Electric Travels: Closing the Loop

November 29, 2025November 29, 2025 Marie Noonanbilbao, europe, seville, spain, travel5 Comments

Spain in November was much colder than we expected.

Our week in the Sierra Nevada was gorgeous with mainly bright sunny days and cold nights (as low as 2C), Although the daytime temperatures rarely climbed above 13C, it felt much warmer in the sunshine and it was perfect weather for hiking. As we packed up the van last Monday, there was a change….clouds were dimming the brilliant blue skies of the previous week.

We headed north, skirting around the city of Granada, stopping to charge the van, outside a Burger King with little else around which meant that we felt compelled to eat something there. We had picked a different charger (a super-fast one) but when we got there, it wasn’t operational – one of the few times that this has happened in Spain and unlike in Morrocco, there was more public chargers within a few kilometres. The downside was that many of them are outside fast-food chains.

Spanish roads are reasonably good and they are almost all without tolls unlike France or parts of Portugal. We stopped for the night at a small hotel in the Castille-La Mancha region, outside Villafranca de los Caballeros, about an hour or two south of Madrid. The wind whistled through the shuttered bedroom windows and the aircon unit on the wall rattled and coughed but produced little heat. Our phones said the outside temperature was 10C but that it felt like 3C. The inside temperature wasn’t much higher. It had seemed a bargain – a convenient and cheap stop – when we booked it at €31 for the night. It could have been gorgeous but it had a desolate ‘out of season’ feel. There were lake views and an inner courtyard but the wind raced up the stairs to the upstairs ‘habitaciones’ (bedrooms). Flocks of migratory birds glittered over the salty waters…..the birds also found it a convenient stop ….but there were very few people. The man on reception was friendly but he was dressed in a padded jacket and woolly hat, and the restaurant and bar were closed. Our room had two single beds….totally by chance I got the comfortable one, Caoimhin’s was lumpy with a huge dip in the centre.

**Evening and Morning……doesn’t capture the cold and biting bre**eze!

After our ‘ budget experience’ and because the weather was too chilly to sleep in the van, we booked an apartment in Logrono in the Rioja region for three nights, eager to get north and closer to the Bilbao ferry. We choose Logrono, simply because we have never been there but getting to Logrono from the lake involved a long drive, over five hours, but we decided that one long hop was preferable to dawdling our way.

Continuing through Castille-La Mancha, the region is so flat that our eyes had to adjust to the flat plains and the unending horizons, so different to the mountain ranges to the south. A few old fashioned windmills – like the ones that Don Quixote tilted at…were visible in the fields. This time, we charged the van in a town-west of Madrid, Arunjuez, where we had breakfast in a local spot, a huge slab of tortilla omelette for Caoimhin and tostada for me which came with the typical tomato paste, olive oil and salt, washed down with rich café solos. We stopped again for a break and a coffee in a rural spot outside a hostal, favoured by truckers. It was pleasantly warm but things soon changed.

Soon we are in the mountain again, North of Soria, the rain turns to sleet and the temperature gauge drop it 1.5C, hovers there for a bit and then dips to -1,5C. The road was twisty and the surface slippery, it was only 3pm but the conditions made it feel much later. There was freezing fog and a fleet of snow ploughs already out on the road. We passed through gorgeous villages with stone houses, clinging to cliffsides, but were glad to descend from the Sierra Camero Neuve and the Sierra Camera Viejo to the flat plains around Logrono.

There was welcome blast of heat when we opened the front door of our lovely apartment with a little balcony overlooking the street. It was very central, less than a ten minute walk to the Cathedral, and a bakery next door and a supermarket three doors down. There was also free underground parking. Logrono doesn’t have a lot of ‘wow’ sights but it’s a friendly place where people smile and ask us where we’re from…..particularly as Caoimhin is walking around in shorts, a rain jacket and a woolly hat. Logrono is on the route of the Camino de Santiago so the shops in the covered arcade around the Cathedral are full of camino shells and walking sticks although there are no obvious pilgrims. The cathedral from the outside is a mishmash of architectural design but the altar inside is dripping in gold. There’s also a very impressive painting by Michelangelo behind the altar in a secluded alcove. You have to insert a euro coin in a slot to illuminate it for a few minutes…..a shrewd move to both protect the painting and generate cash.

