Today, with our later than expected start, we were happy to have made it as far as Tangier. Now, a decision now had to be made. We could either call it a day and stop here for the night, or try to push on further south, as per our rough plan, and make it as far as Chefchaouen - a small, unpronounceable town in the Rif Mountains. Each time we mentioned the place we would start boldly with the ‘Chef’ bit and then quietly slur and mumble the remainder. Quickly, it became known as the ‘Chef-cheffi-chef-chef’ place.

Inside the port we could be sure of nothing, there were no clues or signs that could help us reach a decision. Yet, upon exiting the port, we instantly knew that all the answers lay before us. Beyond the gates stood our travel library, our Lonely Planet archive. We had small offices home to the various Port Authorities, taxi ranks, a few more touts, a large plaza chock full of locals, a private transport company, and, best of all, a long string of roadside cafes full of waiters that we hoped would be1. Impartial and willing to help, and 2. able to speak more English than we did speak Arabic.

By hopping around a few of these places, talking to folk, and asking a few choice questions (as luck would have it, Spanish was still widely spoken, too), we managed to piece together the required bits and bobs – info such as the location of the main bus station, how to get there, costs, regularity of southbound buses, time to Chefchaouen etc.

The late afternoon sun was still incredibly fierce. We made a beeline for a nearby cafe and, once settled, ran through our choices. After a little map prodding and tea slurping we had reached a decision. ‘Tonight, Matthew, we’re going to head for Chef-cheffi-chef-chef’. Or, at least, that’s our sketchy plan.

As with most things in an alien environment, it proved easier said than done. We assumed that getting a taxi to the out of town bus station would buy us more time, but flagging down one of the numerous lurid Petit Taxis proved extremely tricky. The northern edge of the plaza, equidistant between two main junctions, looked like a good place to start. All around us taxis would brake hard and veer recklessly toward the curb to deliver their fares – but, as soon as one group alighted, another would then pile into the turquoise Fiat before we had a chance to claim it as our own. It seemed most definitely a ‘right time, right place’ affair. Always one step behind, we would franticly dash, with packs, to where the last taxi exchanged passengers, hoping another would swiftly follow suit. Each time we vacated a promising spot, a taxi would inevitably swing in and perform a quick fare changeover.

Things became so desperate that we even hatched a plan that involved a bit of teamwork. One of us would make the ultimate sacrifice and hurl ourselves beneath the wheels of a passing cab, thus allowing the other to secure it and get to the bus station before November. We would toss a coin to decide who would do the jumping and who would continue the trip through Morocco. But, just as I began reaching around for my double headed coin, Lauren’s luck dramatically changed for the better – an illusive drop off had just occurred, and no more than 5 yards from our rucksacks.

10 minutes later we were in the main hall of the main bus station. Chaos and disorder prevailed as we sidled through the frenetic crowd, our eyes scanning the departure boards above the mesh windows belonging to each company’s ticket office. We searched for one magic word. Chefchaouen. Soon enough we had found it and, by my watch, we had made the last bus with 15 minutes to spare. We hurriedly secured two hand-written tickets and went to the departure bay. An hour later we were still sitting on our rucksacks at the same bay. No bus.

‘We’ve been had….’ I said, turning to Lauren.

‘Well, maybe it’s just a bit late’ she replied. Her tone was one of assurance, almost as if she were trying to hearten an inherently negative, grumpy old man.

I found her optimism most heartening. I decided to have one last scout about before completely resigning myself to the fact that we had just been diddled out of a fistful of Dirhams. After a little asking around we soon ralised that we had made a schoolboy error. Unbeknown to us, today we had crossed a time zone - Morocco is, in fact, two hours behind mainland Spain. Sure enough, the bus rolled up bang on time and, for the second time in a day, I vowed to presume less and trust more.

We had all but made it. Short of collision, breakdown, or rogue goat, in a matter of hours we hoped to be in Chefchaouen.