We wake to a beautiful Perpignan morning. The courtyard outside Jerome's house is bathed in sunshine. After a breakfast of jam and brioche and some dedicated sign-making, Jerome offers to drive us over the border to Spain, since he is going that way to fill up on petrol. I have been appointed official sign-maker, Sofia's efforts resembling the work of a mentally-troubled eight year old.


The landscape Jerome drives us through is spectacular. For the first time on the trip, it feels Mediterranean. The rock formations are white and sun-bleached, the forests an exquisite dark green. "This is Spain". After our protracted farewells, Jerome leaves us at a tollbooth, but we have spent long enough already looking forlornly at the things, so we walk the 200 yards down the embankment of the motorway to the service station.

The service station is like a ghost town, and has a strange, decaying ambience. It's kind of how I imagine purgatory: a deserted, run-down Spanish service station. I hope I am not going to be here for the rest of eternity. Already I am having visions of being kept here against my will, maybe by the giant white globe from The Prisoner.

The totalitarian globe thankfully does not make an appearance, but we are desperately in need of cardboard for sign-making and, as if by magic, a cardboard box is blown towards us by the gusts of wind. However, just as it is drawing towards us, it is mown down by a huge articulated lorry, which sends it flying towards the motorway. A chase ensues and I stop it. Phew. We can once more advertise our destination to drivers.

We are rescued from a lifetime of service station tedium by a Moroccan guy, Mohammed, and his friend who is acting as chaffeur. They stop for us and we dive in, destination: Barcelona. The driver spends the entire trip in a state of perpetual amusement, whilst we chew the fat with Mohammed. After a bit of multilingual chat, Mohammed, frustrated by his rudimentary English, borrows our French to English dictionary and jokingly instructs us to sleep whilst he retreats to work on his sentence. We wait on tenterhooks the entire journey for this perfect sentence, but sadly it never materialises.

Barcelona is as exhilerating and bustling and touristy as I remembered. We make our way to the Youth Hostel by an incredibly byzantine route, and relieve ourselves of our bags, before hitting the town for some food and drinks. Since today is Sofia's birthday, under normal circumstances we would be drinking ourselves into a coma, but she is still stricken with the lurgee and we settle for a hot chocolate and chat. Later in the evening we take the metro to the Sagrada Familia, the Gaudi-designed colossus. Apparently the prjected date for completion is 2026. I've heard Spanish builders have a hasta manana attitude, but 144 years on one building seems excessive. At night the whole edifice is illuminated by well-placed spotlights and looks delightfully Gothic.

Barcelona, it was the second time that we met...

It seems a shame not to stay longer in Barcelona, but we must be moving on. The aim of the game is to spend as much time as humanly possible in Morocco, and so we are on our way. The walk out of town to find a suitable hitching spot is arduous, requiring us to traipse down the longest, straightest road ever. Morale is restored with the purchase of twizzlers that spin in the wind for our backpacks (Barca blue and red for me, the Swedish blue and yellow for miss Sofia), but the sun is fierce and we have to resort to our factor 2000 suncream to avoid a roasting.


Last night we had discussed trying to get hold of tickets for the Barcelona Champion's League game, but decided against it because time was against us. However, after much re-positioning and fruitless sign-waving (we later learn from an acquaintance that Barcelona is notoriously difficult to hitch out of), we've had enough and we decide to abandon hitching for the day and try and snare a pair of tickets for their Champions League game with the German side Schalke 04. It will be a belated birthday celebration for Sofia.

A short taxi hop later and we roll up outside the Nou Camp. It is, as advertised, monumental. It takes us about a quarter of an hour just to walk round the parimeter. The ticket office is finally located and it turns out that the first leg is actually taking place in Germany. Wonderful. A flight to Germany being slightly off-piste, Sofia has a little sleepy whilst I bury our sorrows in the club shop, which offers every conceivable commodity (clocks, tea towels, mugs, bed spreads) in FC Barcelona format. My consumer lusts finally satisfied, I emerge, blinking, into the sunlight. Sofia is still feeling rather delicate and time is ticking. Taking into account the lack of progress made today, and the fact Sofia is still feeling unwell, we take the sensible option and get the train to Valencia. This Is Not Cheating. We are expanding the range of our travel experiences.

At the train station, we run into a British girl who had done the hitch last year and was now doing her year abroad in Barcelona. It appears our green hitch t-shirts gave us away. Damn. We must learn to camoflague ourselves more effectively. The train is an air-conditioned paradise. I sit, plugged umbilically into my walkmen, whilst Sofia hunches herself into a ball, shivering and sweating. The trainline runs directly parallel to the seafront, so there are beautiful ocean views throughout the journey.


We arrive in Valencia late and the streets are quiet. The train station is next to the bull-ring, but unsurprising given the lack of light, there is no bullfighting taking place. Bullfighting in the dark sounds like a recipe for a goring. Unless the matador were to wear night-vision googles, but that seems like an unfair advantage and so rather unsporting.