The Museo de Rioja, in a gorgeous baroque 18^th century baroque building, is a really superb museum about the history and culture of the region from prehistory to the early twentieth century, stopping just before the Spanish Civil War. All the info is in both Spanish and English and is really well-done.

After loading the Buzz with some Rioja wine, we were ready to head onwards. Driving out of Logrono in sunshine to the sound of clinking bottles in the back, we headed for the hills on minor roads through farming countryside, stopping to take photos of the craggy peaks, windmills and villages. Spain is an astonishingly beautiful country with gorgeous diverse landscapes

When we booked our return ferry tickets from Bilbao to Rosslare, Brittany Ferries were offering special deals with the Spanish Paradores, which are a state owned chain of luxury hotels in restored historical buildings, such as palaces, convents, monasteries and castles. The hotel profits go to the upkeep of the buildings and create employment as they are often in rural areas Although we are usually fans of ‘cheap and cheerful,’ we are not adverse to a bit of luxury especially in unique buildings. We love paradors and have stayed in a few of them on our previous trips to Spain… it’s like stepping back into the past but with modern comforts. Our last two nights are in Parador de Argomaniz, about an hour south of Bilbao, for the incredible ‘special offer’ price of €50 a night including breakfast. If you have never stayed in a parador, I urge you to look them up and give yourself a real treat.

Parador de Argomaniz doesn’t disappoint…..it even has EV charging points. The building dates back to 1712 and was once a convent before being converted into a palace and during the Peninsular Wars was used as a headquarters for French Troops. It is even rumoured that Napolean stayed here and planned his attack on the nearby town of Vitoria from this very place. It’s in the tiny village of Argomaniz with gardens and woods and a renowned restaurant where we plan to have dinner tonight…..our last night……before our thirty-hour ferry tomorrow. A great place to spend our last days in Spain.

Vitoria- Gasteiz is a beautiful city although we had never heard of it until yesterday. It is the capital of the Basque Country and is a wonderful mixture of medieval buildings, tree-lined plazas, quirky shops with an emphasis on modern sustainability. Since this morning, it may have become our favourite large unban centre in Spain……we have kept the best until last❤️

It’s been another incredible two month trip from Rosslare to Bilbao to Morocco and back, all in an electric van. We’ve slept in the van and stayed in a palace. There have been many highs and a few lows…..we never suffered ‘range anxiety’ until we went to Morocco.

When we are home, and have time to digest our experiences, I’ll post about the highlights but until then, thanks for reading and coming along on the journey with us.

Electric Travels: A Pause (paws) in Spain.

November 24, 2025 Marie Noonanadventure, Andalucía, europe, hiking, Niguelas, retirement, Sierra Nevada, Snow, spain, travel1 Comment

Most days, the air was crisp and clear…except when the locals burnt their mounds of tree clipping , wafting plumes of smoke into the air. The sky was a blinding blue and we were surrounded by a craggy silhouette of mountains in almost every direction. In the distance was the glittering white of the first snows, which had fallen the day before we arrived.

We spent eight days in Niguelas, a small village in the Sierra Nevada, about an half-hour drive outside the city of Granada, staying in a little Airbnb apartment on the edge of the village which we had booked two days in advance. After seven weeks of constantly moving through Spain and Morocco on this trip and sleeping (mainly) in the van, we wanted to pause and stay in one place. The Buzz spent the time parked under an olive tree.

We couldn’t have picked a better spot. Our apartment (Aguas calmas) was warm and cosy, with views of the trees and mountains. It was set in a shady garden with a lovely pool, which would have been perfect in warmer weather. The location of Niguelas was jaw-droppingly beautiful with a huge selection of hikes of various lengths and difficulty, many directly from our door. Some were marked but a hiking app like All Trails was helpful to keep us on track. This was a week of super hiking and some morning dog walks with our Airbnb host, Tim and his dogs, a Spanish Mastiff called Leona, who had liver disease, a nervous rescue lab called Dora and a neighbour’s dog who liked to come along for the company.

There were almond orchards, olive groves, Aleppo Pines bright green against the bare rock and the yellow foliage of the walnut trees and poplars. Niguelas is also on the GR7, the famous long distance hiking and cycling route which runs all the way from Tarifa, near Gibraltar, through Spain and France to Andorra.

