Honeymooning with my bump
by Denise Hawes
Newly-married mum-to-be Denise Hawes went on honeymoon to Morocco when she was five months pregnant. Here, she shares her experiences of travelling in sunny climes with a bump - and a new husband ...
My honeymoon began with two surprises: the first was the destination, which was revealed to me as we arrived at Gatwick Airport. The second was the fact that our flight was actually departing from Heathrow in two hours time. An expensive and swift taxi ride later, we boarded the Royal Air Maroc flight to Casablanca, too late to get the cheeky honeymoon upgrade to first class, although the understanding attendants sneaked us through some pink champagne to compensate.
From Casablanca, we flew directly to Agadir, to the Hotel Transatlantique. The assumption, in Agadir, is that if you are a tourist, you must be German (the Germans love Agadir, the hotel was brimming with them). My husband had booked us just one night here, as we arrived late and he had anticipated that after two flights, his five month pregnant wife may be in need of a good kip before the next leg of the journey. He was right.
Ned had enlightened me as to our itinerary on the plane. He had opted out of the package holiday thing and had booked this first hotel, then four nights in a hotel in Essaouira and then we were to stay or go wherever we fancied for the remaining six days. Essentially our movements would be based whether my ballooning ankles would cope with the heat - but he was far too tactful to say that.
Getting to Essaouira was easy, but expensive, as we had opted to travel by Grand Taxi rather than bussing it. It cost about fifty quid for the four hour ride, but it was a huge air-conditioned Merc, and very comfortable. The scenery en route was a combination of dramatic mountainous shoreline and very poor towns, with ladies positioned on the outskirts selling oil. The taxi driver was keen to point out to me that this oil was not only fabulous in cooking but great for stretchmarks. I didn't take any notice. I wish I had.
The first thing that is striking on arrival in Essaouira is the beach, which resembles an imagined island paradise. The sand is clean, soft and white and the sea blue. We were driven straight to the entrance of the Old Town where our bags were collected by the porter of our hotel, the Villa Maroc. The walk through the town to the hotel behind the porter made us realise that we were dressed very conspicuously. In Essaouira, bodies are covered - to the extent that we saw some children muffled up to the hilt in aran style jumpers - and with Ned in shorts, and myself in a short sleeved top, we felt embarrassed and inappropriate and determined to redeem ourselves the minute we had checked in.
The Villa Maroc is Paloma Picasso's favourite hotel. It is tucked away down a path that runs alongside the old city wall. The rooms surround a courtyard, and from each floor you can look down the middle to the other levels. It is clearly up there with the most glamorous hotels in Essaouira. Our room was bedecked with lavish Moroccan art, wall hangings, carpets and cushions. No impressive view, though - the height of the city wall saw to that - but the views were saved for the roof terrace from where you looked out towards the battlements of the city, the fish grills and the sea and over the central square.
Instead of being like a typical hotel, a stay at the Villa Maroc is more like staying at someone's house. There is no communal dining area, for example. For breakfast and the evening meal, (which are included in the cost of the room), you just find a spot that you like - comfy sofas and low tables can be found all over the place, either on the various terraces, up on the roof or in tiny rooms which seat only two or three - all very intimate and perfect for honeymooners. At times it felt as if we were the only guests.
The town itself is small and busy. There are numerous souks, brimming with fish, jewellery, pottery and slippers. Within two days of arriving, Ned and I had bought carpets, mirrors, tagines, lamps and clothes. We loved the whole haggling process. Ned conversed with the chatty vendors while I sat on a small stool, guzzling peppermint tea, every so often telling Ned loudly that we really didn't need the item he was haggling for. A successful ploy. Invariably the prices kept being slashed - the vendors seemed to understand that Ned could not argue with this formidable lady, sitting there like a big unmovable stone.
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