It’s exactly four years to the day since my very first excursion to Morocco, which was also my first trek abroad as a mother and my first time travelling beyond the borders of Europe.
Ten trips later, I now have my share of embodied experience about travelling with children in Morocco to convert into well-meaning advice.
For those considering or looking forward to a family holiday in Morocco, I hope the following will help you to prepare in a way that travel sales sites might not – it is not intended to put you off (and I’m not trying to sell you travel insurance either!).
1) That’s Entertainment
Morocco is extremely family-friendly, yet not in the way we’re now conditioned to consider the term ‘family-friendly’ in the UK.
Children revolve around day to day community life there (sometimes even going to work with their mothers rather than being put into childcare), but life does not revolve around children. You will not find restaurants with children’s menus and play areas or themed parks and farms designed with children in mind.
Children are allowed into the domain of adults in a way we’ve divorced them from in our own society, yet the domain of children – which has largely been developed for commercial purposes in places such as the UK and US – is not taken for granted in Morocco.
Generally, most Moroccan people seem accepting of kids being kids. However, I have always been well aware that I’m often the only woman sat in the cafés – ergo, the only person with kids in tow (the gender division is stark here, with women unquestionably being those who stay with the children whilst their menfolk sit in the cafes with their cigarettes and espressos).
Thus, in the cafés, the children have often been expected to sit like mini-adults. The café culture in Morocco can be very appealing, but this obviously comes with the same issues as sitting in restaurants and cafés with kids in the UK.
Sometimes a street café will be next to a wide pavement or large square where, if you sit outside, the kids can have a bit of a run-around, often mixing in with the local youngsters who may be playing football or gathered at the roadside socialising.
Yet this can’t always be relied upon, and providing entertainment for them becomes a priority. FreeToBeP’s preferences of things to do are suitably compact for our outings – playing games such as Minecraft or Angry Birds on my smartphone, or taking out his pencil case full of random Lego pieces to create with.
You can find lots of lovely souvenirs that make do as affordable objects of interest. A lot of the toys found here are really cheap, plastic tat that are a waste of money and a waste in general. A lot of rubbish here ends up strewn across the streets rather than being dealt with properly (quite apart from any recycling), and I have no desire to add to the mess by adding a pile of broken, plastic toys at the end of my stays.
Thus, it’s really useful to bring a small supply of good quality, inspiring toys such as Lego to keep the kids happy.
You could also set up little games using coins or other ‘somethings’ you might carry in your day bag. During our latest trip to Morocco, FreeToBeZ ended up with a stash of low value money we’d collected – some British coppers, some Moroccan half dirham and one dirham coins, as well as 5 Euro cents we found on the plane. These kept her well amused for a good portion of time and she was very possessive of it (I lost count of the times she wandered our apartment asking “Where’s my money?!” over the ten days we were out there!).
2) Cats & Dogs
There are many stray and feral animals in the streets of Morocco, including some very cute kittens. Understandably, the kids love to chase them around and stroke them – yet this is best avoided if you have young children who may not be aware of and understand the associated dangers.
The street cats and dogs in Morocco may well be infected with rabies, with 90% of human cases of the disease in the country caused by dog bites and most of the victims being children. At night, the stray dogs roam the streets in packs and can be quite an intimidating sight for those who are not used to seeing groups of strays congregating together.
FreeToBeP suffered a minor cat scratch on our very first trip out there not long before his 3rd birthday. I was unaware of the rabies risk at the time and thinking back to it makes me feel physically sick. The general advice is that you must seek medical attention within 24 hours of exposure to a potentially rabid animal to avoid going down with this (almost always) fatal virus.
Whilst there is a pre-exposure vaccine for rabies which travellers can pay for (it isn’t available on the NHS for a trip to Morocco), this just buys you a bit of time in case you do get bitten or scratched – and in an emergency situation in Morocco you’re unlikely to be over 24 hours away from the nearest clinic or hospital (all of which are apparently well-stocked with the post-exposure rabies antidote).
3) Clean, Cool, Content
Just before my tenth trip to Morocco (yes, this one took me a while to figure out!), I finally came up with a “kill three birds with one stone” solution for bath-time: a small, inflatable paddling pool. (The three birds being cleanliness, temperature control and entertainment.)
Unless you stay in a more expensive hotel (and I have no idea what the facilities are in such places in Morocco), there is unlikely to be a European-style bath to make use of when it comes to bath-time. Yet a proper bath is often the only way by which young children who are used to growing up with ‘bath-time’ can enjoy a wash (at least this is true of my kids, who will scream blue murder under a shower).
The shower or bucket option usually available in Morocco is not a pleasing option to my children (although FreeToBeZ is still small enough that we can make a shallow makeshift bath in the shower basin by blocking up the plughole with something).
I’ve had one bad experience too many with trying to get FreeToBeP (who is extremely sensitive when it comes to water and temperature) to take a wash in the small shower rooms of most Moroccan apartments. Add to this equation ultra-hygiene-conscious FreeToBeB who grew up in a home without running water, without a toilet, without a washroom: he finds it difficult to grasp why a young child doesn’t want to remove the daily, dusty grime under the luxury of a warm shower. I’ve been party to too many heightened emotions about this topic!
Another bonus is that I’ve seen many a Moroccan person casually tip whole buckets of water through their homes to clean the floors. Apart from the slip hazard, the splash zone can be tolerated much more than the same would in my damp-prone home in Britain (if you don’t believe me, read this).
So, next time – a mini paddling pool. Compact enough to easily fit in the luggage, small enough to inflate using just lung power if need be, versatile enough to serve a multitude of purposes.
The kids will get clean. The kids will cool off. The kids will have fun.
4) Risk Assessment
From daring scooter riders to mad dashes across busy roads; from things jutting out of the pavements to numerous potholes and rocky landscapes: there are many hazards in Morocco and it’s not a country known for its adherence to strict health and safety regulations.
While I think we’ve gone too far with some health and safety rules in the UK (no coffee break at toddler groups? Why else do some new mums even go along to toddler groups but for the joy of someone else making them a mug of steaming brew?!), there is definitely a happy medium to be had. Morocco actually makes me grateful for many of our regulations in the UK.
Driving through Morocco is a risky business and my preference is to hire a car that we can check over and drive ourselves rather than trust an unknown, over-confident taxi or bus driver. The state of many of the public transport vehicles themselves does not inspire confidence. Between myself and FreeToBeB, we are both cautious drivers who can generally relax as passengers to one another.
