Stephen Bailey abandons the busy, cramped streets of former capital Fez for the sedate, hillside city of Chefchaouen in the northwest and finds a certain colour links these very different locations together...

An aerial view of the walled city of Fez.An aerial view of the walled city of Fez.

Up on the Fez rooftops, there is peace. Gentle sounds arrive with the breeze, harmonic reminders that I’m in the middle of the largest walled city in the world; a trader shouting about the price of olives, children running down an alley, the bell tied to a donkey’s neck.

The call to prayer rouses me, umpteen competing mosques attempting to be more compelling than the last.

Some shout and holler, demanding attention with their sheer ferocity.

Others soothe and entice, using a choral beauty to pass on Allah’s message. Now it’s calm once more, nothing but distant rambling to breach the serenity.

Because down there is madness.

Silver merchants, goat skinners, sweet pastry tasters, leather makers, orange juice purveyors, teapot painters, spice sellers, and that’s all within two minutes of leaving the rooftop.

There is no space, each tiny street surrounded by shopfronts and crowded with life.

Taking a wrong turn earlier, I ended up in a row of camel butchers. Then suddenly I was walking through a warehouse of fake Nike trainers.

So I’m taking a break on the roof, gazing out across the top of the labyrinth, my eyes following the sloping streets to a towering mosque.

Fez is huge, slowly cobbled together over the past 1,150 years and stretching across the folds of a green valley

Judging by the number of satellite dishes, the locals also like to escape. Four per building seems to be standard, yet in some places they’ve crammed 12 or even 15 dishes on to the rooftop.

Rusty, broken models aren’t replaced. It’s as if they somehow signify wealth, indicating which household was first to install cable TV.

But who comes to Fez to sit on the roof, even if this rooftop cafe is serving up a wonderful combination of mint tea and sugary snacks?

I go down on to the streets, weaving my way into the maze and getting immediately distracted by a man trying to sell coloured lanterns.

I can’t take it all in: the smells of fresh bread, a one-legged man leading a donkey, musicians playing two-stringed banjos and now Bab Bou Jeloud, a giant blue gate that marks the entrance to the city.

Bab Bou Jeloud is one of Fez’s main attractions. Intricate patterns cover the archways and the vivid colours glow in the dusk light.

On the surrounding hills, you’ll also find ancient ruins, Romanesque remnants that give an impression of the city’s history.

But the real attraction is wandering the streets, allowing your senses to be thoroughly pummelled by the medina.

Fez is huge, slowly cobbled together over the last 1,150 years and stretching across the folds of a green valley.

If you could walk straight, it would probably take two hours to cross, except it is actually impossible to ever go straight, each alley indecipherably curving and every turn taking me the wrong way.

The chaotic conglomeration of streets is the attraction and the scale is scarcely believable.

But once I’ve spent a couple of hours in the walled city, I’m craving the peace of the rooftops once more.

Tourism is rapidly developing and budget airline Ryanair now offer direct flights from 16 European cities.

For the first few hours it’s wonderful. Erratic rambling always brings delights, from the squabbles of backgammon players to the opulent wedding carriages that line a gloomy alleyway.

But after three days it’s too much to handle. Fez offers a roller-coaster ride and every journey on to the streets must be counteracted by a long, mint tea break.

Fortunately, there’s a more permanent escape from all the madness.

I take a bus into the verdant hills, winding past olive plantations and white stone farmhouses. It’s a five-hour journey to Chefchaouen and when the bus stops, the colour immediately changes.

Green valleys are replaced by multiple shades of blue as I walk into another of Morocco’s ancient walled cities.

Some buildings go for turquoise, certain streets copy the vivid sky, whole areas verge on violet and my hotel opts for sapphire.

There’s a mystery about these streets, the blue making them as disorientating as the Fez medina.

But Chefchaouen is blissfully quiet, perched on the top of the valley and rolling to the gentle rhythm of rural life.

From a distance, it looks like a fairytale – the crooked streets nestled beneath a Rif Mountains backdrop – yet up close, it feels like a Moroccan cliché.

Streets are covered in colourful piles of vegetables. Mosques occasionally appear, their humble design resplendent beneath the sun.

Wafts of fresh couscous and lamb tagine guide me down the streets, leading past bags of spices and vibrant collections of fabric.

After two hours, I don’t want the rooftop. I want more of this enchantment.

Old women sit on the cobbled streets, selling homegrown tomatoes or blocks of creamy goat’s cheese.

Grey-bearded men walk past in huge woollen coats, many of them resembling a lost mountain monk. Even the trees are painted blue.

As I wander around, the superlatives roll over my tongue: picturesque, lovely, splendid, exquisite.

It’s a place that’s utterly charming until I glimpse a darker side.

A genial, charismatic man reveals tales of old Chefchaouen, of how the town was painted blue by Jewish refugees in the 1930s

A grey-haired man beckons me over, inviting me into his home for a cup of sticky black coffee.

He’s genial and charismatic, revealing tales of old Chefchaouen, of how the town was painted blue by Jewish refugees in the 1930s.

We head off into the mountains, taking a narrow path to viewpoints and an enchanting mosque. But as the trail winds further away I’m confronted by a suspicious smell.

Chefchaouen is at the heart of northern Morocco’s marijuana trade, and I’m not the first tourist to unwittingly end up on a tour of the plantations.

Mishaps aside, this is the version of Morocco I would always want to return to.

After three days I still haven’t learnt the route back to my hotel, every blue street seeming to look identical.

But it’s never monotonous and there are dozens of cute balconies to while away lazy afternoons. Fez has to be seen and experienced, but Chefchaouen must be savoured.

Because there’s nothing as charming as wandering through a mountain town that’s been completely painted blue.

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