Most of our travelling had been of the budget variety. The only time we’d stayed in smart hotels was when we worked for a large marketing organisation and qualified for corporate incentive trips in places like Florida, Las Vegas and Spain – and though these were four or five star they were hardly exclusive or boutique. So when I was invited to review three different hotels in Marrakech, and have lunch in a fourth, it was with mixed feelings. I was delighted, of course. But slightly nervous – all four were a big step up from anything we’d experienced before. What’s more, I’m a copywriter, not a journalist. I write ads, brochures and web content, not hotel reviews or travel articles. My excitement was therefore tinged with a little anxiety. I guess I was suffering from impostor syndrome. And my wife was definitely stepping outside her comfort zone.

Our first couple of nights were at The Royal Palm, a very posh retreat about twenty minutes out of the city. Checking the website I discovered it was a very grand estate of palm, olive and orange trees spread over 230 hectares with an impressive hotel complex, spa, golf course, country club, fitness centre, children’s club as well as 134 rooms, suites and private villas. We’d obviously have to pack our smartest clothes and then just do our best to look like this kind of place was our natural habitat.

Schoolboy flight booking error

I screwed up even before we started. Although the hotel stays and meals were complimentary we had to organise or own travel. I booked EasyJet from Gatwick (no Bristol to Marrakech flights in the winter). But instead of a six-day trip I managed to book six days…and one month. The person who had arranged the hotel stays spotted the mistake a couple of days before our departure. Luckily there were seats available for the dates we needed – but changing the booking was expensive. So, travel tip #1, when on the EasyJet site check and double check what month you are returning!

Should have had satnav

Doing my online research on Marrakech it was obvious that the taxi drivers at the airport charged pretty much whatever they liked, somewhere in the region of double the normal fare, and even more at night. Add in the fact we were going to one of the city’s most expensive hotels and I figured we would be fleeced for a fortune. What’s more, we needed transport for our lunch trip into the Atlas Mountains on the second day. So I decided to rent a car.

Bear in mind this trip was a few years ago and we were not early adopters of satnav and mobile phones. So I printed off a google map showing the location of the airport and our first hotel, the Royal Palm. Both were just south of the city and the trip looked easy-peasy. Turn right out of the airport, drive about four miles, take the first major road to the left, follow for two miles, turn right on next major road, hotel immediately on left. Can’t go wrong…

Our car was a very small and basic Dacia. Not really the kind of vehicle guests at such an upscale resort would usually arrive in. So this slightly added to our sense of inadequacy.

The man from Hertz suggested that my proposed route was not ideal. He told us to we turn left (not right) out of the airport, go into Marrakech, then turn right and right again. Not fancying navigating the city, and having no map of central Marrakech, we stuck to our original plan.

It was scary right from the start. The sun had gone down and there were hordes of mopeds and cyclists weaving all over the road, with no lights. Then the apartment blocks flanking the dual carriageway abruptly ended, as did the street lights - suddenly we were on what would be a B road back home, with desert on either side and total inky darkness all around. Where was the big left turn it looked like we couldn’t miss? We came to a petrol station. It was closed and deserted, apart from half a dozen youths who stood around smoking and staring at us. Asking for directions didn’t seem the smartest thing to do.

Keep calm and carry on

We kept going, it slowly dawning on us that we had seriously underestimated the challenge. There had not been a single street sign. If there had, it would have been in Arabic. And where would it have been signed to in any case? We pulled over and squinted at our little google map. There should be a golf course ahead – if we see that we’ve gone too far. Driving on for a mile we find a gateway, with a sign. What’s the Arabic script for GOLF COURSE?

All we could do was turn around and take every turning off on our right to find the correct one. Good plan, but frustrating. We had read that there was a building boom here just before the financial crisis, one that ended overnight with the credit crunch. That seemed to be the case. We took several small roads but each ended in an abandoned building plot. The idea of spending the night in the car, when we were only a couple of miles from our destination, did not appeal - but was becoming a more likely possibility.

After about the sixth disappointment we found a road that was even less promising, single track and full of potholes, just going into total darkness. But it didn’t end, and eventually brought us to a T junction that looked promising. We turned right, heading for the lights of a distant village. Suddenly a huge gatehouse appeared on our left with a sign in English – Royal Palm!

