Morocco, day twenty-three: Madrid

Farewell, then, Morocco.

I could have been up earlier, but I decided I was having a minor crisis at the sad reality that my time here was over, so snoozed after the morning prayer until I felt it was really no longer acceptable to do so. I had wondered whether, by lying very still and not making any noise, the people in the hotel would forget about the strange man in room 31 and just leave me to languish there, perhaps theatrically with the back of my hand against my forehead as a sign of crisis, escaping only very occasionally for a coffee with dates and nuts, or an orange juice should my wretchedness become too difficult to cope with.

But then it was time to get up as it became frustratingly apparent that I could not will time to stop, and in my last-minute flurry of activity before bed had booked a ferry which I had to catch at 11am. I took a shower, packed, and then headed to the food market through an eerily quiet medina to buy some harissa before taking my place at a table outside the Café de Tanger for my final ftour.

It was a fine breakfast. I had two fried eggs with olives, cheese, and curd, and then bread with jam, amlou – a paste of argan oil, almonds, and honey that makes peanut butter look a bit shit in comparison – and of coffee and juice. All this for 45 dirhams, although I thought the size of the orange juice a bit mean. I added a little of my newly-acquired harissa to my eggs to brighten my morning and it was very flavoursome, almost citrusy. At the end of the feast I gave the waiter 60 dirhams as I only had three 20 notes left, and waited five or ten minutes for my 15 dirham change which was only forthcoming when I eventually asked for it. I felt that was a bit naughty, and had he given me my change without prompting he would almost certainly have had it as a tip but never mind. I did then feel guilty and wonder whether I should have had my final breakfast on the balcony on the Hôtel Fuentes, but by then it was too late for second-guessing so I decided I'll just have to stay there again one day, most definitely in room four, just for a night or two. Just for the breakfast.

Fed, I was horrified on returning to my room on the first floor to discover that housekeeping had already started tidying – and the bed wasn't even cold – and worse, had removed all my personal belongings which were, well, I had no idea where they were. This was not how I'd expected my last day would pan out, and it was just as I was about to launch into a sentence I hadn't finished preparing that I realised the housekeeping staff were laughing was not due to some malevolence on their part but idiocy on mine. That the stupidity be one's own is perhaps a new take on Hanlon's recommendation that one never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.

Fed, I was delighted on returning to my room on the second floor that housekeeping had not yet started tidying and that my personal belongings were all waiting for my departure. I had a final look around and checked I hadn't forgotten anything, got my bag onto my back and then turned the key in the door of room 31 for the final time and checked out of the Hotel Mauritania, such a lovely place. The walk to the port was ten minutes at most, and the most time-consuming of that was probably crossing the Avenue Mohammed VI. It seemed to take me hours when I arrived, but I've learned that the best way to cross the road in Morocco is just to walk over the road, the Doppler effect giving an idea of how imminent death is. Guide's suggest for crossing the road is "don't worry about the traffic", something I've been putting into practice on smaller roads when not weighed down with a backpack.

The sailing from Tanger Ville to Tarifa took an hour and was a little rocky in places. I sat at the front of the boat and watched as Europe slowly loomed larger on the horizon until little pilot boats came out to meet us and escort us past the statue of Jesus into the port proper. The town of Tarifa – or more technically the little sticky-outy island – is the southernmost point of the Iberian Peninsula and Continental Europe and takes its name from Tarif ibn Malik, the commander who in 711 led the Islamic conquest of Hispania. It's quite a small place and next time I shall make more effort to stop there en route, because one of my students has suggested it's a good place to spend a day or two, especially if you like beaches.

I didn't have time, as the free shuttle bus was waiting to whisk us to Algeciras port, and I'd forfeited a night in Tarifa to have one more in Tangier.

This time I remembered – just at the last minute – that I needed to be sitting on the right hand side of the bus for this journey so I could get a few final glimpses of Morocco as it slipped away. The drive was uneventful and before long we were all safely deposited at the bus stop inside the port complex, no more than a ten minute walk from the train station. The weather was bright and sunny, and with more than an hour to kill I had a little wander looking for exciting things and noticed that I hadn't quite left North Africa behind me as I walked past the Hostal Fès on my way to the market on the Plaza Nuestra Señora de la Palma. I had time to look at more yummy things and wrestle with a Santander cash machine that wanted to charge me a piss-take amount to withdraw cash before deciding I'd just head to the station and see what there was food-wise there.

There is no longer a restaurant in the train station. At some point there clearly has been, but the door with "restaurant" written on it was locked and there was a 'for rent' sign in the window. Over the road next to the Hotel Mir Octavio there's a canteen which served me a toasted cheese and potato sandwich thing and a nice cold beer from Málaga as I wasn't sure whether I'd have the opportunity to eat on the train because once again it's confusingly marked as 'sin restauración' but in any case really needed something lunchy.

There is one train a day between Algeciras – the southernmost railway station on the European mainland – and Madrid, and the train was already sitting on the platform when I arrived and put my bag through the scanner. I'm guessing it was the same train that arrived at 13:37 from Madrid and was there long enough for refuelling of the locomotive and the on-board team. There was just enough time to have a look at the old railway station which sits parallel with the tracks. Its symmetrical cream and terracotta façade and zellij mosaics are joined by the station name and signs for luggage storage and vestibule in ornate serif block capitals on yellow ceramic tiles, where until 1979 passengers could have taken one of two journeys north to the capital; a daytime regional or a romantic-sounding expreso nocturno. The old building closed to passengers when the new much inferior one opened in 1980 and doesn't look as if it's in any kind of disrepair so it could be office buildings.

I'd spent too much time eating sandwiches and drinking beer to allow for proper exploration, but there's always next time. I know that this is now the mantra of my travels.

The 15:52 Alvia service left on time and the dodgy screens were showing a documentary about ladies of easy virtue, a lot of them in black and white and without clothing. I think the bounciness was brought about in the difference in frame rate between the original footage and what was now being broadcast to an entire train, and then there were clips from old films with people embracing and subtitles about burdeles and prostitutas. I snoozed in and out of consciousness, every time waking to find another breast winking at me from the screen or some footage of brothels reserved for the Wehrmacht, or then clips from Love in the Afternoon, all in all a really strange choice of pre-watershed in-train entertainment. I should probably have made an effort with the subtitles or found some headphones, but instead watched as the light outside faded and the views became slowly more dreary and eventually faded to black.

There was a cafeteria on the train, despite the warning of sin restauración on the Renfe web site, so I don't really understand that but I took advantage later in the journey to buy myself a cheese sandwich and a sparkly drink from the friendly woman who humoured my attempts at Spanish. I settled in seat 5A to consume my feast and then donned the train babouches – train slippers are so 2023 – which I paraded around in a little bit just so people could admire them between glimpses of tit. At Antequera we passed through the gauge-changer and were soon on our way north at high speed, occasionally crossing trains belting past in the other direction. On the big screen, Justin Baldoni started removing everyone's clothes.

We were only a few minutes later than our scheduled 21:20 arrival time in Madrid where it was Europeanly cold and wet. It was a simple ride on the metro line one to Estrecho from where my functional hostel was a drizzly two-minute walk away.

Checked in and not quite tired enough to go to sleep immediately, I walked around a little looking for some kind of sustenance and found the Cafeteria Cerveceria el Estrecho where a soothing beer and a mountain of olives set me back 2,80€.