Our days were bright and sunny, with cold nights (sometimes as low as 1C) but there was torrential rain on our second evening, which flowed down the paved surfaces of the narrow streets like a river. We sloshed around in the dusk looking in vain for an open café or bar but all five of them seemed to be closed….probably because of the weather… but opening hours were ‘flexible’. The village streets were winding and so narrow that many of the walls on the tight corners showed evidence of close encounters with vehicles. Tim told us that some guests arrived shaking and traumatised after the ordeal of driving through the village…. but not Caoimhin.

Despite the one evening of rain, water is rare and very precious here. The area can go months without a drop falling. In the mountains were ancient aquifer systems, which used a network of channels and pipes to divert snowmelt and rainfall, ensuring a water supply for downstream communities during dry months. Some of these originated in Arab times and are considered the oldest managed water recharge system in Europe.

Helga, our Airbnb host, runs felting and eco printing courses so we both opted to try our hand at eco-printing. This involved picking plants and flowers from the huge selection in the garden and using Helga’s techniques to transfer the images to cloth. It was a really enjoyable experience and our results were satisfying and really much better than we would have hoped. The unrolling of the fabric after the steaming process was greeted by lots of ‘wow.’ It is certainly something that we will try at home.

High above the village with a cross, silhouetted against the blue sky. Apparently the village women used to climb up to it on their knees, as a form of penance. We climbed up – not on our knees – and it was a pretty strenuous climb on rough stony surfaces. This is an area that has known conflict and poverty down the ages. It was a key battleground in the Spanish civil war with many atrocities committed against the civilian populations and summary executions in the mountains.

Maybe some of this unease lingers still among the dramatic landscape. In one of the village gardens, hanging from a tree by a noose was a baby doll (the ones that look like a human baby). It was very disturbing sight and had been hanging there for a year. Tim also told us of the local rivalries and neighbourly disputes, of outlaws living in luxurious houses and of a retired priest who set up a refuge for alcoholics, high in the mountains, away from temptation at 2000m……although some ‘escaped’ and made it to the village bars.

But sitting outside in the November sunshine, inhaling crisp mountain air and eating delicious tapas (that come free with a drink), all these simmering rivalries and tensions were completely invisible to us. We sipped our drinks and thought about how lucky we were, as we waited to attend a dramatization of some of Lorca’s work in the village casa de cultura.

Till next time

Thanks for reading

Electric Travels: Out of Morocco

November 15, 2025 Marie Noonanafrica, europe, Morocco, spain, travelLeave a comment

I was jittery, unable to eat anything. Caoimhin had no such qualms tucking into fried eggs and hunks of bread for breakfast in our little apartment in Cabo Negro, a little seaside town in Morocco on the Mediterranean coast, about thirty minutes from the border. Our entry into Morocco in the opposite direction three weeks previously had been dramatic. At first we were denied entry because we didn’t have the correct paperwork for the Buzz, entirely our fault. It was only after much pleading and several hours that we were allowed to enter by the skin of tour teeth and issued with a little white card with our vehicle details. We were grateful then, but would we be let out now without any more drama? Rationally, I knew that we wouldn’t, couldn’t be detained in Morocco, they had let us in, after all…..but still.

The road to the border passed a few seaside towns, M’diq and Frideq which looked nice, and far cleaner than other places. An army of litter pickers in hi-vis jackets were out in force, explaining the cleanliness. There has been a lot of investment in this area and a drive to promote tourism along this section of Mediterranean Coast with its pristine sandy beaches, hotels and cafés. Almost before we knew it, we were at the border, with zigzag of staggered barriers and a large police and army presence. The border was between Morocco and the city of Ceuta, a Spanish enclave although on the African Continent, the only land border between Africa and the EU.

Our passports were looked at and we were waved on with a smile to queue at customs. The sniffer dog sniffed, but didn’t find anything of interest, the officials were relaxed and even chatty, commenting on the electric van. There was more queueing to get our passports stamped with exit visas and phew, we were out of Morocco and nobody had looked for any car documents apart from the little white card we were given on entry. Now we just had to get into Spain. Five vehicle lanes shemozzled to get into the two lane track for the Spanish border. More passport checking, some fingerprinting (a new addition when entering Europe by land), a quick look inside the van and we were through, driving into Ceuta. The whole process took less than two hours unlike the almost five hours it had taken us to enter Morocco.