I’ve had trouble finding suitable child safety seats for FreeToBeZ and some laughable moments with the car hire companies. Children’s car seats are generally not used in Morocco (this is a place where you see entire families riding, helmet-less, on a single scooter!). The hire companies have tried to pass me off with some really dodgy, aging contraptions with broken straps and even entire base units missing that have left me feeling like my own grip would be more trustworthy in an accident.
If you’re planning to embark on some road tripping around Morocco and have the option and ability to take your own car seat along with you, it may save a lot of stress and worry to do so. The last time I checked, Easyjet had a policy of allowing up to two bulky infant items (per each child under 2) in the hold for free.
On some occasions we’ve done without – and on others my mother’s intuition (or plain old fear?) has led me to cancel trips rather than travel somewhere without suitable child safety seats.
5) Comfort Zones
If you have a child who is particularly sensitive about their personal space and being touched, you may want to forewarn them about how damn affectionate Moroccan people can be.
There seems to be an unspoken rule that everyone who wishes to comment on your child’s beauty has to do so with at least a ruffle of their hair – and even an unsolicited kiss for a baby. (I suppose a baby doesn’t consciously solicit any kisses, yet our own cultural rule seems to be ‘family only’ for such gestures of love – even friends don’t tend to shower one another’s babies in kisses, let alone strangers in the street!)
I’ve also had people plant kisses on FreeToBeZ’s head as she breastfeeds – after my initial shock, I was glad at the acceptance that she was ‘just’ feeding (compared to the sometimes enforced privacy many women in the UK contend with), but not every breastfeeding mother would be comfortable with this close proximity to her bosom.
There are cultural differences in both bodily autonomy and accepted social mores. Affectionate advances from anyone other than close family members can be confusing and difficult for some children to deal with, especially if they’ve had the ‘stranger danger’ mantra drilled into them back home.
Quite apart from different social etiquette, after one random stranger too many had kissed and pawed FreeToBeZ as a young baby, I began grimacing at the thought of infectious diseases (and I’m not one to worry unnecessarily about such things).
As with the issue of health and safety, I think there’s a balance to be had between the stiff upper lip associated with British folk and the (over?)familiarity displayed by the people of Morocco – between the reserve of suspicion and the open-hearted trust (although I know which one feels best!).
You certainly can’t complain of a lack of warmth in Morocco, and that’s not just the climate.
There are other things to be aware of if you choose to stay in a rural location with your children but I shall hang fire on these for another time.
There are also numerous cultural differences which may seem as irking/worrisome as some of the above to many people, yet many of these are dealt with in some depth in standard travel guides (e.g. this is not the post for learning about how to deal with persistent street vendors!).
Have you visited Morocco with your children? Would you add anything to the above that the travel guides don’t always tell you about? Tell me what you loved too!
Want to read more family travel tips? Read my other articles:
I’m conscious of the posts I’ve made so far about our latest trip to Morocco not being particularly practical in nature, and possibly being a tad on the ‘grin and bear it’ side!
I’ve also been very aware of all my blessings since returning home and it’s been easy to complain about the things I find difficult in our ‘second home’. I have a love-hate relationship with Morocco that leaves me feeling conflicted and contradictory.
However, there are a number of things I’m already missing about Morocco. Obviously, I’m really missing seeing FreeToBeZ playing and laughing with her daddy; despite the infrequency of our visits, their bond is obvious and strong, and regularly brings tears to my eyes to witness.
But with the aim of providing some insight into the cultural cultivation that anyone can enjoy during a trip to Morocco, here are the 10 things that first come to mind about the pros of spending time there:
1) Embrace the Excitement
Excitement? Ok, read ‘chaos’.
At home in the UK, I could think of myself as a ‘chaotic’ person. My mind is always on the go, I don’t get enough sleep, I perpetually strive for a more organised homelife, and there is always physical, emotional and mental ‘clutter’ (I could use the excuse of children for all of these things – in the spirit of congruence, it’s not just that!).
When I get to Morocco, I don’t see myself as chaotic at all – the external world fulfils that for me!
Arriving two evenings before Eid for our last trip, it really achieved this label: I’d never seen the airport arrivals area so extraordinarily busy (and this was our 10th visit) and there were those people who were more observant of the queuing system-of-a-sort for passport control than others.
Out into the streets and into all the traffic; the constant hooting of car horns, the heightened sense of anxiety as you try to cross a road without being mown down, the people who have less concept of personal space and ‘rights of way’ than I’m used to.
Yet this makes any trip to Morocco immediately tinged with a sense of adventure. Your senses come alive – there is no way they can’t. And if they didn’t, you might find yourself in some undesirable situations thanks to your lack of alertness.
Morocco truly is a place of contrasts – from relaxing on the ponj of a laid-back host who you’ve spent a sedate afternoon enjoying food with, straight into a mêlée of being squeezed along crowded backstreets trying to contain your handbag and your children whilst dodging scooters. I’m sure my blood pressure must rise and fall with interesting frequency when I’m navigating Moroccan towns.
I say this and yet I’m so glad I know this. I’m so glad I’ve seen and experienced this side of the world and have the story to tell. I would urge others to make the trip precisely because of these idiosyncrasies of place.
2) Street Life
Every time I get back to the UK, I wonder at what ghost towns we live in. Where are all the people? Mostly stuck indoors or transporting themselves around in cars.
And when there are people forced together out in public – on trains, queuing for various services, in the supermarket – where is the chatter? Whilst I’m hardly one to complain (being someone who is generally shy to start up conversations with strangers), it strikes me that this reluctance to interact is not just personal but cultural; my traits have always felt at odds with my instincts.
Even in the ‘quiet’ suburbs of Marrakech, the streets are alive – there are always children playing and adults casually chatting with the kerb as their seating.
Whilst there are plenty of cars in Morocco, there are also those who travel by mule or donkey or horse and carriage, or market traders who transport their goods using a handheld cart, which enables those people to be more contactable and present with the pedestrians they share the space with.
There are many reasons for this difference that means it’s not a lifestyle easily recreated in the UK. The weather is often a big deciding factor in whether we’re outdoors or not, and yet there certainly used to be more suburban street life in English cities too.
Without going into the politics and cultural changes that have happened in the UK to destroy communities and encourage people to live more isolated lives, I love the fact that I can exit an apartment in Morocco and know without doubt that the street will be vibrant with the sound of children playing, animals braying and the calls to go praying.
