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Few cities announce themselves as forcefully as Marrakesh. The moment you pass through Bab Doukkala or any of the other ancient gates in the rose-red ramparts, the medina closes around you with a logic entirely its own: narrow derbs that widen unexpectedly into tiled courtyards, the call to prayer layering over the percussion of copper-beaters, the smell of cumin and charcoal drifting from somewhere just out of sight. The city sits at the foot of the High Atlas mountains in the Marrakech-Safi region, and that geography matters, because the mountains are never quite absent, visible on clear mornings above the rooftops and responsible for the dry, warm climate that makes Marrakesh workable for much of the year.

The medina, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is where most first-time visitors spend the majority of their time, and with good reason. Djemaa el-Fna, the great square at its centre, is one of the more genuinely theatrical public spaces on earth, shifting character from a morning market of orange-juice sellers and herbalists into an evening carnival of storytellers, musicians, and food stalls that has been performing this transformation for centuries. The souks radiate northward from the square, organised loosely by trade: dyers in one quarter, leather workers in another, spice merchants filling the air with colour and heat. The Bahia Palace, built in the late nineteenth century for a grand vizier who intended it to be the finest house in all of Morocco, rewards a guided visit; its painted cedar ceilings and mosaic courtyards are among the most accomplished examples of Moroccan craftsmanship anywhere in the country. The Saadian Tombs, sealed for two centuries and only rediscovered in 1917, carry a different atmosphere entirely, their carved stucco and Italian marble speaking to a dynasty that ruled from this city at the height of its imperial reach.