We had changed countries, that was obvious. Although Ceuta was unabashedly Spanish. The bells of a Catholic church rang out, a woman clutching a water bottle, jogged by the waterfront dressed in a tank top and shorts, a large poster outside a discount store brazenly advertised deals on liquor. All things so normal that we hadn’t even noticed on the way through three weeks ago but which now seemed strange and drew our attention. Ceuta was a handsome place, benefitting a city that was prized and fought over down the centuries. Now it was full of outlet stores, stout Roman fortifications that were beautifully restored, and views of the heavy ferry traffic crossing the Strait of Gibraltar. Lidl was as crowded as if its Christmas Eve with people piling everything from crisps to persimmons which were on offer. There’s no Lidl in Morocco but plenty in Spain so we were unsure of the clientele except that there were plenty of Muslim women,

We had booked our ferry back to Algeciras in mainland Spain for the following morning, allowing plenty of time in case of border delays which thankfully hadn’t materialised. We climbed out of the city towards a cove on the northern end of the promontory, near the lighthouse. On the map it looked like a quiet spot for some wild camping but we had no idea how gorgeous it was until we got there. A winding steep road led down to the glittering sea. A few families sat on the stony beach, a couple of fishermen cast their lines from the rocks. I changed into shorts (which hadn’t even come out of my bag in Morocco) and we had a picnic of cheese and olive sandwiches and chilled white wine in the sunshine. simple pleasures in an idyllic spot.

The following morning was cool, a few people came to watch dolphins out in the bay and a couple of spear fishing- guys got all their paraphernalia ready, donned wetsuits, while talking incessantly and headed into the water, armed with their spear guns. No-one disturbed us, the dog walkers waved at us. Our one-hour ferry was calm and uneventful. The port of Algeciras was busy, ports were always fascinating with their cranes for lifting, their lorries and container ships and the buzz of transporting goods.

We headed west towards Tariffa and the Costa del Luz. The roads were winding, the countryside parched and at one stage, the blackened evidence of an old hillside fire. We picked a campsite at random – there were loads stretched along the coast but when a bored woman at reception told us it was €27 to park for one night, we were so shocked at the price that we continued on – must be the Morocco effect where everything was so much cheaper (apart from alcohol). We spent the night at another campsite overlooking the Atlantic with crashing waves, kite surfers and even a beach bar set up on the rocks. This was in danger of being washed away with the exceptionally high tides with the waves crashing over the veranda and foaming under the seats. The campsite was surprisingly busy, full of Germans, many with babies or toddlers or dogs or all three.

Onwards to Cadiz, a place that we had never visited before. The road was wide but bumpy – the road surface in Morocco was much better than Spain. White villages gleamed on the hilltops among pine forests. The approach to Cadiz was flat and marshy, a spaghetti junction of roads, underpasses and roundabouts before crossing over La Pepa Bridge, the longest bridge in Spain, five kilometres with three of those over water.

Cadiz itself is a relatively small oblong-shaped island, squashed in by the Atlantic Ocean. It was a bright sunny, blue-skied day although the port was cast into shadow by two enormous cruise ships, far higher than anything else in the harbour. Car -parking spaces were scarce and expensive.

It was also a place where history was heaped on history, the most ancient still-standing city in Europe, claiming to go back to 1100BC. The Phoenicians were here, so were the Romans, the Moors, the Spanish. Columbus sailed to the Americas from here on two of his voyages, Napoleon laid siege to the city. Rick Stein was even here on a weekend break,

It was a place of narrow lanes, wide plazas, beaches, tapas bars with the aroma of frying fish and always the sound of the sea which was never far away. The waves crashed or lapped (depending on the wind and side) on the reinforcements that kept the whole place from eroding and dissolving into the sea.

But what impressed us most were the trees – dramatic Strangler Figs with enormous umbrellas of leaves and trunks as wide as a city bus. These trees get their name from their rapid growth and expansive root systems. Under our feet the tenacious roots were probably playing havoc with the drainage systems while we were wowed by the beauty of what was above ground.