What’s the password?

As we approached the barrier four burly men in dark suits with walkie-talkies emerged from the darkness and surrounded the car. I couldn’t find the button to wind down the window, so had to open the door. Eventually, in broken French, I convinced them we were heading for the hotel and they, obviously rather dubious, raised the red and white striped barrier.

We drove for another quarter of a mile through a huge area of half completed villas before arriving at another gatehouse, with a single guard. “Le numero de votre chambre…” he enquired. “Ou est le check-in?” I replied. When I gave him my name his face brightened and he waved us through. We drove up a gently curving ramp to a huge and brightly lit portico. Two porters in Berber robes rushed forward to open the doors and grab our pair of very small bags. As we walked into the cavernous reception area and were greeted by staff on both sides I felt a huge sense of relief washing over me and struggled to supress the urge to laugh uncontrollably. Hysterical laughter would not have been an appropriate response from someone who was there to write a review.

A bedroom the size of an apartment

We were ushered through some tall reception halls with lush vegetation and pools of gently flowing water before emerging onto a broad gravel path flanked by hundreds of candlelit lanterns. Then a series of apartments arranged around further pools, fountains and gardens.

Our room, although one of the more modest, was huge. The bed was so wide you could lie side by side, stretch your arms out and your fingertips would not touch. The Egyptian cotton sheets were so smooth that they almost felt as if someone had waxed and polished them. At the foot of the bed was a living area, then a wall of patio doors opening onto a spacious balcony.

There was dressing room with more drawers and cupboards than we have at home. Our little suitcases looked lost in it. The bathroom was entirely of marble, from floor to ceiling, with twin basins, enormous bath and a complete wet room with a shower head the size of a pizza.

Because the 20 minute drive had taken us an hour it was now about 9pm. I demolished the plate of Moroccan pastries that welcomed us and made a couple of coffees with the espresso machine. A quick shower and then time to check out the bar – we were in serious need of a beer.

A bar fit for Bond, James Bond

The bar was back in the main building, and like all the other rooms (or should I say “halls” – it would be more apt) was on a heroic scale with a double height ceiling constructed of dark wood supported on wooden pillars rising from a black marble floor. At its centre is a slightly sunken area surrounded on all four sides by a counter of beaten and polished brass around which are arranged comfortable armchairs, rather than stools. The barman, standing inside this enclosure, is not looking down on you and the bar is at a comfortable height for resting your drinks.

Above the bar was suspended a thick cluster of cut glass Moroccan lanterns. There was an impressive fireplace of polished brass set in one wall with a pile of logs and glowing embers providing a suitably cosy touch. Along the four walls were deep couches and armchairs set around low tables. One wall was floor to ceiling glass overlooking a pool. I could see walkways spanning the gently rippled surface, each lit by large braziers of blazing logs with rows of tall palms dramatically picked out by artfully angled spotlights.

We collapsed in a corner, ordered two bottles of Moroccan beer, demolished a bowl of nuts, then lay back and savoured the incredibly opulent surroundings. It was pure bling, but beautifully done, almost over the top but pulled back from the edge at the very last moment. After a day that started with a drive along the A303, M3 and M25, followed by all the hassle of getting through Gatwick, then three hours on the plane, followed by our little detour through the abandoned building sites of Marrakech, it felt like we had finally died and gone to heaven. Most amazing thing of all was the fact that we had the place entirely to ourselves, so the sense of exclusivity and tranquillity was extraordinary.

A day at leisure

I woke up early, slipped through the thick drapes and stepped out onto our balcony. My jaw dropped. In the soft light of dawn I looked out onto manicured lawns dotted with palms and olive trees. Beyond this is an immaculate emerald fairway. And beyond that a line of massive snow-capped peaks stretching the entire length of the horizon, tinged a delicate rosy pink by the rays of the rising sun. Unreal. Made even better by the first coffee of the day.

Breakfast wass in the Le Caravane Restaurant. We were surprised to see a handful of other guests – about three couples and a family. There was a selection of the normal hot choices, as well as a chef cooking eggs and omelettes to order. The buffet had everything, from platters of smoked meat and fish to croissants and pastries, fresh and dried fruits to cheeses and yogurts, jams and honeys to cereals and jugs of juice – a great breakfast for those in no hurry.