3) Fresh Food
Between buying fresh croissants and crepes for a matter of pennies from a local patisserie and sipping on freshly squeezed orange juice from the deliciously sweet native citrus fruits, breakfast food here is imbued with an energy and vibrancy that I just don’t get from our usual morning routine involving a box of cereal and a carton of a long-life dairy-free milk alternative.
Combined with the fact that they make bloody good coffee in Morocco, and the start of the day is usually a good one.
Whilst out on the town and for just 4 Moroccan dirhams (about 30p) you can enjoy a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in Jemaa El Fna square – at that price, there’s no excuse not to!
There is also an amazing array of different fruit juices and smoothies made to order in many restaurants and cafes that we just don’t find back home unless we were to head for a specialist (expensive) juice bar. And, saying that, I’m not sure I know where to locate one of these in my local area.
Not to forget the figs, olives, almonds and other native foods that are much better in their fresh form than anything you buy in packs at the supermarket.
Whilst it can often be a hand-to-mouth lifestyle that ensures many people here eat fresh produce, there is also less emphasis on the supermarket and more emphasis on market culture and seasonal goods.
Many people in the towns also seem more inclined to go out in the mornings and bring fresh breakfast in rather than expecting shelves, cupboards and fridges to be stocked. And FreeToBeB – brought up eating daily-made bread in the family’s traditional outdoor, earthen oven – is often surprised that I’ll happily eat yesterday’s bread in preference to buying the freshly made breads each day. Even against 24 hour old Moroccan flatbreads, our long-life sliced and packaged loaves just can’t compare.
Yes, we may be able to buy freshly prepared food in some shops back home – but the ubiquity and low cost of it in Morocco makes it the easy choice there, whilst it may be the more expensive and less convenient choice in the UK.
It really brings home to me how lifeless are some of the packaged foodstuffs that are supposed to sustain and satiate us. The difference is also reflected in the cooking and the sharing of food – this is only a thought, but I’d say that the way in which Moroccan people are proud of their cuisine as they earnestly encourage you to share in their meals (“Koul! Koul!” – “Eat! Eat!”) is a reflection of the true life force apparent in their food resources.
4) Retailing the Rainbow
OK, so this is a matter of whether you are in town or country. If I think about the natural environments around me, nothing beats the sight of green, green England as we come in to land after a North African excursion. How fresh and lush and brimming with life it appears; I missed this usual view as we came into land at nigh on midnight earlier this month. I wonder if Moroccan people love their ochre landscape as much as I love my green?
However, take to the high street and the drab, dispirited monoculture of a typical British town is apparent. I don’t care how well a chain store thinks it’s dressed its window, it’s not a patch on the flood of sights that comes with a walk amidst the market of a Moroccan city.
Whilst I’m not a keen shopper and would rather not focus on material goods, I love wandering the souks of Marrakech and being charmed by all the colour and glitter and exuberance around me. Yes, you could purchase something as a reminder of your visit, thinking that the vitality of the items will remain, but – just like the picking of a flower – something of their life-force invariably falls away once they are set apart from their original backdrop.
Every shade of the rainbow is everywhere to see and the beautiful clothing and jewellery makes a feast for the eyes. The joy isn’t in purchasing single items of these delights but in seeing them all together in a jumble of hues and patterns and textures: piles and piles of unabashedly embellished and gleeful garments in the clothing stores, small shops crammed to the ceiling full of shining thuya wood products, ceramic diningware decorated in intense colours and swirling patterns, florid and flowery offerings at the textile merchants . . .
. . . Not to mention the scents wafting from spice shops and cosmetic sellers. From the bright and showy pyramids of turmeric and cumin, to the smoke of incense blooming from a stall of hammam products, the combination of the sights, smells and sounds of the souk come together to remind me of the beauty and vivacity of life.
The effect is kaleidoscopic and I could spin myself around admiring it all for hours.
To see more of what I mean, you might like to visit my Pinterest board ‘Morocco’ dedicated to the delightful side of this country of contrasts.
While this can sometimes be frustrating, if you want a peaceful break free of pressure, it’s helpful to take on the Moroccans’ mañana attitude.
It’s a good attitude to adopt for any family break (emphasis on the fact that a holiday should indeed be a rest from the usual daily grind!) and taking it on in Morocco will ensure your increased immunity against impatience at the sometimes slow and seemingly unreliable pace at which things often appear to get done here.
You can be asleep at any point of the day here (or up and about at any point during the night) and it’s perfectly acceptable. This is particularly true during the long, hot summer days.
Things get done when people feel like getting them done, so little does the structured, time-bound mentality of what I would consider a ‘usual’ working day penetrate many people’s lives here. And yet – everything gets done.
In the words of Lao-Tzu: “Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”
I’ve spent a lot of time in Morocco just waiting. And often not even knowing what exactly I’m waiting for. Just knowing that in order for the next thing that needs to get done to get done, I must bide my time and trust the process. From a world of appointments and general punctuality (I shall never again complain about the length of wait at a dental practice), I could see this as a con rather than a pro of my time in Morocco – but it’s yet another practice in mindfulness.
I’ve had time to sit and reflect, hence why so much writing comes of my trips. I’ve had time to sit beside my demons of impatience and judgement and talk them into angels of patience and acceptance. I’ve had time to savour the food at my lips instead of rushing the routine of mealtimes. I’ve had time to sit and listen and absorb the social discourse around me, more rather than less intriguing for its unintelligible vocabulary.
And it has taught me that there is time. It is ‘stuff’ that gets in the way back home. Stuff I would rather relegate to the recycle bin so I can sit and just be with my children, sit and just be with my self.
It’s taken me a while to get over some of my typical British politeness and make the most of this. Indeed, what may be considered more ‘polite’ over here can be seen as a snub to your hosts over there, especially if you refuse a glass of the ubiquitous sweet mint tea whilst everyone else is cheerfully partaking.
That said, there have been times when I’ve been embarrassed by the level of generosity we’ve been shown, especially when it’s been unplanned and I feel we’ve had nothing to give in return.
We once had a really sweet guy named Hicham guiding us around Fez (he was a school teacher on his summer break and was with us as a compassionate companion rather than a guide looking to make money out of us). On our second afternoon with him, he took us back to his parents’ home for a meal. It was an elaborate meal and was followed by their encouragement for us to take a post-meal nap by curtaining off an area of their living quarters so that the ponjs (Moroccan sofas) could take on their alternative use as day beds. So we – strangers to them – passed an hour or so privately chilling out in their living room.