There were also a lot of people sleeping rough in the crevices of the Santa Catalina complex and in the shadows behind the magnificent cathedral. It was also a place that had known tragedy. On a summer evening in 1947, a series of mines and torpedoes, stored in a harbour depot, exploded for unknown reasons, killing 150 people, many of them children and injuring at least 5000. Smiling family photos of some of the victims lined the walls of the remembrance museum.

We had booked an apartment on the morning we arrived. It was in the old part of town along one of the many narrow streets and was far nicer and much bigger than expected with a roof terrace, an inner courtyard, a separate kitchen, sitting room and a couple of bedrooms. So much space…after the confinements of the van, it felt like luxury which was nice as we were also celebrating our wedding anniversary (thirty-one years❤️ ). There was even Barry’s tea in the kitchen cupboard, probably left behind from previous Irish visitors. This ‘luxury’ was €118 for two nights which we regarded a celebratatory bargain.

For a place surrounded by sea, there was a surprising lack of seagulls. We soon discovered the reason. The birds had become numerous and aggressive so the city council ordered that their breeding grounds be destroyed, their eggs removed and many were even shot. The pigeons in the plazas must have got the message because they were exceptionally docile and the sparrows kept a low profile.

We charged the Buzz in Arcos de La Frontera, a white village, about forty minutes outside Cadiz, with an impressive hilltop castle. What bliss to have the choice of four different charging stations within three hundred metres of each other, but the downside was that we had to pay. After charging, we continued on to El Bosque , a village in the gorgeous Sierra de Grazelema in glorious sunshine although the area was reputed to have the highest rainfall in Spain. The Buzz blended in with the autumn colours in the campsite where we were the only visitors. The weather was dry although the wind became gusty, peppering the roof of the Buzz with leaves and twigs and sending us sheltering on the veranda of an empty cabin. The chomping of the naked sheep (very closely shorn) in the nearby field sounded like raindrops but the rain didn’t come until mid-morning, a persistent soft drizzle, reminiscent of the West of Island.

The rain became heavier as we headed to strange village, Sentinil de las Bodegas, where many of the houses were troglodyte, built from caves or snuggled under rocky overhangs and surrounded by olive and almond groves, These rocky overhangs were useful as a natural umbrella from the rain which bucketed down as if it would never stop. The wind tunnelled up the narrow laneways, sending locals and tourists running for shelter. The place has been inhabited for centuries and its topography made it difficult to conquer….it took seven sieges before it fell in Catholic hands in the fifteenth century. The following morning, there was a few blue-skied moments before the skies turned dark again.

**Sentinil de las Bodegas, where sky is rock**

The road to Ronda was shrouded in mist – I’m sure the scenery was gorgeous – but we couldn’t see it, we could barely see the road. The mist and the fog cleared after a while but the rain continued. We diverted to La Almazara Olive Mill, an impressive, architecturally-designed building, just outside Ronda, to learn more about olive oil and the olive trees that we see everywhere. Spain is the world’s largest producer of olive oil but its strange thing that the olive oil in Spain, even in the supermarkets is far more expensive than at home.

Rivers of water sloshed down the old cobbled streets of Ronda, soaking our shoes and socks, and seeping through my jacket. We splashed through winding streets, trying to find the mirador, the famous view of town, perched on the edge of a high cliff with a 100m chasm and misty views of the Serrania de Ronda. Despite the weather, Ronda looked impressive and we might return sometime.

Storm Claudia has a long reach, sweeping from the Mediterranean and Southern Spain all the way to Britain and Ireland. On this very wet Saturday morning in Spain, we are now ensconced in the warmth of Luz and Andreas’s house in Hornochuelos, a little town northeast of Seville. Lucky us! They even managed to source olive oil for us from a lovely, local grower with a passion for olive oil production, producing small quantities of organic oil from her own farm which she delivered to our door with enthusiasm and even photos of the beloved trees. All this love and attention produces oil that tastes rich and creamy, totally superior to anything we buy at home.

Thanks for reading,

Till next time, keep dry…..

