‘Morocco is a diabetic’s nightmare’

Fleeing streets of slush, we touch down in a north African spring, where we are driven through the desert scrub outside Marrakech, passing dusty ochre expanses filled with old plastic containers and half-built hotels and the odd donkey before turning down a track which runs alongside a walled garden. Tantalising green fronds poke above the wall. The gates open (someone is posted to look through a gap in the wall to time it right) and reveal a lush complex of grass, palms, roses, figs and orange trees around a T-shaped pool.

This hotel is one of a handful to have popped up a short way away from the clamour of the city. It’s peaceful — there is a view of the Atlas mountains in the distance — but you can get to the souk whenever you want. The architecture is modernist north African. Inside, it’s cool and comfortable, with lots of polished concrete.

First things first, it’s time to boost our sugar levels. Trays of biscuits, sweet mint tea and syrupy fruit cocktails are brought out, and from here on it’s a festival of sweetness. Morocco is a diabetic’s nightmare. Even the chicken pastillas have a dusting of icing sugar on them.

The sun emerges, exuding gentle warmth, so we have lunch outside, with the sparrows flitting about the bushes and sometimes venturing into the bar — some are nesting in the pelmet, and peck about the carpet for crumbs. It’s so pleasant, this mildness, after the vicious winter. You can feel yourself unfurl.

Lunch over, we receive word to get into our robes and gather at the newly opened spa. First up, it’s the hammam, which is incredibly hot — it sears my soles. The lady has to arrange a stream of cold water over the bench to make lying down bearable.