As if this wasn’t enough, before we left, the matriarch of the house (who must have already spent hours preparing food in the kitchen) then insisted on pressing various items of costume jewellery and cheap but pretty bracelets into the hands of myself and FreeToBeZ – even after FreeToBeZ had already broken one such bracelet, tiny beads bursting across the tiled floor. I frantically tried to reject the jewellery in embarrassment (I should be bringing the gifts as a guest!), but our hostess wouldn’t have any of it; smiling and laughing and nodding, she insisted I take her offerings and I eventually accepted as graciously as I could amidst my discomfort.
I also get worried every time I ask to change FreeToBeZ’s nappy in someone’s home. I’m always just looking for a patch of floor that they’re happy for me to change a soggy or dirty disposable nappy upon, and am invariably asked if I wish to give my daughter a full strip wash at the same time, usually accompanied by the lady of the house rushing to find soap and towels.
This in itself isn’t a problem. What is a problem is someone assuming that this is what one wishes to do without both parties having a mutual understanding about what is about to happen . . . But this is a whole other story . . .
However, I will never forget how observant and human some people have been about genuine needs.
For a week during a stay in 2013, we were accommodated by local people in two different cities when all the rooms were full at the inn.
I will never forget the relief of hearing that Halima, a bolshy and outspoken Rifian lady in Al Hoceima, had kindly offered us her sitting room to stay in when it was nearly midnight and we still hadn’t found a bed for ourselves. As she walked home on that hot August night, she saw a family taking shelter on an empty shop floor and spontaneously opened up her home. We paid her more generously than I am generally willing to pay Moroccan hotels – and I can’t even be cynical about her intentions of inviting us (knowing that some people here see a European person and simultaneously see money); for when she first saw us she thought we were entirely a fellow Berber family, and not just because of FreeToBeB’s ability to claim this (it turned out she thought all European women used pushchairs for their infants – FreeToBeZ worn closely to me in a sling was enough for her to decide to distinguish me as a fellow Berber woman!).
Pretty much the same thing happened again just 3 nights later in Chefchouen, and we spent a wonderful 5 days relaxing in the spare living quarters of a kindly older widower.
If anything, it has given me all the more faith in travelling ‘on a wing and a prayer’, not to mention faith in the kindness of humans who have not been jaded by the ‘stranger danger’ mantra so prevalent in Western societies.
I’m all for a more simple life. It takes a lot of discipline and a big change of perspective for someone brought up in a commercial culture. And, whilst I often complain about how difficult it is to cook on a single ring over a gas bottle or to have a proper wash with just a bucket of water and a jug, in reality it’s only difficult because of all the luxuries I’m used to. There is no excuse to go hungry or to not be clean when you have the means at your disposal.
OK, if I actually lived in Morocco I’d ensure I have a decent electric oven with at least 4 cooking plates and a wet room big enough to install a ‘proper’ bath, but – as with camping – it can be good to get back to the simple life, even if it is just a way to truly appreciate what we take for granted in our own homes in better-off countries.
For all the daydreams of a ‘back to nature’ lifestyle of self-sufficiency in an unspoilt landscape, reliant on community and surviving (literally and economically) on home-grown produce . . . the reality can be harsh. Yes, being amidst the Atlas Mountains and a group of people I was unable to verbally communicate with whilst they clean sheep innards is very different to, say, joining a vegetarian English commune in a field in Devon, but the point is valid: romantic, rose-tinted ideas of ‘the good life’ are naïve and impractical.
In order to enjoy a simple lifestyle, the first step isn’t necessarily about diving into the embodied experience of it but in changing your perspective of what is already around you and slowly forgoing the things that don’t genuinely serve you.
Since returning from our latest trip, my de-cluttering project has resurfaced with a vengeance. There is a tidiness to the simplicity found in Morocco. Not only is the home tidy due to lack of ‘stuff’, but it makes everything else seem tidier – easier. Rough play with the kids becomes an almost anytime possibility when there isn’t a floor full of toys to trip over or various breakables dotted about the living space that douse the fire of playful spontaneity. True presence and communication with the people you are sharing your space with becomes more attainable when one isn’t constantly distracted by the ‘things to do’ that come with living a complex, modern life.
For all the talk of ‘modern conveniences’, many things that are supposed to make life more convenient actually make it more complicated, or at least less fulfilling. We race around partaking in ten quick and convenient habits when – psychologically and spiritually – we may yearn for two more involved jobs performed mindfully.
Honestly: I would rather spend a morning engaged in bread-making with my peers as the children run around together than to spend half an hour in isolation preparing ingredients for and later washing up the equipment needed to bake bread in a machine, potentially in a rush whilst trying to get the kids out of the house for a social ‘appointment’. This concept of making an appointment to pop in and see your friends is something else that is alien in Morocco – again, it comes down to ideas of convenience and inconvenience. And this is why I operate an ‘open home’ policy with my friends (that is, proving this point, rarely taken up) – I never want my friends to see their presence as an inconvenience to me, to think that I might have better things to do alone than could be gained from connecting with another human being.
We’re social animals; and in the vast array of things to do, places to be and material matters to attend to, this basic fact is becoming lost in ‘developed’ nations.
When material possessions that are surplus to genuine needs are set aside, we may actually appreciate what is truly necessary for a whole and healthy life.
8) The Joy of Children
In many ways, I can relax in Morocco with kids in tow.
I will soon be posting my top tips of things to take into consideration when travelling with children in Morocco (mainly about the not so relaxing stuff!), but one thing I can say with confidence is that no-one will mind you bringing your kids. If anything, people in Morocco generally take great joy in children and, when I travelled without FreeToBeP this summer, he was very much missed by those who expected him to be with me.
From breastfeeding an infant to having my kids become over-excitable whilst out and about, people here look upon the natural and typical behaviour of young children with endearment and acceptance. I have no fear of any tut-tutting as I breastfeed in public or while my toddler has a loud meltdown. And thanks to the relaxed state of mind that this lack of tut-tutting fosters in me, my children are also more relaxed, ergo I have less fear of my children even having said meltdowns.
Children playing in the streets late into the night is a common sight and sound. On hot days when families have been indoors having siestas, the whole family may come out at night to enjoy the street life, and this fits in well with my own relaxed attitude about bedtimes (whilst we have a routine, we do not have a schedule!).
Many so-called ‘attachment parenting’ beliefs and practices I try to live by are taken for granted here – there is no label, just women doing what they have always done to birth and raise their children naturally (homebirth, breastfeeding, babywearing and bedsharing). These are all things that I instinctively felt drawn to do as a mother that have been overshadowed in Western societies by the medicalisation of birth and the commercialisation of babyhood.