Electric Roadtrip: From the Mountains to the Sea

November 9, 2025November 9, 2025 Marie Noonanafrica, art, campervan, camping, electric charging, ev, hiking, Medina, Morocco, tagine1 Comment

Our washing danced in the breeze on the clothes-line strung up between two olive trees in the rustic campsite in the Rif Mountains in Morocco. The figs had been harvested, and so had the chillies but two lemon trees were full of green skinned fruit although the few avocadoes were still small and hard. The resident dog befriended us…..all it took was a bit of chicken….he slept beside the van and followed us to the river, as if guarding us or more likely, hoping for scraps. We chatted to the other few campers who came for a night and then departed, an American couple who were at the beginning of a two year stint around Africa, having shipped a jeep over from the States and a trio of British campervans who were travelling in convoy. We watched the woman make bread in the outdoor oven and water the trees. We sat by the river, hiked in the hills, read, did a bit of yoga and watched the morning sun hit the mountain peaks and slowly creep down to warm the valley. This tranquil place in the Rif Mountains had put a spell on us, forcing us to slow down. It could have been boring….it should have been…but it wasn’t in the slightest.

Finally on the fifth morning, we packed up and left, taking the mountain road to climb higher still. A man in a djellaba waved a stick and shouted at his cow on the far side of the road, who scampered off in the opposite direction. The road rose before dipping down to the Mediterranean Coast.

The seaside town of Quad Laou was larger than we expected, with a handsome prom that stretched for more than a kilometre by an (almost) deserted beach. There were fish restaurants, palm trees and few tourists of any kind. We swapped the gurgle of the river at our last campsite for the hypnotic crash of waves, and our dog was replaced by a cat quartet, who danced around us as we ate the tagines that Mr Abdul had prepared for us in his homemade, outdoor oven. It was also peaceful in a different way. Blue fishing boats were on the beach. An old woman tended a flock of sheep down the road. Mr Abdul worked his small bit of a farm by hand and with the help of a horse and cart, augmenting his meagre living by allowing camper vans to park on his land by the sea, The toilets were squat, ‘flushed’ by throwing a few ladles of water from the bucket. There was no shower although Mr Abdul would bring a bucket of well water to slosh over you…if required.

Leaving Quad Laou, we took the spectacular road north that snaked along by the Med where road stalls sold enormous bags of walnuts. Tetuan was the largest town in the area, a prosperous place with all the usual international chains and an old medina with winding streets and alleys. We didn’t stop at any of this…we had one priority….we wanted to get to Ikea on the far side of town, not to buy any furniture or eat meatballs, but to charge the Buzz. It was no surprise that EV chargers were scarce in the area. Charging wasn’t absolutely critical because our recent hops from place to place were relatively short but it would still be reassuring to charge fully. We missed the charging slot by minutes….there was only one. Two women had just plugged in and said that they would be two hours but at least the Kilowatt charger was working and as usual, it was free to use. Another electric car appeared, also hoping to charge, so there were certainly electric vehicles in Morocco. I went into Ikea to use the bathroom. My visit coincided with the ‘call to prayer,’ which was broadcast throughout the store on loudspeakers, sounding slightly surreal among the flatpack Swedish furniture.

Deciding to return later, we backtracked to the medina in the centre of town which also had a small tannery. This was not in full production, although a ‘clothesline’ of animal skins were draped on the back wall and a pungent smell hung heavy in the air -blood and drains – but not as bad as the hellish tannery in Fez. Tetouan was known as the White City and from the balcony overlooking the tannery, there was views of the pale houses crawling up the slopes while on the other side, the tombs of the dead were equally white and shiny in the sunlight.

In the Carrefour Supermarket (which unfortunately didn’t have any EV chargers), we couldn’t find the alcohol section which we knew was often slightly separate to the main supermarket. When we asked, people told us that it was outside and around the corner. We wandered around and eventually spotted an unmarked grey door on the side of the building. That couldn’t be it, could it? It looked more like a back entrance to some kind of warehouse. We peeked in. The light was dim, the air was stuffy but the interior was teeming with men (it was all men except for the women at the tills). There was the sound of bottles clinking and cans rolling against each other in baskets. The whole enterprise felt furtive, shady and clandestine. We were delighted. Our meagre alcohol supplies had run out about a week before Mr Abdul had tried to source us two beers the night before in Quad Laou but despite his best efforts, he was unsuccessful and very apologetic.

Despite the obvious demand, it wasn’t cheap, we’re talking Irish prices for beer and far higher than home prices for wine, except the Moroccan wine which cost about €4 a litre and was drinkable…just about. At the cash tills, wads of cash were pulled out of pockets, crumpled notes smoothed and the balance made up with coins. Most paid in hard cash although it was possible to pay by bank card.

