Clac, clac.
With a bit of imagination, it feels like my old Givi hard cases sigh with pleasure at finally being back on their rack and on my faithful Suzuki DL1000. Clac, the top-case, a great investment, does the same; this one I have had since my very first bike. Now I only have to clip on the tank bag, zip the leather jacket and climb on the saddle, where my usual and very dear pillion rider joins me: my mother, Liliane.
From Tangiers, where the ferry from Spain docks, we move east to Tetouan. It’s already a whole new world, of white houses, maze-like markets, beautiful mosques, traditionally-clothed men and women, heavily-loaded donkeys. Most people speak French, plus the mandatory few words in a dozen or so western languages that any shop-keeper needs to entice every tourist to “just have a look”.
Following the coast towards Oued-Laou, the fairly easy riding we had so far starts to change: the road is still being built, like it has been for the past few years, meaning it’s a river of pebble-sized gravel, from the wall of rock on one side to the deep jump into the sea on the other.