Sheila, my wife, was just glad of the opportunity to relax and spends the day curled up on our balcony with a book. I had a guided tour of the hotel complex at 2pm, so decide to sunbathe by the pool until then. There were five to choose from: one in the country club, one in the fitness centre, one in the spa, one on the roof as well as the main pool stretching for 80 metres in an expanse of lawns between the hotel and the golf course. I went for the latter which, bisected by a couple of bridges, was more like a broad stretch of river. This illusion was enhanced by the fact it was lined with blue slate flecked with quartz – it was like gazing at the bottom of pebble strewn mountain stream.

A small part of the pool - which I have all to myself!

As I arrived at a sun lounger an attendant covered it in towels and asked what I’d like to drink. There were a few people drinking coffee at the poolside L’Olivier Restaurant but I’m the only one by the pool. The water was pleasantly warm and, amazingly, not chlorinated. I learn later that it is sterilized by ozone. That makes it crystal clear, and perfect for swimming underwater with your eyes open – instead of stinging, it soothes. After an hour three other guests arrive poolside but settle 30 yards from me. The waiter took their their drinks order then hovers at a discreet distance. I lay in the warm sun, reading my book, watching the occasional party of golfers pass down the fairway opposite and marvelling at the backdrop of mountains as high as the Alps.

At 2pm I did my tour, with Sabah Radouani, from the sales department. The hotel had not been long open after six years of construction in what was formerly a 100 year old olive grove. The 20,000 trees are still there, interspersed with palms, citrus trees, and beds of herbs and spiky grasses. We visited the Presidential Suite, which was huge, as you’d expect. Then the spa, and the kid’s club, both equally impressive, followed by Al Ain, the hotel’s traditional Moroccan restaurant.

The spa - photo courtesy of Fairmont Royal Palm

I enquired about the type of guests they attract and Sabah explained that it’s mainly golfers, mums and dads who stick their offspring in the kid’s club while they enjoy the spa, or celebrities who want to chill out far from the prying eyes of the pararazzi. She mentions a young actress we all know from the Harry Potter movies and the wife of a former French president.

A banquet Berber style

After I’d done this half hour of “work” Sheila and I took a walk across the golf course, followed by more relaxation at the pool. In the late afternoon we enjoyed watching the snow capped peaks turn pink again as the trees cast lengthening shadows across the grass. It being Valentine’s Day, and because casual here meant very smart in our book, we dressed for dinner than headed to the bar for more beers. To begin with we were alone, but then a handful of other guests drifted in and sat a discreet distance away. It was the kind of place where people pay a lot of money to “get away from it all” and you sense that being sociable is not one of their priorities.

The barman encouraged to dine in the traditional Moroccan restaurant, which sounded like a good idea. This was run entirely by women, as in a real Moroccan household, and we were introduced to all of them, including the kitchen staff, personally. The restaurant was quite small and cosy, with a vaulted wooden ceiling and lots of mosaic tiles on the walls.

There were three other couples, and two traditional musicians each wearing a red fez, flowing robes and contented smiles. We started with a huge selection of starters, a bit like a mezze, including savoury pastries, bowls of salad, olives, rissoles, and a dish of sticky pumpkin sweet pickle. Then it was grilled fish and vegetables with couscous for Sheila and a lamb tagine for me. No room for pudding and the best meal we had all week.

Why the Royal Palm?

We visited about five years ago. The hotel was still relatively new and is now part of the Fairmont Group, a Canadian chain of luxury hotels which operates 75 properties in 24 countries. I’m guessing that it’s probably a bit busier now, and possibly frequented by a few more guests from North America.

Although we loved our two nights it was not really “our kind of place”. It was amazing to stay somewhere so palatial and regal - definitely not our normal kind of hotel experience. If you like playing golf, chilling out beside an amazing pool, being pampered in a spa while your children are entertained in a kid’s club and having the space and privacy to truly be yourself with the ones you love, then it ticks all the boxes. Personally pick somewhere more authentically Moroccan and rather less ostentatiously stately – but then I’m not a stressed out CEO, banker, politician or celeb who just wants an experience that’s totally relaxing, supremely comfortable, suitably grand and well removed from the madding crowd.

Nov 10 Palatial in Marrakech

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