We parked in a hotel carpark beside other camper vans, reheated the leftovers from the previous day’s tagines (the portions were enormous) and enjoyed our wine, giggling at the process involved in acquiring it.

The following morning we were in Ikea before 8.30am, plugged in and charging. Moroccans don’t seem to get up early. All the nearby cafes were closed and shops rarely opened before 10 or even later in the medina. While we were waiting in the van, another EV’s pulled up beside us. The driver told us that although Ikea store doesn’t open until 10am, the restaurant was open for breakfast at 9am. So we enjoyed a three-egg omelette each, made in front of us, with bread rolls, orange juice and coffee for about €7. A bit of local knowledge is a wonderful thing.

Campsites in the area were scarce so we rented an apartment (mainly because we were in need of a shower, there’s a limit to what sprays of CK one will camouflage). This was such a bargain and so comfortable at €19 a night that we booked it for a second night and enjoyed a ‘culture’ day of visiting museums and a lovely art gallery.

Tomorrow we will head to the border and hope that our exit from Morocco will have less drama than our entrance. If the border crossing goes smoothly, we will spend tomorrow night in Ceuta, the Spanish city on the African continent and get the ferry to mainland Spain the following day.

Thanks for reading

A bientot

Electric Roadtrip: Blue Days in Morocco

November 2, 2025 Marie Noonanafrica, camping, Charging, Electric Car, ev, Fes, Fez, ID Buzz, marrakech, Medina, Morocco, Rif Mountains, travel, VW4 Comments

Fes was different, As we drove into the imperial city in the heart of Morocco, our priority was to get the Buzz charged. Following the map directions for a Kilowatt EV charger, a man on a motorbike pulled up beside us in the traffic and, noticing the van’s registration, shouted in English ‘Are you from Ireland?’

We nodded, replying that we were making our way to charge the van. He raced ahead and directed us to the EV chargers on the side of a busy wide street. Unfortunately neither was functioning but our motorbike ‘friend’ was now bombarding us about talk of city and medina tours of the medina for a special price for the Irish. This was our first exposure to touts in Morocco….and he was persistent…but we finally managed to get rid of him.

Our next and only option for charging the van in Fes, according to various maps, (Google, Electromaps, Kilowatt and Place to Plug) was a couple of kilometers away at a shopping centre. We located them in the underground carpark of a Carrefour Mall and, thankfully, they worked although they were again slow-chargers and free of charge. When we connected, the Buzz display told us that it would be over five hours before it was 100% charged. We booked a place to stay near the medina and walked the forty minutes there, deciding to return later for the van. Our tolerance for shopping malls, full of the usual designer shops and stuff we don’t need, was always low, but was now hovering below zero although we were grateful that the Buzz was charging.

Fez, the oldest of the four Moroccan Imperial cities, was blessed with an abundance of water and surrounded by fertile hills which also supplied defense. It was an important trading post for centuries, strategically placed at the crossroads of major caravan routes (silk, gold, salt and slaves) between sub-Saharan Africa and the Mediterranean. Its wealth also came from its rich natural resources and skilled artisans.

The following morning, wandering around the narrow streets of the medina on a walking tour, it seemed that little had changed. There was the clamor of commence and the rumble of wooden carts being pushed along the narrow ‘streets’, a maze of over nine thousand paths where Google maps didn’t work very well and which was reputed to be the largest pedestrianized area in the world. There was the banging of hammers on metal, the soft whoosh of looms, the silent concentration of calligraphy, the slosh of dyeing fabrics and much more. The scent of rosewater and orange blossom mixed with the smell of raw meat, fish, spices and fresh baking. In many ways, it was like stepping back in time, we ate warm flatbreads directly from the ovens in a family bakery, tasted honey cakes from an old recipe and visited the tannery at the edge of the medina.

