which started as a leisurely stroll before we built up speed to something of a trainy gallop, we started our journey by bolting out of Madrid like a startled whippet, and outside my fabulous window something akin to a desert landscape sped past. In the distance on the horizon started to loom large rocky mountains which became more and more imposing and magnificent as the journey went on.

Between Cuidad and Puertollano there were rows of unfinished houses and fields of solar panels, then there were olive groves and more rocky formations and then, in the middle of nowhere was Antequera-Santa Ana, a very strange station indeed which looks from the train as if it affords absolutely no amenities whatsoever – as if being 17km from the centre of Antequera proper didn't already render it an unattractive proposition. This is where the train drives slowly through a gauge changer having finished its run on the high-speed international gauge line, its wheels adjusting to the Iberian gauge for the remaining journey to Algeciras.

Whether I was imagining it or not I don’t know, but I got the distinct impression that the kerdum-kerdum of our train became significantly more rhythmic as we built up speed on the other side, and my brain soon found itself filling in the gaps with bits of Doctorin’ the Tardis. Random, but it made a change from Danse Macabre which has been ear-worming me since I set off on Friday.

As if the journey hadn’t already been glorious enough to this point, I was absolutely unprepared for the excitement that was to test my limits of self-containment as we slowly trudged south towards Algeciras.

At first, I thought I’d reached nirvana when I saw what I’m reliably informed was a little cluster of egrets enjoying some water, but as we slowly creaked and snaked our way up the steep incline towards Ronda, the views kept on getting better and better, and I was most definitely glad that I was in seat 7A and not 6A. I was on the right side of the train – in both senses – and although there was some pretty to be had on the other side, it’s probably the best side to sit on if you’re heading south.

The higher we got, the better the views became and what had an hour previous been views of mountains on the horizon were now views from mountains through valleys and over lush green landscapes to said mountains still looming large on the horizon.

Ronda itself is known for the deep canyon that carries the Guadalevín River between the two halves of the city which are joined by three massive bridges. The single-track railway that snakes down from Ronda onwards towards Algeciras was built between 1890 and 1892 by the Algeciras Gibraltar Railway Company to transport British military officers escaping the heat of Gibraltar to over-summer somewhere slightly cooler and the views from the left, in come cases, are positively vertiginous. At Cortes de Frontera, a donkey seemed to smile at us as we trundled past. A group of motorcyclists waved at us enthusiastically as we delayed their journey at a level crossing, and then slowly we made our way to the end of our journey, Gibraltar poking above the houses to our left.

We arrived a few minutes after our scheduled 13:37 arrival time at Algeciras station and stepping out of an air-conditioned train into 25 degrees under blue skies and sun was my first coat-regretting moment. It was a short walk to the port to find the Africa Morocco Link ticket office where a friendly man checked my passport and reservation before issuing me with a bus ticket for the short ride to Tarifa, and a ferry ticket for the crossing to Tanger Ville. I could have taken a ferry from Algeciras directly to Tanger Med, but that would have involved navigating at the other end and in any case, I thought there was probably some kind of romance to be had in crossing directly into the old port in the old city.

I was instructed to be at the bus stop in the port for 14:30 so that I could board the shuttle bus for a departure listed on the web site as 14:45 and on my ticket as 14:35 but which was, in reality, some time between the two. Again, I chose the wrong side of the bus for my seat, and while the views out of the right side were pretty, I was more interested by the tantalising glimpses of north Africa across the Strait of Gibraltar which were confirmation that I hadn't made this up and that very soon indeed, I would have successfully migrated south for the winter. A complete and successful migration was dependent on the bus actually completing the journey to Tarifa, something I doubted a couple of times as we wheezed up the hills from Algeciras to the Mirador del Estrecho, at which point the efficiency of the brakes became more of a concern to nobody except me as we meandered back down to sea-level.

It is a long time since I have been on a boat, and it was not an unpleasant experience. I decided it was probably best not to ask the locals if they wouldn't mind playing their music on headphones instead of on speakers, and resigned to my fate settled down next to a window – again on the wrong side but this time not by choice – to enjoy the anticipation as we rocked our way south. Passport control takes place on the boat, not in the port, and so for the first part of the journey a queue snaked its way round the seating deck while people filled in their white forms and then got their passports stamped opposite the bar.

At 17:00 we moored in Tanger Ville and after a couple of perfunctory passport and luggage checks, I was standing outside the port wondering how I'd get to the Hôtel Fuentes in the medina. It was, in fact, a short walk which would have been shorter still had I been prepared to stop to look at my phone for directions, but ever keen to charge on looking purposeful there were a couple of wrong turns. The steep walk through the narrow streets was noisy and colourful, and I had to keep moving not for fear of the locals, but more that I might never be able to get moving again were I to stop and get embroiled in a transaction that might not be to my liking. Some people tried to engage me and I felt somewhat objectionable declining their kind offers to look in their shops or buy something sweet and sticky, but I was on a mission and so tried to wave in a way that was dismissive but polite while employing a "la la la" approach that works in both the European and North African senses.

I am not sure what exactly I was expecting from my hotel. It only had a 6.5 rating on the booking site of choice but more important to me was that I only paid 68€ for three nights and it comes, apparently, with a free breakfast. The room is small, but functional, and although the view of someone else's drying washing is not the world's most exotic, it is all part of the experience. The bed is firm and comfortable and comes with a leopard-print blanket which is so wonderfully lurid and contrasts with the 1980s brown decor. In what was probably once a very grand dining room is now a large salon and café, where locals had assembled to watch Al Jazeera on the flat-panel screen at one end, while on the terrace overlooking the Place Petit Socco, more were gathered in energetic conversation over shameless quantities of all-permeating hashish.

Refected by a sugary mint tea and a couple of passive lungfuls, I set off in the evening on a little exploratory mission to find something to eat. Trying not to look as if I might be lost in the Medina, I strode purposefully past the shop-dwelling pedlars who seemed to be able to sense people approaching and emerge ready to attempt to tailor the needs of the tourist to the contents of their shop, and found all sorts of wonderful little alleys. It was fun, and without a backpack I was feeling much more confident and happy to engage in smiley conversation which if nothing else relaxed both parties and soon forgot that I was perhaps a little lost.

At every turn every imaginable commonplace activity was suddenly all the more vibrant; on corners, people were hanging around chatting with friends, down an alley or in a shallow shop people buying some vegetables, a few stalls were selling bread. I was invited to partake on multiple occasions, but I was on a mission.

By chance, I stumbled upon a restaurant and riad and co-working space called Nbta House on the rue Vincente. It's new and shiny and Tangier's only restaurant serving an exclusively plant-based menu. I had a little look in, out of curiosity, and soon found myself powerless to resist being convinced to have my first meal in Tangier. It was a little more expensive than perhaps I would have liked – 75 MAD – but for that I got a lovely little bowl of mezé, a fabulous selection of breads, and an incredibly tasty bean stew which was just what was needed. I consumed this with an ice-cold sparkling water on the cosy roof terrace to the accompanying sounds of nearby hustle and bustle, and enjoyable conversation from my waiter who, with no complaint, spent the evening climbing three flights of stairs carrying orders from kitchen to table.

Paid and ready to go, I also acquired my first friend and left armed with a phone number should I need a guide during my stay. Back at the hotel I spent a little time on the terrace nursing a mint tea and breathing as deeply as my lungs would let me.