Many years ago, I recall watching Micheal Palin on TV. It was during one of his many incredible solo journeys into wild and unreachable distant lands, a journey, as always, fastidiously documented by his legion of BBC cameramen, sound technicians, and luggage monkeys.

I recall being absolutely gripped by one particular scene. As the cameraman conducted his panoramic sweep, from what must presumably have been a particularly high rooftop, I sat - glued to the box - mesmerized by the unfolding vista. I remember a whole sea of huge, brown pots - each one effortlessly able to conceal a man within - all sat beside one another, row upon row. I would estimate at least 100 of them, all gathered in a vast, sunbaked courtyard. But the most striking thing about the scene was the contents of these pots. Each a contained different, yet equally vivid, coloured liquid - reds, ochres, bright yellows, and various shades of brown - and almost every pot had a wiry, dark skinned man in tattered shorts and a T-shirt (generally the same colour as the pot) industriously hopping in and out of it, splashing around as they did so whilst holding garments of some kind. Each of these sinewy pot-hoppers appeared to be extremely busy, as if when working piece time or for themselves, and also frightfully hot - and, without exception, they looked as if they would rather have been some place else.

The one other image I have etched into my memory from that particular episode was of Micheal Palin himself. Standing, purveying this multicoloured sea of pots, and, as I recall, looking rather bemused at the whole affair. But you have to hand it to him, he still is the main man. No matter what gets thrown his way, he still manages to retain his composure, look rather debonair in his crisp beige chinos and white, cotton shirt, and, best of all, wear a remarkably suitable and sophisticated hat, the likes of which I would one day hope to own.

Anyway, less of the Palin and more of the pots. Although having no idea where this place was, or what its purpose may have been (I have an uncanny knack of being able to miss whole chunks of documentaries yet still feel compelled to watch them, in utmost confusion, right up to the closing credits), I knew that some day I wanted to follow in Big Mike’s footsteps and see this extraordinary place for myself.

The previous evening, during our wander around the streets near our guesthouse, I became privy to the delightful realisation that I would be seeing these pots up close and personal in the not-too-distant future. You see, we happened upon a postcard rack standing outside one particular shop and, upon closer inspection, I immediately recognised the scene featured on so many of the cards. It was identical to that captured by my subconscious all those years ago. Micheal Palin - and his incredibly sophisticated headgear - had been at the Tannery in Fes; and soon enough we would be there too. Already, I was devilishly excited.