Hunchbacked with luggage, we arrived, stumbling through the front door and into a small courtyard – we cringed as we painfully disturbed a tranquillity that we had forgotten could exist since wading through the chaotic streets of Marrakech. But we were met with smiles and subtle gesturing from our hosts to a dining table draped with cotton. Unable to speak French, we sat there with little idea of what awaited us, filling the minutes with an argument over who went wrong with the directions, until Ahmed (the house boy) appeared bringing silver tray after silver tray of afternoon tea. Chocolate cake, sticky marmalade-rolled pancakes, orange juice and a big pot of mint tea made everything better. We relaxed and looked around us.

The four square, white-washed, walls of the riad, open to the skies above us and offering only four rooms conjured such a sense of security that it felt like we were staying in a bird’s nest, but of such elegance! Black, cream and fawn tones styled the riad in shades and stripes, almost to the point where I felt swept off my feet and into a chic French film from the 1920s. We wandered the riad finding the continuity of interior design and its attention to detail beyond impressive: salons in the alcoved recesses offered chaise-long-like sofas below mantle-pieces dressed with black candlesticks; cotton and linen draping like cream over archways and antique drawings of past sultans and sepia photographs hung on walls like windows into an old Morocco.

Excited and intrigued, we were shown to our room up a winding, charcoal painted staircase, lit discreetly by lanterns and floor lights. The room we had looked forward to seemed to shine through the gaps in the wooden doors that enclosed it. Ahmed unbolted these and The White Room revealed itself. A four-poster bed generously adorned in ivory linen reached to the lofty ceiling, whilst the en-suite next door boasted twin sinks, each big enough to bath a baby in! The already spacious rooms doubled in size with large mirrors and we were charmed once again by the details of the room; flowers floating in bowls by the bath, mother-of-pearl inlaid furniture and the crowns embroidered on the towels and bedclothes, reminding guests of the riad’s royal owners.

Wondering whether we should take advantage of the riad’s central location to explore, or just nestle in and escape, the city - we chose the former and took dinner in the main square at one of the cafes with large terraces on which to view the acrobats climbing, dancers prancing, musicians playing their homemade instruments and storytellers captivating with dramatic expressions. After a hearty tajine we descended into the square and drifted like the illuminated smoke from the food stalls around the various entertainers, thinking it a wonderful scene from a Hieronymous Bosch painting.

After the kaleidoscopic square we were surprised and delighted by how easily we found our way back, but no where near as delighted as finding our room lit by candles on our return. But more was yet to come, as I waited for the ridiculously large Tadlekt bath for two to fill, a knock on the door brought Mouna (the maid), silently smiling, offering another unexpected tray of treats: a kind of midnight feast of pineapple tarts, biscuits, mint tea and lemon juice. These we enjoyed in our plush, white dressing gowns before our bath and the most peaceful nights sleep we’d had in a long time.

Waking the next morning we opened the shutters of our three windows, allowing a heavenly source of light into the room and casting graceful shadows like calligraphy from the ornate iron framework against the panes. We left our room to look over the city from the roof-top terrace; the Atlas Mountains still shrouded in the summer haze left their shadowy presence no clearer than the day. But our spirits were lifted as breakfast was served at the same table in the courtyard. Golden croissants, breads and warm pancakes with cheeses and a palette of jams accompanied by orange juice, tea and coffee were all presented as gently and ceremoniously as the day before. Squeezing out what French words we knew, we tried to thank Ahmed and Mouna before taking up our bags, that had barely been unpacked from lack of want at this riad, and leaving Dar Seven perhaps not cool, but definitely more calm and collected than when we had arrived.

Written by  Isabel Galleymore.

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