This is not to say that I agree with all the parenting practices that are at play in Morocco. I know that the ‘good’ behaviour of many Moroccan children is less about respect for the parents than fear of The Stick (physical punishment both at home and in school seems to be a socially acceptable tool for eliciting cooperation from a child).
And yet the positive bonds of family and community are obvious – the shared laughter as families gather together in their living quarters during and after evening meals; the acceptance of children as part of the community after the 9pm watershed; the ease with which the people here will pick up and dust off crying children who are not their own; or merely the planting of kisses and tousling of hair performed in the unselfconscious manner of those who are comfortable being around and showing affection towards the younger members of our human family.
9) Flora and Fauna
Whether out in the wilds of the mountains or in the centre of bustling Marrakech, there are plenty of sights to see for those interested in animals and plants.
If you’ve got young children in tow, excitedly spotting horses and donkeys will soon become second nature in both town and country.
Whilst in the city much of what you see can’t be classed as ‘wildlife’ and there is often suspect animal welfare, it can’t be denied that there are novelties to be enjoyed.
In Marrakech alone, there are plenty of intrigues for anyone interested in natural history. Merely taking a taxi into town, budding botanists can spot palm trees (this might be more ‘exotic’ for some than others; here on the Jurassic Coast we’re already quite spoilt for more Mediterranean plants and trees), orange trees, olive trees, Damask roses and various succulents surviving in the arid soil.
If that’s not enough to satisfy your thirst for greenery, Marrakech boasts a number of gardens that can be worth a visit. Whilst I primarily wish to share information about things you can appreciate for next to nothing, I would gladly part with a few pounds again in order to revisit the Majorelle Gardens.
A visit to the pool of Marrakech Manara will grant you a view of half-tame fish which come to the surface to be fed.
Storks roost on the roofs and wide walls of tall buildings, including the minarets of the mosques.
Mules, horses and donkeys are common sights at the roadside and upon the roads, and camels are brought into the cities as tourist attractions (but the obvious thing to do if you want authentic camel memories is to make the journey to the Sahara).
Jemaa El Fna in the daytime can be like taking a trip to the zoo: snakes, monkeys, birds and other creatures are taken for display – you can look at these from a safe distance (safe from being encouraged to part with money that is) or for a small fee can have your picture taken with them.
In the mountains I have seen some beautiful butterflies and huge, sleek millipedes, as well as snakes, scorpions, and the evidence of wild boars.
The mountains can be quite colourful in the springtime with swathes of flowers.
The cacti of the prickly pear is also easily spotted along roadsides and around villages – the abundance of them is evident in the amount of fruit that is left unpicked (think of them in terms of the humble British apple tree!). There are also many herbaceous plants which the local women pick in order to use for medicinal purposes.
We have had our curiosity piqued by the array of insects we’ve spotted, all the more enticing to look at precisely because we don’t know if they’re things that could bite or sting us. Judging by the way I’ve seen some of the locals react to the sight of a spider – and assuming they don’t just have tendencies towards arachnophobia – I think it’s probably safe to say that there are resident arachnids that could cause harm to humans. And I’ve already detailed our encounters with cockroaches.
I also have a ‘thing’ about birds (not sure if this grew from my childhood YOC membership or a more primal, psychological desire to ‘grow wings’) and have noticed many species of birds that I am unfamiliar with. I only wish I could use more informed, naturalist terminology to explain what I’ve seen! (If anyone knows more about the wildlife of North Africa, please do get in touch.)
Thus my next step is to find the Moroccan equivalent of my trusty ‘British Wildlife’ book.
10) Sun, Sun and Sun!
Last but definitely not least: glorious sunshine and dry heat is a huge plus point.
In Morocco I can pretty much forget that I’m medicated for asthma. The dry heat is really good for my lungs and barely a wheeze escapes me.
Yes, it can get too hot during the day, but the simple solution to this is that you adjust your expectations about what happens when. During our summer trip we were getting up during early afternoon, having an extremely late breakfast, eating lunch at teatime and then heading out for the ‘day’ when it had cooled down a little (to about 36 degrees Celsius that is) at around 6pm.
Whatever the thermometer may say, I find the dryness of North African heat much more bearable than the humidity of a ‘hot’ day in the UK. In my opinion, a dry and clean 35 degrees is much preferable to a sweaty 25 degrees!
Aside from general sun-seeking and the knowledge that both your physical and mental health are being given a boost thanks to the production of vitamin D and serotonin, the other bonus is in the small joy that is knowing your clothes will be bone dry within the space of a couple of hours after washing them.
Yes: simple pleasures.
In writing this, it would seem that the love-hate relationship I maintain with this country really is due to focusing so much on the contrasts and comparisons that a more objective view is obscured. For wherever you are, there are pros and cons, highs and lows. For whatever nuisances and inconveniences exist, there are so many things in this world that have the power to brighten our day.
Looking back on this list, the things that have the power to uplift – the things that really matter – are invariably day to day experiences that cost nothing, yet lend to us a wealth of spirit that can make any place a pleasure.
On this note, I’m off to make myself an avocado smoothie and eat some self-imported Atlas almonds . . .
I’m researching them as I’m inspired to write a horror movie script with cockroaches as the big scare (is someone going to tell me that it’s already been done?).
We may not have embarked on any road trips during this visit to Morocco but, hey, who needs a road trip when all manner of fauna will visit you in your own accommodation? It’s a veritable biology lesson here.
At least we’re in the city where this seems limited to cockroaches and mice – I suppose I could be up in the mountains writing about scorpions and snakes and wild boars. I find both scorpions and snakes extremely fascinating, but don’t much fancy being visited by a wild one as I sleep – the latter recently paid FreeToBeB a visit at his mountain workplace as he tried to rest, which he caught and promptly posed with:
I’m losing count of the number of cockroaches I’ve spotted during our first five days in Marrakech. The number I’ve personally delivered a death blow to now requires nearly all my fingers to count upon.
My first ‘victim’ escaped. I’d decided to use the all-round answer to everything that is neat tea tree oil – great for controlling fleas and lice, getting rid of mould and warts, cleaning wounds, drying out spots, general domestic cleaning needs and various other things that require nasties to be killed.
As I allowed the tea tree oil to rain down upon the cockroach, it did indeed have some sort of reaction. It flexed its body in a strange manner and I envisioned it keeling over onto its back. I momentarily glanced away and when my gaze returned, it was nowhere to be seen. It had fled to safety.
