The Road to Volubilis

The journey began in the early morning, as the sun cast its first light over the ancient city of Meknes. I found myself in a comfortable 9-seater minivan, the hum of the engine a soothing backdrop to the rhythmic chatter of Anouar, our guide. His command of Spanish was impeccable, and his stories wove a tapestry of history and culture that kept us all engaged. The road stretched out before us, a ribbon of asphalt winding through the Moroccan landscape, each turn revealing a new vista of rugged beauty.

Our first stop was Moulay Idriss, a town perched precariously on a hill, its whitewashed buildings clinging to the slopes like barnacles to a ship’s hull. The air was thick with the scent of spices and the distant echo of the call to prayer. A local guide led us through the narrow streets, his voice a soft murmur in the morning air. The tour was free, though a small tip was customary, a token of appreciation for the stories shared and the secrets revealed.

Echoes of the Past

Volubilis awaited us, a city frozen in time, its ruins a testament to the grandeur of a bygone era. The entrance fee was a small price to pay for the privilege of walking among the ghosts of the past. The Arch of Caracalla loomed above us, its stones worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. The Basilica and Capitoline Temple stood silent, their columns reaching skyward like the fingers of a giant hand grasping for the heavens.

I wandered through the ruins, my footsteps echoing in the stillness. Each stone seemed to whisper a story, tales of emperors and empires, of triumph and tragedy. The sun climbed higher in the sky, casting long shadows that danced across the ancient stones. It was a place of haunting beauty, a reminder of the impermanence of all things.

A Taste of Meknes

As the afternoon sun began its descent, we made our way to Meknes. The city was alive with the hustle and bustle of daily life, a vibrant tapestry of sights and sounds. We were given time to explore at our leisure, to lose ourselves in the labyrinthine streets of the Medina, to taste the flavors of Morocco in the bustling markets.

I found a quiet corner in a small café, the aroma of mint tea mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread. The city unfolded before me, a living canvas painted in shades of ochre and gold. As the day drew to a close, we gathered once more, our hearts full of the stories we had heard and the sights we had seen.

The journey back to Fes was a quiet one, the road a familiar friend guiding us home. The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. It was a day of discovery, a journey through time and space, a reminder of the beauty that lies in the forgotten corners of the world.