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.
The full article by Frédéric Jeorge featured in OVERLAND magazine Issue 2.