I then recalled hearing that, if any creature could survive a nuclear war, it would probably be a cockroach. Suddenly, my tea tree oil didn’t seem quite as toxic as I’d hoped and my expectation of its efficacy seemed naïve. Judging by its effect on skin tags, I feel sure if somebody poured a vat of tea tree oil onto me I’d shrivel up and die. But then I’m merely a human, not a cockroach.
Having caught sight of another one in the living room from the corner of my eye, FreeToBeZ is in on the action, promptly announcing that she will fetch her shoe as a weapon. She learns quickly this girl! Although when she announced the same thing upon spotting a mouse, I realised I’d have to make some distinctions.
I really don’t like killing things, but as long as these creatures have no qualms in wriggling their creepy-crawly bodies over me while I lie in bed at night, then they’re going to be treated harshly.
I swiftly and firmly smacked the offending bug with my daughter’s sandal twice. It lay on its back, first twitching a leg, then twitching an antennae, then lying still, playing dead.
Oh, I’m onto them by now and it didn’t fool me that easily. Within a matter of seconds, it had somehow managed to flip itself over and tried to scuttle off on its merry way, thus enticing me to give it another sharp whack with the innocent-looking, toddler-sized, bright pink plastic sandal. This time its insides ruptured and it half lay in its own goo and yet, honestly, almost immediately its legs were thrashing wildly again in a bid to get away and continue living (yes, I suppose it could just be death throes, but who knows with these things!).
Oh my god. Please just die! Just die, damn you!
Being aware of myself – animal lover and pacifist – administering a prolonged, violent death to this creature, combined with its seeming immortality, was drawing pathetic little whines of despair from me.
I had a vision of numerous ‘dead’ cockroaches being left on their backs on the tiled floor having been spotted and beaten. Whilst casually sat reading a book or watching TV, the creepy horror film music begins as, suddenly and simultaneously, the cretins rise from the dead in a bid to begin their freakish cockroach zombie apocalypse. Ugh. Just the thought makes me involuntarily shake. The thing is, it’s not too much of a stretch of the imagination.
When it finally seemed to accept the presence of the Grim Reaper, I decided it was time for bed. I thanked the universe that I hadn’t been woken at night during this trip to the sensation of them scuttling over my naked body, as had happened last year after a particularly testing week that had me crying “Oh my god, I hate this country!” The cockroaches had been the straw that had broken the camel’s back last summer.
No sooner had I offered my appreciation for this small mercy did I notice a suspicious movement on the side of the mattress. Grabbing a glass and saucer to catch it against the soft surface, the cockroach tried to hide first under the bedsheet and then between the mattress and the wall. Losing the ability to capture it easily, I moved the mattress slightly to keep check on where it went and spotted more big brown bugs moving in the gap, within inches of our pillows.
I gave up hope. I gave up my bid to begin bedtime and decided to pathetically wait for FreeToBeB to return from seeing a friend and get him to deal with the little monsters. We’d been walking past the posh hotels in Gueliz earlier in the evening, where FreeToBeB had joked about how much it would cost to be cockroach-free and instead blessed with a swimming pool. Suddenly, £100 per night for a room didn’t seem like such a terrible option.
My saviour returned within the half hour and promptly began cleaning out the bedroom. He assured me that nothing kills cockroaches. Except maybe bleach.
“Wow!” FreeToBeB exclaimed as he tried to kill one but it refused to submit to death, “If I hit a person like that they’d die! But not this thing!”
As we discussed the survival capabilities of such an apparently humble creature, I continued to spot them. Behind the bedroom door. In the living room. Scuttling down the hallway. On the rug of our host’s room. Even FreeToBeB, wide-eyed, couldn’t believe the frequency with which I was reporting on their appearances. “Perhaps all the cockroaches in Marrakech are in this apartment.” he said. Yeah. Thanks for that.
Up flashed a memory of the scene in Arachnophobia where the spiders burst out and flow from the walls and crevices of their host house – except my mind’s eye replaced the spiders with cockroaches.
FreeToBeB then had a jump-out-of-one’s-skin moment when FreeToBeZ pointed out the critter just about to crawl over his arm as he sat watching TV. Then FreeToBeZ had a scare as FreeToBeB discovered yet another one in the hallway; as it attempted to escape capture it sped straight for FreeToBeZ. She let out a distressed squeal as she scrabbled to get up from the floor and run away, and then dissolved into traumatised tears.
So, this is the thing our family memories are made of.
Thankfully, the night passed without further incidence. Yet in the morning, as FreeToBeZ cuddled up to me and fed in her sleep, she suddenly let out a piercing scream and cried in the manner of one with night terrors.
“What’s the matter, baby?!”
“’Son me! ‘Son me!”
I desperately looked round for the creepy-crawly perpetrator I expected to find: nothing.
“What do you think is on you?”
“Gerri’off! Gerri’off! ‘Nail! ‘Nail!”
“There’s a snail on you?”
“No, darling, there’s no snail on you. You’ve had a bad dream.”
Yes, definitely horror movie material if they cause that sort of dream.
But don’t worry, little one. Just a few more days and we’ll be back in our damp Dorset flat, where the only uninvited night time guests are the slightly less scary slugs and woodlice that come out from their hidey-holes by cover of darkness to explore our basement bedroom.
Yes, just slugs and woodlice in our bedroom back home. No problem. It’s amazing what a bit of travelling can do to change your perspective.
Oh, how we were glared at when we entered the Quiet Zone carriage on that evening train home from Legoland Windsor.
The harried mother had arrived with her two young children, noisy at the transition from waiting to boarding, said mother harried due to the realisation that their reserved seats were in the dreaded area that could just as easily be named the designated ‘Child-Free Zone’.
The old guy at the table adjacent to ours put his head upon his hands and muttered some complaint about our arrival. The lady with him, who I presume was his wife, basically told him to stop being such a miserable git. I silently willed my children to do as they usually (touch wood) do when we make a journey: once settled into their seats, transform into angelic, thoughtful beings who are actually placated by the excitement of our trips.
I’m often amazed by FreeToBeP’s complete change in character when we travel – he forgets to annoy his sister, adopts a slightly dreamy look and becomes absorbed by the travelling. Or resigned to it? Either way, if only we could both learn how to adopt this somewhat meditative state in our home lives.
