Even before the plane touched down onto the dusty red runway, the view from the window told me we were a long way from London, and it felt good.
A wall of heat hit me as we disembarked and I knew I wouldnt be needing the woollen coat I was perspiring in any longer. We were greeted by our driver and transported past groves of trees heavy with fragrant oranges and rich black olives, to a gate in the medina wall.
With packs in hand we entered into another world. Beaten cobbled streets, quiet except for the quiet chatter of women on their way to the communal bread oven to collect their fresh loaves, or the menacing drone of a motorbike tearing through the narrow passages.
