Rock the Kasbah

We have just returned from our holiday, a three day break at Kasbah Tamadot, a gorgeous hotel just outside Marrakech, owned and run by the Virgin Group. You may have read previous blog posts about our holidays, which, in short, never really work out. My daughter actively hates flying, inevitably getting ill, being sick and screaming, often for the duration of the holiday. So, this time, we decided to leave her with her doting grandparents, and head off a deux.


Well, Richard Branson has a lot to answer for, let me tell you. Over the last few years I have begun to enjoy our holiday moaning. The endless complaining over scratchy bedlinen, over priced food and crowded pools has become part an integral part of our holiday experience, often compounded by being over tired from the aforementioned screaming child (who likes to wake up at 5am on holiday). We are British after all, and need something to moan about. So, it baffles me, why Mr. Branson would take this pleasure away from me? Why would he make a hotel so perfect, that it not only makes me well up to think that we are not heading back any time soon, but also makes me want to redecorate my entire house.


I feel I should go into a little more detail so that I can spare you from such a shocking experience. I'll start with the rooms, or 'tents' as they were described to me when booking. I hate camping. Mr. G adores it. He was paying, so I felt obliged to give in and let him sleep under canvas. As we walked to our room (a Berber tent), I can't lie, my feet dragged a little and I started to warm up my moaning brain. But oh no, the tent was more palatial than my bedroom at home. The bed was bigger, the sheets breathtakingly crisp, the decor was quite simply stunning, and the bathroom, with it claw footed bath and Argan oil soaps was enough to make me double take. And then there was the view. We arrived at night, but even though the gorgeous valley was under a cover of darkness, the million stars that twinkled above us rendered us both speechless. A rare thing indeed (being speechless, not the stars). 


I'll move on to the food. We had booked an all inclusive option, as Mr. G eats a lot, and I am pregnant (so also eat a lot). I can't lie, my expectations were low. All inclusive food tends to mean limp salad, over cooked chicken in a rainbow of sauces and strange pasta concoctions. Once again, as we approached the dining room, I readied myself to tell Mr. G exactly what I thought about Mr. Branson's over priced food. And once again, my hopes of a heated rant were dashed. As my chair was expertly slid under me, and my perfectly ironed napkin placed on my lap, I was asked if I would rather have the 6 course tasting menu or the a la carte option. Ha, I thought, I know these fancy tasting menus, it will be packed with shellfish, raw meat and blue cheese a plenty, all no-no's for pregnant women. But alas no, every course was no only fully edible for someone in my condition (greedy and pregnant), but also exquisite. Honestly mouthwatering. The slow cooked beef fillet was cooked perfectly for me (a rare meat lover under ordinary circumstances), still soft and tender, but cooked enough to keep Mr. G from insisting I stick to the edges, just to be safe (I couldn't even moan about that). And despite it being late, and us being tired, we had scintillating discussion about how we would rank the 6 courses. 


The swimming pool was incredible. Enough sun loungers for unfriendly British people not to have to make eye contact with other guests (although, when we had to converse, as Mr. G splashed a lovely couple while demonstrating his skills at belly-flopping, the other guests were truly delightful). Mocktails galore, no mobile phones allowed by the pool and no children, meant that we well and truly relaxed, for the first time in 21 months. In between spa treatments, lunches and naps, we could not find a single thing to moan about. The assistant manager, Kathryn, was a total delight, making every aspect of our stay perfectly tailored to us. Even when Mr. G woke me up one morning, and calmly told me to leave the room as fast as I could, as there was a spider as big as his hand on the wall, instead of being able to moan (the hysteria prevented this for a good 20 minutes), Kathryn, swooped in with her team, caught 'Bertie' as she affectionally called him, and sensing Mr. G's curiosity, kept him so he could have a look, while printing out details all about him, albeit subtly, so I would not continue to do my strange flapping dance, convinced a spider was on my back.


So, Mr. Branson, do you see what I am having to live with. Back in overcast London, Mr. G is now expecting a tasting menu for dinner, a charming beauty to check that he is enjoying his last day of holiday, while spider hunting, and a home full of eclectic curios. I, on the other hand am wondering if Mr. G's internal organs would fetch enough on the black market for a week on Necker Island?

Tweet