A hotel is located rather quickly. The hotel is rather cramped but we just crave somewhere to crash, and Sofia is asleep virtually the second her weary head hits the pillow, whilst I luxuriate in the delights of foreign language television.

Valencia looks much better in daylight. The sun is shining, and the profusion of white buildings makes the whole place look rather regal. We overdose on pastries and then set about getting a lift. We make the long trek to the city limits where, lo and behold, we espy another hitch couple, looking hot and frustrated. We form a queue. A car stops and, what do you know? They have space for two more! A four-way hitch! Luckily, the driver is a laidback guy in blue and white Bermuda shirt, who chuckles to himself whilst these four crazies talk at each other in dizzying patterns.

We disembark at a tollbooth, surrounded by stunning mountainous terrain. I could quite happily stand and soak up the scenery for hours, but my sightseeing hopes are dashed when Libby and Will snag a lift and, once again, there's room for four. The more the merrier! The driver is a vivacious black Brit called Pamela, who expresses parental concern for us. Virtually the second we slam the door, she asks if any of us had any Premier League contacts as her son, living in Hackney, London, wanted to be a Premier League footballer. Don't we all son, don't we all. The glorious Pamela gives us a lift to the tollbooths outside of Alicante where, whilst decamping from her car, we manage to accidentally filch her red fleece, both groups presuming that it belongs to the other party.

As Pamela disappears into the distance, we start signing and soon attract the attention of a startlingly handsome gendarme. After some flirtation, it becomes clear that he is only trying to usher us to an area where we are not going to get run over. Bless. No matter where we stand, no-one appears to want to stop, and we waste a futile two hours hawking ourselves to no avail. By seven o' clock we are weary and decide to head into Alicante for the night. We pen a big "CENTRO" sign and make the short hop to Alicante town centre.


Once installed in our hotels rooms, Sofia and I take our two friends out to try and procure some paella and initiate them in the ways of grog. The paella is procured and eaten (it is only at this stage that I find out that I don't like paella) and the bottle of dessert wine is polished off. Our appetites sated, we hit Alicante in search of the thinking pirate's favourite tipple, grog. After a catalogue of confused glances, we find an Irish bar where a glamourpuss barmaid is happy to whip us up some grogs once we provide her with the recipe. Deal. Grogs all round! We stagger back to our hotel slightly tipsy and fall into a blank and unthinking sleep.

This is to be the Day of Hitch. Whilst our friends are wimping out and getting the ferry to Morocco from Almeria instead, we shall not be defeated. Alicante to Algericas in a day. It can be done. It's only 10 inches or so, according to the map.

Our first lift is to Murcia. An elderly gentleman, wizened but young at heart, stops and picks us up. He tells us that he used to hitchhike in his youth. His english is on a par with our Spanish, but we coexist happily together and listen as he sings along to Spanish crooners. I bet he was a catch when he was young.

It is as we approach Murcia that we make our first stupid decision of the day. Having just got a lift with great ease from Alicante, we decide that rather than get dropped off at a service station, we will go into Murcia. Three hours later and with tempers fraying, a taxi is required to take us to the next service station. First though we have to convince him that we are actually prepared to pay our way and that we are not expecting him to give us a hitch. Saga over and we are on our way. The taxi driver turns out to be good company and drops us at the perfect spot. Cream cheese sandwiches and a large bottle of iced tea later and we are refreshed and ready for our next lift. After a few false-starts, we are approached by a lorry driver who agrees to give us a lift to Grenada. He's a little concerned that there is two of us, as Spanish law dictates that there should be only one person riding up front in the cab with the driver, so he tells me to hide if we encounter any police.


It seems that such concerns were not merely trucker paranoia, as we actually are stopped by the police. I am asleep at the time, and so wake to a static vehicle and whisperings emanating from the cab. As it happens, the police show no interest whatsoever in my existence and are far more interested in ascertaining that our drivers' lorry is not packed with cocaine (Jerome had told us that Barcelona to Morocco was a classic coke smuggling route). Thankfully our truck is given a clean bill of health and we are free to go.

The Andaluscian scenery is staggering. Mountains roll by, and a low sun casts each new vista in a syrupy, nostalgic glow. Alarmingly, our truck is carrying a very heavy load (we didn't like to ask) and so after crawling up every incline, it careers down the other side with heart-racing rapidity. We are dropped at a small truckers' stop just as the sun is setting, just about intact. The whole thing is like a slice of prime Americana, relocated to Southern Spain.


After taking in the scene, our sign is spotted in a matter of moments by an eagle-eyed Parisian. He is on his way to rendezvous with friends in Malaga for a hard-earned lads holiday and has just driven the 20 hours from Paris non-stop, as the cans of Red Bull on his dashboard testify. Not only is he good company, but the in-car jukebox is perfect: Ben Harper soothes our weary limbs, Michael Jackson gets us tapping our toes, and a CD of desert blues seems to chime perfectly with our surroundings. The sky is festooned with stars, and the silhouetted landscape rushes by. I feel impossibly tired, but happy.

