The Blue City of Chefchaouen

High in the Rif mountains of northern Morocco, the compact city of Chefchaouen splays across the shoulder of a rocky ridge.  

Originally a base for the Berber tribes to attach the Portuguese at Ceuta, it became a refuge for Jews and Muslims expelled from Granada by Ferdinand and Isabella 1494. 

Their imprint is seen today in the distinct Andalucian architecture - white-wash, tile roofs and balconies.

Chefchaouen or "Look at the Peaks" was part of the Spanish Protectorate from 1920 to 1956, so the second language (after Arabic or one of the Berber languages) is often Spanish.










The views from many of the homes is spectacular - mountain ridges above, the agrarian valley below and the tumbled jumble of white and blue washed building in between.


The treat is to wander through the Medina, or old city.  A tangle of narrow, cobbled alleys lined by compact stone houses - all painted various shades of Mediterranean blue.













We arrived the same day as the Princess (wife of King Mohamed VI) on a tour of local development projects, so the town was freshly painted and scrubbed clean.

Each turn revealed a picturesque perspective, enlivened by residents' decorative touches.  March is not peak tourist season, so we saw few other tourists.




















In fact, there is an authenticity to Chefchaouen that belies its fame.  A sense that we are experiencing it as it has always been.






Even though we did not meet the Princess on this visit (although we stepped over the red carpet laid out on the alleys for her to walk on) we did find Chefchaouen one of the most enchanting mountain towns we have ever visited.

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The darkened alleys of Chefchaouen

The stone cobbles, still slick with the evening rain, lead me through the haphazard angles of Chefchaouen.  

As I slip along the darkened, narrow lanes, alone, I sense guttural mutterings ahead.  Steady steps approach from around an angled wall and two figures appear, shrouded in heavy woolen cloaks, pointed hoods pulled up, faces obscured in the shadows.  

Something tightens in my chest, my boots skid on a slick stone.  

They fall silent and pass.

Under the yellow glow of a single lamp, the street splits.  

One choice a few feet wider, rises to the left, glowering in darkness.  The other, narrower, falls steeply to the right but carries the jostle of male voices tumbling against each other.  

A group of lean young men, dark hair, dark eyes, look up at me as they climb into the pool of light ... and look away, continuing their climb into the darkness.

I've wandered at night into the twisted laneways of this mountain town, splattered on the shoulder of Morocco’s Rif Mountains, losing myself in the twisting maze of blue and white plaster walls punctuated by darkened doorways and shuttered windows.  

My mind begins to conjure images of intrigue; stories of clandestine encounters and secret deals amidst the endless maze of narrow, blue lanes. 

I take comfort in the occasional shop spilling light onto the street, its contents of jumbled necessities watched over by a glowering cloaked figure, before slipping out of sight down another twisting lane.  

It's the silence that tightens around me.  The old city walls and steeply stepped alleys allow no vehicles.  Once dusk settles into darkness, the only sounds are the low murmur of male voices from around the next corner, the steady echo of advancing and retreating footsteps on the dark cobblestones, and my own gasp from the sudden movement of a furtive cat. 

The startling day-time beauty of northern Morocco's Chefchaouen is widely known.  A blue-washed town splayed across the shoulder of a ragged Rif mountain ridge, presided over by a Kasbah watchtower.

But at night, when visitors and residents alike are safely shuttered in their courtyard homes, the narrow alleys are shrouded in enigmatic mystery - and tales of intrigue take root.   

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