There'd been thunder and some rain during the night but what I needed least when waking up at dawn is intense continuous rain rattling on the tent. I so need to get going early to make it into Marrakech early afternoon and at the same time can't face taking the tent down in the rain. I wait snug in my sleeping bag. And wait. Looking at the inside structure of my tent, like looking at the ceiling. After almost an hour the rain fizzles out and there is silence until a dog nearby starts barking.

I have the panniers all packed and on the bike. It is cold at this altitude so I've my warm fleece and rain-jacket on top in the dull rainy light as low cloud closes in once more. Just as I begin taking the tent down sudden big spots of rain herald another downpour, prompting me to quick action un-sleeving the poles and getting the tent rolled up and packed in it's bag.

Not surprisingly in the rain there is no one about the trestle tables of fossils and stones by the roadside at the summit of the climb. I was going to take a photo of my bike at the big plague: Col Du Tincha 2200, but its raining and too cold to hang around. Trucks labour up the final stretch in a swoosh of rain-water and spray. And others make their way slowly down.

The rain eases off as I descend round the first steep switchback feeling raw cold as I hang on the brakes to prevent the bike running away as the wheels splosh in a stream flowing down the road.

I've come down about three kilometres when I see a sign: Restaurant 300m. Timely as I need breakfast. When I get as far it is a smart cabin with a marquee outside seating area at the side deserted. There's one car parked on the gravel apron in off the road in front. The occupants sat inside round a table stir out the window as if thinking, what the hell is this coming as I push my bike in under the marque.

I enter. The three men at the table have resumed their chatter in French and with difficulty I ask the young man behind the counter for Petit Dejeuner. He hands me a card with the different options listed. I point out, Espanol.

I take my note book out and start writing but don't get far when over comes the young man and sets a glass of orange juice, a plate of two conjoined fried eggs, a basket of bread and cup of coffee. Slicing a triangle of bread I make an egg sandwich and look out the window as the rain bounces off the gravel and water flows down the window. Two touring motorbikes pass on the road in bright orange waterproofs. And the men at the other table are in lively converse. One with a computer open showing the others something on the screen.

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It isn't raining as hard when I set off again and soon stops for good. Looking down from a view point at the side where an excursion bus has stopped and occupants out taking photos, the mind boggles at the feat of engineering the way the road runs along screed-slopes of a rugged hill, looping round and down the other side of the same hill, graduating the gradient down the mountain.

The road starts drying out as I descend and so I can let the bike go a bit. Taking the middle of the road in bends I've to brake often as I meet a truck labouring up.

There is one gradual climb ahead. Boys call out from the roadside, some in friendly greeting others mocking. At one stage a group of girls come walking down the road and on seeing me spread out across the road and join hands forming a chain so I can't pass, but after saying bonjour I make it round and up on the gravel shoulder.

Where the road levels out with rising ground on the right a steep drop to the left, there's a restaurant, a touristy place with a rack of post cards, but as it is coming up on one o'clock decide to stop. I order targine. I timed it right as a few minutes after a buss pulls in and the café fills with middle-aged Germans queuing to order lunch too.

There is a long steep descend down to undulating lowland and it becomes irritating when doing over forty kilometres per hour trying to concentrate on the road to have every male call out at you, mostly in a mocking tone. It is a why ride a bike when you can drive a car mentality which I understand exists here. You find the exact same with small minded people in rural Ireland.

Finally the undulation levels out and it is dead flat ahead. More rain moves in but its is only a brief heavy shower lasting all of two minutes. Still I've to put up with the jeers from the side as the rain beats down and avoid hazards like the broken uneven edge. And the way is one filthy roadside shambles village after the other with land in between strewn with rubbish. If the intension was to create a desperate ugly environment, it couldn't be worse than the Moroccan countryside.

Approach the city I follow signs for the Medina, but then there aren't signs, so I stop and ask a policeman "Centre Ville?" He doesn't know as he calls out to a friend who is coming across the road, the way to the centre.

Having found the centre, next I've to find somewhere to stay. I look around but see nothing, then ask one of the guys that hang around and show visitors the way to accommodation. He is pretty straight inasmuch as he asks how mush I'm willing to spend. I say 150 Dh. He leads me through a long serious of alleyways to a door. Inside is a really nice colonial era house with central courtyard. With my own en-suit room the lady of the house wants 200, which is good value, so I pay for two nights and I give the guy 50 for showing me as I wouldn't have found it otherwise.