The Parisian speaks superb English, and we talk of everything under the sun. The miles zip by and we are soon in Malaga. The Parisian drops us off at a small service stop on the far side of Malaga. Unloading our bags, he apologises profusely for not giving us a lift all the way to Algeciras, even though that would be an extra hours drive there and back. We tell him not to be so silly, but nevertheless he hands us a 50 euros note as a parting gift. We demur, but he is insistant. We are flabberghasted by such generosity. People are extraordinary.

Standing in the petrol station forecourt bathed in an artificial light, we ply our wares to the passing traffic - what little of it there is. Spaghetti Junction this is not. Our minds addled by fourteen hours of hitchhiking, we soon grow restless and start larking about. I fear our behaviour will stop people from picking us up, but it actually attracts their attention and we are soon riding with a German man and his French boss. Once again when I tell them I am from Manchester, I get the classic rejoinder: "Ahhh, Manchester United, Christiano Ronaldo!" Sofia tries out her German, whilst I snooze and look out of the window. The picturesque scenery has faded away, replaced by lights and buildings.

Our lift had planned to leave us at the junction between Gibraltar and Algeciras but overshot slightly, leaving us on the outskirts of Gibraltar at a tiny petrol station. (Note to self: might there be money in a Guide to the Service Stations and Petrol Stations of Western Europe?) It is well past midnight and frankly we do not fancy our chances. Standing at the roundabout, risking becoming road death statistics, we vow to try twenty more cars before admitting defeat and calling a taxi. The sequence runs as follows: 1. Nothing. 2. Nothing. 3. Indicates with an apologetic expression and a flick of the thumb that he is going the opposite way. 4. Nothing. 5. Nothing. 6. "They're stopping, they're stopping!"

And so for the final leg of our journey we share a car with a young lesbian couple. They seem bemused that we are hitchhiking in the middle of the night, and drop us off at Ground Zero, the ferry port in Algeciras. By the time we arrive, we have been hitching for 16 hours and our minds are shot. What's worse, I am famished, but help is at hand in the shape of the all-night truckers' cafe by the port. Sofia is reluctant to enter, fearing perhaps chair fights and pillage, but I promise her I will defend her honour. I look forward to some nourishing stodge - it will be anthropological. However, upon close inspection, the food looks unfit for human consumption, like the queasy colour photographs from a 1970's cookbook. But less appetising. Truckers are clearly sturdy souls with superhuman immune systems, but E. coli would have a field day with my skimpy frame. Suddenly breakfast does seem so far away.

The hotel is on the seafront, overlooking the port, and despite some unseemly water seepage in the bathroom, the room is big and the beds are comfy. Sofia showers whilst I channel hop (there seems to be the choice of news, gameshows or pornography) and savour our hitching feats. We've made it! The hitch, the first leg of the trip, is over. Alicante to Algeciras, over 500 kilometres, in a day. Our hearts swell with pride. Although perhaps it's just hitch-induced angina. Tomorrow Morocco, a new mistress, awaits us!

The ferry crossing is calm and time whistles by. The crossing itself takes around two hours, which we spend in a state of grand excitement. Onboard the ship we are made to fill in forms by the police telling them where we are heading.

We disembark, and after some general oohing and ahhing, we set to, and try and corall a taxi cab into giving us a lift to the train station. The cab drivers have formed a cartel, which means they can charge exorbitant fares and refuse to barter. Still, our driver is in good spirits and soon we are on the train, heading to Fes. The train is hot and rather crowded. A little girl totters over and looks at us uncertainly. I try my usual under 5s party piece - making a popping sound with a hooked finger and the inside of my mouth. Instead of the usual look of joy and awe, she looks panicked and begins to cry. They do things differently here.

The journey passed uneventfully enough, and soon we are discharged in Fes. After some
We follow our new friends to the youth hostel in the old city, and head out for some food. Sitting under the glow of the restaurant time, with dusk falling, I tuck into a much anticipated plate of couscous and vegetables.

Back at the youth hostel, we make enquires about going to the desert, and arrange a guide for our tour of the old city tomorrow.

After a light, leisurely breakfast, we congegrate to meet our tour guide for the streets of old Fes. He loo

The "tour" is essentially a glorified shopping spree. We are taken to shop after shop, vendor upon vendor, and encouraged to buy things. Our guide quickly earns himself the name "The Comissionaire".

There is a quibble with some of the others about payment. Things are degenerating. We pay him off and instead go and explore by ourselves.


The only food option is the local outpost of McDonalds. Sofia takes great delight in the discovery of the "McArab" burger. Outside a rather sinister Ronald McDonald statue sits on a bench.

We wake at 6am. I didn't even know this time existed. I take a cold shower, and stumble into my clothes.

monkeys
Desert

My camel's name, I decide, is Bernard (said "Ber-nah-ddd" as if you are a left-bank intellectual, rather than a Yorkshire miner). He is clearly at one with the desert, and


There once was a camel called Hasou,
to tame him you'd need a lasso
He took Natalia the fair,
right back to his lair,
and when she got home she decided to sue.