The Rif Mountains are generally known for one thing and one thing only, for producing Kif, and sharing the love by exporting some of the finest hashish on the planet. Now, with such a claim to fame, it’s hardly surprising that this area sees a significant tally of visitors, pilgrims almost, rock up on a daily basis with their main intention being to drink water from the source, so to speak.

Neither is it surprising that with such incontestable demand, that there are locals, in significant number, eager to satiate (and profit from) the stoner’s appetency. Undeniably, the approaches can, at times, be most welcome – but soon enough the whole charade becomes equally as tiresome. The sun, descending beyond the Medina walls, serves as a starter whistle to the two bit pushers and chancers, whom swiftly take up residence on various corners and in darkened alcoves that litter the thoroughfares. Undetectable until you’ve almost stepped on their yellow slippers, these wily characters, normally younger guys, will then edge out of the shadows, give the area immediately surrounding their ‘office’ a quick shufty, and then deliver the same, predictable line.I relay this as an observation, just as I would recount my visit to the old mosque on the hill overlooking the Medina - which I would have visited, had I not already made prior arrangements. Upon opening my diary I found – in indelible marker – the following entry scrawled:-

“Thursday. 11 AM - get delightfully stoned and spend the remainder of the day supping mint tea.”

Now, if it were in pencil I may have been able to cancel or reschedule – but in pen, well, I had no choice but to see the whole ordeal right through till the end.

I include this observation about the yellow slipper brigade because I speak, and write, as I find. If I see or experience something slightly out of the ordinary, no matter how mundane or disinteresting in may seem to the main, generally, I will remark on it. After all, there maybe other individuals of a similar nature reading this (by the way, Johnny, I won’t be at the next few self help meetings, however, I do hope you’re still remaining sane despite those terrifying dreams – personally, the thought of being chased by huge cats with BMX wheels for back legs and sporting oversized mouse’s heads would scare me shitless, too).

But all this nonsense about the whole dope thing should in no way put off the majority of good, clean, wholesome individuals wishing to visit Chefchaouen. It may just be that I get more than my fair share of attention from these chaps. Indeed, you may never get approached at all. I can only assume that I get offered dope with such alarming frequency for exactly the same reason as I never fail to get singled out for special treatment before and after flying some place - I think I must just have one of those faces. But, should you also have a face like mine (you lucky devil), and get approached, never do you sense aggression or feel under pressure to engage or transact; believe me, the exchange was a lot less intense than a similar one experienced when, earlier that same day, I happened to casually glance - for more than one nanosecond - at a Moroccan tea pot stall.

This I must clarify, to avoid painting a very poor, and incredibly unfair picture of a most relaxed and welcoming town. This isn’t some kind of deranged drug den, where one fears for their life in the Medina as much as they would their sanity in Milton Keynes; Nor, thankfully, is it a full-on hippy paradise (at least not nowadays, it seems) befowled with ‘happy’ internet cafes and ‘lucky’ pizza joints on every corner – you know, the kind of place that gradually destroys your soul to the honeyed tones Jack Johnson on permanent CD loop. And it is here that this town truly excels. Chefchaouen, though successfully managing to repel these modern day evils, still retains its distinct air of openness and delightfully laid back demeanour. And it’s thoroughly refreshing.

But the best part of all about Chefchaouen is that it is incredibly educative. Even those who came solely for that ‘one thing and one thing only’, could not fail experience, and become enchanted by, some of Chefchaouen’s better kept secrets. The Medina, the mountains, and their people.