Six year old FreeToBeP could be described as being on the upper end of the ‘boisterous boy’ scale. A day doesn’t go by where I don’t hear myself frantically asking him to “Calm down and just listen!” when I’ve asked him to stop doing something for the umpteenth time and it appears that, despite his actions being obviously questionable to the adult eye, he has lost any capacity for either hearing or self-control (and, yes, I do realise that my own reactions are a big part of the picture!).
FreeToBeZ, having recently turned 2 years old, is naturally highly spirited by virtue of her being a toddler.
Yet travelling often seems to put children into a different state of being – for leaving familiar territory can quieten the restless mind. It’s true for all of us to some extent.
The mundane everyday realities become somehow more exotic, especially to those who are still relatively new to the big wide world. Perhaps the sandwiches are out of a self-chosen packet from a shop shelf instead of mum’s (boring and familiar) homemade cheese and pickle.
Even the opportunity to sit on the loo seat of a clattering train or as the plane hits some turbulence tinges even our most base needs with an element of adventure.
And, wow, the unknown quality that hangs in the air as you see the look on mum’s face when she realises you’ve just pooed your pants at 30,000ft, minutes away from the compulsory seatbelt-wearing descent whilst all the loos are occupied. Such priceless moments which are just impossible to recreate in the comfort of your own home.
Some children are thirsty to explore the world and seem to become different people when they travel. ‘Demanding’ and ‘wilful’ children are often trying to tell us (through challenging behaviour rather than words) that they’re feeling bored or isolated or under-stimulated. In all of these instances, travelling helps to address these underlying needs.
Also, whilst travelling with minimal possessions and without the daily distractions of our home and working lives, we can become more attentive parents, able to enjoy the beauty and bustle of the great, wide world with our children beside us instead of allowing the little stressors of day-to-day life to become the focus of our days together.
I have no doubt that my children become more relaxed in the knowledge that, on a journey, I have become a captive audience to all their needs and verbalised thoughts – much more genuinely ‘with’ them than if I’m preoccupied by cooking or tidying or the obsessive-compulsive checking of communication devices.
Travelling puts everything into perspective.
When I see my son carrying his own cabin bag between connections or passing through the airport security scanners on his own, it occurs to me just how young and vulnerable he still is. Practicing the empathy and compassion I always hope to practice with my offspring suddenly becomes easier when we’re ‘out there’. My role as protector and provider comes to the fore as we leave behind the security of home sweet home.
I do believe that the earlier you start with family travel the better. My children have always known long car journeys due to our 4-5 hour treks to visit my immediate family at least 4 times a year. I expect that this – along with my natural inclination to practice a flexible lifestyle based on each new day rather than adhere to strict schedules and routines – has helped my children become the adaptable and obliging little travellers that they are.
However, most children’s natural curiosity and malleable nature means that even without having travelled extensively during their early years, older children – however ‘spirited’ – may benefit from the out-of-the-ordinariness and new experiences that travel offers.
Whilst I know many families who feel that the lifestyle I share with my children would not be appropriate for their own children (some of whom have diagnoses for various behavioural issues and learning difficulties, and who need carefully preparing for any changes in routine), there are different degrees of family travel that can allow any family to experiment and note how their children respond. You needn’t jump in the deep end and plan a backpacking trip in another continent; just a family day trip on the train to a town you haven’t visited before can help you gauge how your children react to the concept of travel.
I’m certainly not saying that my own children’s generally calm response is how all children respond to travel. Your child may well be the opposite, and turn from generally obliging and thoughtful to over-excitable and disorganised. This over-exhilaration is perhaps what is expected of children when they travel – but can you blame them? Whilst, as adults, we can usually control our excitement internally, the joy and expectation of ‘holiday time’ is expressed physically by many young children.
We can either live in dread that we’ll have difficult journeys to our destination or reframe our outlook and deal with it creatively (see 10 Mind-Altering Family Travel Tips for more ideas on keeping family travel full of sweetness and light).
All the sights and sounds of travel provide parents with ample opportunity to channel high energy appropriately – all the waiting and sitting gives us lots of time to engage our children in conversation about new and unusual experiences. Shared observations and conversations aid our loving connection to our children which in turn serves as the basis for a strong, respectful relationship (i.e. ensuring it’s more likely that they’ll listen to us when it’s really important that they do).
I also tend to think that the more we look to the spirit of adventure, the more new things there are for everyone – ergo, the more distractions and novelties there are to limit or prevent tantrums of boredom and under-stimulation.
Travelling also gives children the opportunity to take on little responsibilities that they may not usually have, thus keeping restless feet and hands occupied. FreeToBeP often takes care of his passport when we queue for passport control. I was initially wary of this, but in trusting him with the responsibility, I have learnt that he takes it very seriously: the bored child wanting to swing on the barriers becomes a child so focused on using his hands to hold onto his very own important documentation with all his might that nothing else matters.
So, if you’re a parent with a desire to travel yet hear a little voice telling you about all the things that could go wrong with your lively 4 year old, I would encourage you to put aside the worries and give your dreams a chance.
I always say that it’s better to try and fail than to never try and never know.
Yes, things could go wrong. They could also go very, very right.
Have you noticed a difference in your children’s temperament (for better or worse) when you travel? Do you concur with any of the above observations? I’d love to hear your thoughts, so please feel free to leave a comment below if you wish to share your experiences.
A beautiful shot of the waterfalls at Ouzoud in the Middle Atlas Mountains.
Visiting these falls is a really refreshing experience after spending time amidst the dry and parched landscape that much of Morocco has to offer. The river that feeds these falls (Oued El Abid) is a delight to see when, for much of the year, many of the bridges you will cross whilst on the road in Morocco straddle nothing more than a woefully dry riverbed.
I suddenly realise that I’m no longer scared. I have so much to tell you about my experiences of life as a mum who travels, yet have hitherto been possessive of those memories as if sharing them with the world will somehow betray my family. Yet, whilst I sense this first post may be somewhat navel-gazing, I now believe that my valuable experiences can translate into useful information for other people. I hope to share that information via Free To Be.
I have no doubt that I will find myself writing of things that seem ridiculous, naïve or irresponsible in hindsight and that, in documenting the life of my children and my partner via a medium that may never be erased, I will be careful to ensure that some things remain sacred. I am very conscious of the image I am putting across, whilst simultaneously very conscious that I don’t actually want to be putting across a mere ‘image’ – I intend to be open and honest in my accounts of our life. Just not brutally so.
I also recognise that the deployment of this blog is very much a commitment to the path I’m on. I’m not known for my ability to stick at something for long before being whisked off my feet by my next big interest. It feels exhilarating to come out and say “This is me. This is my family. This is my life.”
