Morocco, day twenty: Tangier

Today's fajr was at – let me check – oh yes, that's right. 5:27am.

I think that in the run-up to Ramadan, the mosques are having a bit of a competition as to who can have the superlative call to prayer.

I woke up again in time for a lesson which I'd foolishly booked at 8am CEST, not remembering that meant I'd have to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed – something I most definitely was not – for 7am here. As I understand it, nobody yet knows when Ramadan proper is going to be, and I'm starting to suspect they're just messing with the tourists to keep us on our toes.

Anyway. I had a lovely cooked breakfast on the terrace of the Tingis this morning – omelette, olives, bread, yummy things – while Señorita Ballena, now Madame Balène, yakked away in French with a new companion all the while basking in the sun. There was actually no whale music this morning, small relief, but as we're practically BFFs now we nodded and waved at each other as the ever-indulgent waistcoated gentleman brought out our respective breakfasty treats. My lurgy is in no danger of abating, so I supped at my exquisite orange juice through a straw in an attempt to garner sympathy for the graveness of my indisposition.

My day missions were few: get my washing done, and go to the seaside. The first was easily accomplished with the help of the man at reception who sent me to a small pressing on the Rue las Once, a little narrow street I'd not yet encountered that runs up the side of the Hôtel Fuentes and on to the Place Taqqadum. I had a little adventure around there, looking for things to photograph – kitties, doors, and streets, mainly – before working my way in the direction of the waterfront where yesterday, from afar, I had spied all manner of seasidey activities going on that looked as if they might be exciting. I got distracted on my way by friendly people in shops keen to sell me things, and had a nice long conversation with one about how the Tanja Seafront development will remove his view just so some rich Europeans can look out of their window and look at where they park their boats.

In the afternoon I tried to have a lesson from the rooftop terrace of the hotel because it was nice and sunny, only to be joined by a couple of seagulls – perhaps sent by the man from the train to Marrakech – who thought they'd like to make some occasional contributions, so it wasn't my most successful. It was absolutely worth the hour fighting with the wifi, though, because the view is amazing and gives a real sense of the place. In one direction, the view is of rooftops to Spain, which could be seen clearly on the horizon today, and in the other, the mosque and the flat white-walled buildings slowly creeping up the hill to the kasbah.

Things done, I went to the beach.

It wasn't long until I'd had a couple of dashing young things trot up alongside me on horseback offering me a ride, almost pleading with me to get into the saddle, as well as a couple more who thrust their nuts in my face and asked if I'd like to taste them. As I've not taken out travel insurance that covers the works of Peter Shaffer and I'm not the biggest fan of the almond, I declined, just as another tried to convince me to try a serving of juice. Add to this that I'd spent any remaining cash having my pants washed, there was no time for any of this nonsense and I was on a mission from which I was not to be distracted as I had earlier spied a camel. I once had a camel ride in 2001 when I felt the need to telephone my parents and proclaim "I'm on a camel" – "what do you mean, you're in Morocco?" – so I didn't feel the need to have another today but the man with the camel didn't not get the hump at my request to take a photograph of said camel. After that I had a very pleasant long walk along the plage municipale nearly as far as the railway station before I remembered my washing and made as hasty a retreat as is possible with wet sand-covered feet and sandals to get back before they closed, although I don't think they ever close.

In the evening I had a sandwich in the fast food place on the rue de la Liberté, as it's a place Guide suggested as good to get nice things quickly. Admittedly, this adventure was not peak of my culinary exploration of north Africa but I do now know that mortadella is not cheese. I thought it might be, because it was listed as an option next to cheese as a choice in a sandwich - fromage casher ou mortadella - and I thought this might be some kind of pink spicy cheese, but it wasn't. That said I wasn't entirely convinced that this mortadella had been anywhere near a cow (this is Morocco), so it was probably mostly vegetarian anyway, and quiet acquiescence seemed easier than trying to explain to the man who'd just spent valuable time making the sandwich I'd asked for that their customer was an idiot. In retrospect, perhaps the clue is in the "mort" part of the name. The sandwich was lovely, nonetheless, with crunchy fresh veg and sauce and yums.

To atone for my misdeed on the way back to the hotel I somehow got talked into buying a man I'd never met before, but who was incredibly persistent in both his demands and gratitude, some food. The irony is that he could've had a mortadella sandwich had he found me a few minutes prior, but he instead somehow ended up with a pack of vache qui rit, a bottle of fermented milk, and a block of something that might've been – but probably wasn't, given the circumstances – lard. It wasn't the healthiest meal for someone who didn't have money to eat, and I felt the moment the price was announced in the shop that the better thing to do would have been to take him to the cuisine municipale or the snack place where I'd had my seven-dirham harira and buy him a proper meal. I saw a lady do that the night that I discovered it, so it would've been better than his 60-dirham supermarket sweep.

I was a bit miffed, but I like to think I did a good thing.