Inevitably I wanted to go and take a look around the church of Saint Andrew, one of two (I think) Anglican chuches in Morocco, but after a few cursory moments in the churchyard, and on reaching the door my guide promptly instructed me that the church was closed. I had had to perusade him to put it onto the itinerary in the first place. Nevertheless, after leaving the guide for his crucial meal, I stole back to the church. Although locked, Mustapha (who appeared on Michael Palin's round-the-world series), the groundsman for forty years, living in the house next to the church, trained in the selective use of clipped English salutations and phrases, let me inside. The architecture is a mixture of Arabic and English styles, and the Lord's Prayer is written in Arabic around the chancel arch.




















An elaborate chancel roof made from cedar wood.




















The front pew reserved for diplomats.















The churchyard, where an Australian couple were tending to their young baby.















Mustapha, the trusted key-holder.



















With my final breath of (almost) English church air I made my way into the Moroccan streets.

I spent a good number of hours in both the new and the old town, arrested by quite a number of sights before making down the coast several miles to the railway station.

Up-market.