World Travel Zone: Minimalist Masterclass

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It was a romantic getaway planned with military precision. But nothing could prepare Paul Joseph for the whims of fate that nearly turned his long weekend in Marrakesh into the holiday from hell. Luckily, one of the city’s most luxurious hotels was on hand to soften the blow.

Written by Paul Joseph

I’d never been to Marrakesh, nor Morocco, nor Africa – and neither had my girlfriend Debra. Our trip away together was planned for early October and after a wash-out British summer, the prospect of getting some sun on our backs appealed to us both.

One of the most popular short-break destinations outside of Europe, and boasting culture, cuisine and a climate that is most people’s idea of ‘perfect’, Marrakech seemed to fit the bill. Decision made.

There was just one final ingredient missing from my recipe for a successful holiday: accommodation. Marrakesh’s recent tourism boom has given rise to a proliferation of ‘riads’ – a distinct type of independently-owned hotel based on Moroccan architecture and décor, and defined by the presence of an interior garden, courtyard and small swimming pool. They have been around for centuries, and are now ubiquitous.

A website dedicated to boutique hotels threw up a variety of luxury riads across the city, ranging from the traditional to the contemporary. But one stood out from the crowd: the eight-room Rose Sultan. It promised an idyllic setting away from the magical chaos of central Marrakesh. The words were enticing, the pictures stunning. We were sold.

The Rose Sultan is indeed a gorgeous hotel and a masterclass in minimalism. Every inch of every detail has been painstakingly considered, not least by the owner, an intriguing Casablanca-born gentleman who comes from a background in luxury brand marketing. Still awaiting its first birthday, the hotel is clearly a labour of love, and his passion for architecture and interiors is evidenced by an array of lavish, design-themed coffee-table books intricately positioned across the living room.

The theme of the hotel is sensual luxury with a traditional Moroccan twist. And from the ambient music to the enchanting aromas, strolling around the grounds is certainly an experience in sensory overload.

There do, however, remain teething problems. In our otherwise delightful room – stripped down to its most basic features in the most sensitive way – the sink was leaking, there was no waste basket, and the lock was cumbersome to say the least. You also wonder how the current staff, numbering three (the owner, plus two other chaps with seemingly multi-functional roles including handyman, waiter and on-site taxi driver) would cope with fully occupied rooms.

Certainly, the two outdoor breakfast tables, which look out onto a jaw-droppingly beautiful swimming pool, would be a bit of a squeeze in the mornings.

The other temporary defect with the Rose Sultan is its location. There is a fine line between seclusion and isolation, and if true luxury can allow no compromise, the barren wasteland surrounding the hotel must be considered a fatal flaw. Approaching either by car or by foot, requiring the negotiation of mounds of dusty rocks and rubble, is simply objectionable, and until developers populate the vicinity with something – anything – more aesthetically pleasing, or at least create a makeshift road or walkway, the hotel will lose significant brownie points. Not least with unacquainted taxi drivers who cannot believe their eyes when instructed to navigate this vast stretch of desolate wilderness. The non-existent road signs also means the turn-off for the hotel is often missed. Far from ideal.

One of the few signs of life nearby is an equestrian club, which offers beginner, intermediate and advanced expeditions to all-comers. Amateur horse riding is one of those activities that seems pleasant in theory, but in practice is at best tedious, and at worst dangerous. Unfortunately my own experience fell into the latter category. (I should state at this point that what happened in no way reflects badly on the Rose Sultan, which has no affiliation with the club, and is merely an incidental neighbour.)

During a snails-pace amble across a litter-strewn eyesore of nothingness, our horses were thrown into panic by an approaching donkey. The collective raking of hooves sounded distinctly to my untrained ears like the preamble to a retreating stampede and the look of panic on our guide’s face said it all. My own horse turned sharply and I was promptly thrown to the ground, with my knees taking the impact. That’s our holiday over then.

Back at the horse club, the staff treated me well, giving me ice packs for my knees, and any other comforting items they could lay their hands on. But their attitude changed when, to my amazement, they told me I would still have to pay. I explained politely that I thought this unfair, and the atmosphere turned nasty. At this point, I just wanted to get back to my room and rest my battered knees, so I bit the bullet and paid up. What a disaster; and there was more to come.

Our first night had been the perfect introduction to Marrakesh. The awesome scale of Djemaa El-Fna square, with its snake charmers, food stalls, and electric atmosphere exceeded all expectations, while a short walk took us into the heart of the historical Medina and down a maze of sidestreets bustling with medieval commercial activity straight out of Aladdin. Donkeys, bicycles and motorbikes came out of nowhere like space invaders, before routinely passing, allowing us a few seconds of respite before the next wave.

Caught up in this cauldron of brilliant Arabian mayhem, I was unaware that brewing away inside me was a stomach bug, more than likely sparked by the snail soup I had devoured in the Djemaa El-Fna. Twenty-four hours later, legs already out of action following horsegate, I was suffering the consequences in a big way.

In fairness to us both, we made the most of our remaining time in the city. Walking was painful, so we avoided the chaos of the city centre and instead headed for Nouvelle Ville, a tranquil neighbourhood west of the Medina, and home to the delightful Jardin Majorelle, a botanical garden and modern art retreat once owned by the late fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent.

Stepping into Nouvelle Ville feels like you’re in Europe again. Its wide boulevards lined with palm trees, cafes and designer stores is light years away from the old world feel of the religious Medina, where alcohol is banned and most women wear traditional burkhas.

Our one remaining day was spent back at the hotel, lapping up the rays around the swimming pool and trying not to think about the horrors that surrounded us. It also gave us more time to enjoy one of the other delights of the Rose Sultan: the service. Staff are attentive without being intrusive, and even seem to talk in a soothing, laconic tone that adds to the sense of relaxation. It contributed greatly to our enjoyment of the trip, despite the misfortune of my accident and tummy troubles.

Paul Joseph is a London-based writer and author. He is currently writing a book called “Vanishing London” on his home city. He also works for tubehotels, a price comparison and booking site for London hotels near train stations.

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