The screaming child belonging to the woman of the guest house is now quiet and no longer scrambling my brain and has become a delightfully happy little girl, so I can collect my thoughts and concentrate on writing. Now the call to prayer from the nearby Mosque is the distraction. I remember in Istanbul the call to prayer was melodic background. Here however its a horrible wailing man.

I cycled the rest of that afternoon without further harassment on the road, reaching Fes after nightfall and booked into the first three star hotel in the centre I saw. At 340 DH (30 euros) it wasn't cheap, especially as there was no breakfast, which I got at a café downstairs around the corner.

I check out and cycle off along the street then ask directions of a car driver at an intersection the way to Medina, Fes' old city, to where all the other tourists head. Easy enough to find after the man sent me down a straight avenue. Not as easy to find the accommodation I'd looked up on the net there on arriving. The city is really old and the street I'm looking for is within a labyrinth of narrow alleyways walled in by ancient brown buildings three storeys high, some only wide enough to get the bike through with an occasional shaft of sun reaching street-level at a part wider than the rest.

I fail to find the street and begin looking at alternatives. One hotel is 300 DH. Too expensive. I see a sign for a chamber d hote and pass, having decided to keep looking. There's no rush as its before noon.

Coming out a gateway opening into a wide thoroughfare, I pause and begin back into the alley when a smiling man corners me "my friend, you look for hotel?" Yes. By now I'm getting tired of looking so follow. He takes me to the chamber d hote, I most probably would've gone back to then in any case. The woman of the house is miserable looking but we agree on a price of 150 DH per night and I check in for seven. A room to myself with on-suit and fast Wi-Fi in a solid old house with a roof terrace to sit out on.

By early afternoon I'm out on the prowl, walking through the gateway where tourists stop and take their photos. I stop for lunch at one of the many cafes, having beef viande on splits, rice and chips. Then continue walking purposely down the street occasionally glancing at handy-craft stalls and shops to the side as I make my way through with the crowds of other tourists.

"Sir!" comes a voice from the side. "My friend!" The man is now following alongside me as I've avoided eye contact and is beginning to get on my nerves as I walk on and he keeps up. Perhaps I should have a big notice on my head reading, Stupid gullible tourist. This man seems to think so. "Sir, what are you looking for?" This done it. First I hate been called Sir. And I hate someone who doesn't get the message I'm not interested in buying anything. I loose my temper.

I return to my loungnings and in through the door I'm met by a man looking like former boxer Mike Tyson. "This is my house!" he abruptly states and adds "this is my sister" referring to the miserable woman. "My friend. Welcome. How are you?" He changes tack, putting on a friendly face. We exchange names but I instantly forgot his. To myself I call him Jackel & Hyde. "You pay my sister" "Yes. One-hundred and fifty" "The room is two-hundred a night" and he turns and consults with the woman who is not happy and after some deliberation, turns to me. "My friend. You are happy here" "Yes" "You get a special rate for the room, because you stay a week"

After a pause "You haven't paid tax. Twenty Derhams a night" "what?" "Give my sister one-hundred and forty" "For what?" "Tax. We have to pay tax. The police come and check" He draws out the guest book and opens to show a stamp that this is true. "See. We get into trouble if the tax isn't paid" He goes on for a bit and I argue and end up handing over the extra money, bringing my bill up to 170 DH a night. Then he starts "My friend. The man that brought you here. There's a commission fee. Give my sister fifty" "For...?" I argue a bit saying why should I pay for someone to show me a place I already found. He persists and I hand over fifty, bringing the rate to 177 per night.

Later he has the same argument with other guests and then with a young carpet maker from Barcelona who travels to Morocco often, who protests this tax is bullshit. That he hasn't been charged tax elsewhere.

I spend the week routinely, breakfast and journal updating until afternoon. Now its good to have the whole thing up-to-dare. I haven't done much sightseeing as it isn't my thing. Sightseeing is what I do when riding, looking at the passing countryside.

Having read some other journals I've planned a route. And hoping once I get down south and around the country, something about Morocco will redeem it in my eyes. Because where I'm sitting now it is the worse most miserable country I've been in yet and I look forward to returning to Spain in a few weeks after giving it a last change.

PS: Photo to come as I'm unable to upload at the moment.