At the door leading into the tannery, a small man with a face like wrinkled leather pressed a few mint leaves into my palm and gestured that I should hold it to my nose. It didn’t help much. A whole mint bush wouldn’t have disguised the pervasive pungent smell that hung in the air, the smell of blood and chemicals although the tanning was done using old natural methods, many unchanged for a thousand years. The ammonia needed in the process was supplied by pigeon poop, gathered from the town’s buildings and from pigeon fanciers and the red dye came from pomegranate seeds. The recently eaten honey cakes were leaping into my throat as we looked down at a ‘clothes line’ of drying skins, a mixture of goat, cow and camel and the much-photographed ‘honeycomb’ vats of coloured liquid used in the dying process. A worker at a tap tried to wash dye from his bare legs, stained a deep burgundy from immersion in one of the vats. The work was intense, the noise unrelenting, the conditions brutal… no wonder the number of workers had dropped dramatically during the last decades. In the heat of summer, the conditions would be even more hellish. The idea of buying a leather bag lost its appeal.

Although our accommodation in Fes was in a narrow laneway, outside the medina, it was an area full of life with playing children, barking dogs and the usual slinking cats, a guy fixed a motorbike puncture in a narrow doorway, another was welding without a mask in a tiny workshop. People lived in very close proximity with their neighbors, the shabby closed doors giving no indication of the beauty inside many of the houses….not everyone here was poor despite external appearances. Washing was always billowing on the flat rooftops, the day punctuated by the call to prayer from the mosques.

We left Fez with the Buzz 100% charged, thanks to the free (but slowish) charging in Carrefour Shopping Mall. Our kilometer range had reached a new ‘high’ of over 600kms, a consequence of our very ‘conservative driving style.’ At home, a full charge usually gives a range of about 450kms. Of course, fuel consumption in a diesel/petrol car also has direct correlation with how the car is driven but it isn’t as apparent…or as critical when you have numerous options for filling the tank.

Our next stop was Chefchaouen, supposed to be the ‘prettiest town’ in all of Morocco, a little under 200 kms north and about three and half hours away (depending on driving style). Leaving the fertile plains of Fes, the land got drier and dustier, children waved to us as we passed. At this stage, we had seen so many donkeys that we (almost) no longer reached for our camera. Our maps told us that there was a restaurant with an EV charger about two hours into our journey so we decided to stop there, with no real expectation that the charger would exist or that it would work but, for a change, this was a good charging story. While we were eating delicious pizza with mint tea, (is that Moroccan-Italian fusion?), the Buzz charged to 100% for free.

The terrain became greener as we continued on our journey and the temperature dropped from 26C in Fez to about15C. Ominous clouds scudded across a darkening of sky as we headed towards the Rif Mountains. By the time we reached our campsite in the hills above Chefchaouen, the wipers were working at full tilt and the gulleys at the side of the road were overflowing with brown sludgy water. A gusty wind blew the rain sideways but we were thankful that we were sleeping in the van. The canvas on several tents belonging to an Africa Overland Tour were bulging with water in the early evening The tour was only on Day 3 of a forty-five week trip down the west coast of Africa and up the east coast, finishing in Cairo. The biggest surprise was the age profile of participants. Many were in the fifties and quite a few looked a couple of decades older.

It rained all night. The wind blew off our awning, sent it sailing over the van but at least it didn’t collide with a person, tent or camper. The morning was grey and drizzly, the sodden Africa Overlanders, still in good spirits, were up and gone before 8am but many claimed they hadn’t slept at all.

Chefchaouen, famous for its narrow streets with facades painted in different shades of blue, was not looking it’s best under the grey skies. Men walked around with the pointed hoods of their djellabas (long tunics) covering their heads, giving them an old medieval monkish look. Nobody was entirely sure why the town was painted blue but there were several theories. Some said that the colour blue symbolised the sky and spirituality, that it came from the Sephardic Jews who settled here in the 15th century, others said that blue was a good insect repellent. Whatever the reason, the result is stunning and Instagram-able and a tourist magnet. Thankfully, the skies cleared for us and the temperature rose…..just as we were beginning to think we had been hasty in leaving the heat of the desert.

I’m writing this under an olive tree, the sunlight turning the white bark silver. Theres the babble of a small river, a soft wind in the bushes and the bleating of a few goats. We came here after Chefchaouen. The days are warm, perfect for hikes, the nights and early morning are cool (about 10C, perfect for sleeping. This little unpretentious campsite in the Rif mountains is a slice of heaven, run by a lovely family who bake bread in an outside oven and make the tastiest tagines we have eaten. We might never leave.