I have come many miles since my days of life as a new mother, and those miles aren’t just air miles.
I suddenly realise that I’m no longer scared.
The About page gives you a snapshot of where we are now, but I also feel a little background is forthcoming, a description of the seed which has resulted in the fruit of this blog . . .
It’s late summer 2010 and I’m in the midst of training to become a breastfeeding counsellor for a national organisation. I’m given the opportunity to travel up to Scotland for a study weekend and I decide it will also be a good chance to enjoy a brief exploration of a country I had always hoped to visit. Given the go-ahead to have the first spot of ‘me time’ since giving birth to FreeToBeP in Spring 2008 (thanks to my mum agreeing to be the babysitter for any study weekends I’m required to do), I decide to spend a total of four days away – two days for my course plus an additional two days in Edinburgh.
This is no simple feat, for I’ve never left FreeToBeP with anyone else overnight and “mummy milk” remains his comforter of choice. I also decide to fly there; it’s the quickest and cheapest way to get to Scotland from my home on the south coast, thus I deduce that I should just take some Rescue Remedy and go for it.
For some reason – despite only ever taking two short, uneventful flights between the UK and Holland some 12 or so years before – I had a huge fear of flying. That, plus my concern about environmental matters associated with excessive air travel, meant that I’d made some good excuses not to travel anywhere that required a plane. I didn’t even own a passport at that point – lucky for me that for domestic flights you don’t require one providing you have alternative ID such as a driving license.
I’d also developed what I still consider a healthy opinion that there is so much to discover on my own doorstep and so many places yet to visit in Britain itself, that the desire to travel further afield rarely surfaced. Oh, how I cocked my eyebrow and scoffed at the part of my astrological birth chart analysis that said I’d be very likely to live in another country one day (as I type this, I’m seriously considering emigrating).
Well, a mere four days in Scotland, including two days of being the tourist, kindled a fire that has been burning quite steadily ever since. It could be blazing by now, but family matters have a way of keeping this fire under control at the moment.
I sat on the outbound plane reading Sufi philosophy and decided I was quite at one with the idea of my own mortality. This helped with the nerves associated with hurtling through the air in a manmade object controlled by the hands of fallible creatures. I relaxed and felt awed by the fact that I was thousands of feet up in the air, experiencing views that I felt deeply privileged to see – I felt quite close to something that some might call ‘God’, lost in amazement that I could be looking down on the earth in this way, riveted by the sea of clouds, grateful to be living in a time when humanity has access to such technological advances. It was akin to the fascination experienced when all of the unfathomable mysteries of the universe layer themselves up in one’s very vision as one gazes up at the stars. I closed my eyes and felt more at peace in myself than I had in a long time; full of colour and hope. Yes, knowing I had four toddler-free days ahead of me probably helped, but it was much more than that. It was one of those transcendental moments that seem to come out of nowhere. As I opened my eyes and glanced out of the window, I saw a rainbow playing above the plane’s wing as the late afternoon sun bounced off it. Yes, it sounds clichéd and predictable but “it was a sign!”
Looking back, the sense of freedom and life and adventure I recall from this trip are more vivid than the memories of the trip itself. It was definitely a case of something being much more than the sum of its parts. I intend to return to Edinburgh one day – in some ways, it will be like returning to the point of conception; if the remainder of this post is about my rebirth into a new state of being, this captivating Scottish city was surely the place whereat it all began.
A couple of months later and it’s nearing Christmas, the time of year when one starts reflecting on what might be to come during the following 12 months. A browse in my local library has furnished me with the book which is to irrevocably change the course of my life:
I initially picked up The Passion Test as I was a sucker for all things ‘self-development’, yet I didn’t necessarily believe this would have any more significant an impact on my life than the many other books on personal growth that I’d read in my time. But it involved a self-assessment test and, hey, they’re fun to do (at least I think so).
Wow! Years of studying and training in various spiritual paths and techniques didn’t get to the root of my personal destiny quite like this book did. Whilst on the one hand I feel that anything about personal desire does smack of the ego state that Eastern philosophy would have us all forego in order to find our inner (and therefore outer) peace, on the other hand I felt a very real connection with something immense and important as I contemplated what my personal Passion Test had revealed.
I intuitively listed 23 things that I felt passionate about when considering the opener “When my life is ideal I am . . .”
My list included such things as:
I am . . . writing successful poetry, essays and articles.
I am . . . loving and being loved by a partner who I connect with physically, spiritually, mentally and emotionally.
I am . . . frequently having fun with family and friends.
I am . . . enjoying perfect health with vitality, energy and stamina.
Of this list of 23, I then picked the five things that set my nerves tingling, my sense of joy soaring and my face wondrously grinning in excited expectation. Four of them were more abstract ‘feeling’ items that would be very much a case of internalising and acting upon the spiritual and psychological theory I had spent years acquiring. Yet the fifth was much more tangible:
When my life is ideal I am travelling around the world visiting sacred sites, temples and places of natural beauty.
And so it appears that, after years of struggling to figure out my place in the world and wondering why ‘settling down’ is such an elusive state of being for me, all my desires, interests and inspirations boil down to one thing: world travel.
Something I had always said wasn’t an interest or priority is suddenly the single most important thing I know I must do.
The little voice of fear pipes up: “Running away again?” No. This is not about escaping something; this is about making the most of my freedoms and listening to the louder voice that says “You can!”
“You can go and see all the wondrous sights and sites you would like to see.”
“You can satisfy the part of you that has always been interested in and intrigued by other cultures.”
“You can go wherever you want to go without needing to make excuses about costs or other practicalities: you know that when your heart takes the lead, everything you need makes its way to you.”
And the biggest one to clear the biggest doubt of that moment:
“You cantravel with children as a single mother.”
I suddenly realised that I wouldn’t be the first single mother to go out and see the world with her child.
I suddenly realised that I could spend all my life waiting to feel ‘settled’ only to never have really satisfied the constant internal restlessness.
I suddenly realised that the exclamation “I want to travel the world!” resonated to the core of my being.
I suddenly realised that I had nothing to lose and so much to gain.
I suddenly realised that this would be a huge part of my life’s purpose.
I suddenly realised that I was no longer scared.
Was there a big “Aha!” moment for you in discovering the desire to travel? Or, indeed, any other sense of purpose or destiny in your life? Did you trust it and act upon it? I’d love to hear your stories and to know of any other life-changing books, revelations or experiences that set up a new course of life for you – feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below.