Mirhleft, Moroccan Atlantic coast fishing village pretty much as it looked when I was there is 1976. We used to get our smoke and fresh fish daily from 'Mohammed Le Pecheur' as he walked up teh street with his daily catch, and slow cook it with some few onions and vegetable in a traditional charcoal tagine pot- a spoon of oil, a spoon of water, a pinch or salt and pepper and leave it cook for hours. I was always wonderful to eat. We stayed there 2 weeks then went to Agadir, which we hated. So we went back to Mirhleft for another 4 weeks.
Mirhleft is a village grand
Made of pink rock and yellow sand.
It's good to laze besides the sea,
And sit and watch, just you and me,
The sunset or the street outside,
Where nothing changes with the tide.
Mirhleft, village by the sea,
A place to stay if you'd be free.
A place to sit and rest a while,
Watch the donkeys single file,
Walking up and down the street-
Burdened in this sticky heat.
And I wonder why those men,
Walk up the street and back again;
Maybe it's to look at me,
Watching them whilst drinking tea?
Sitting outside in the sun,
Wondering what they do for fun.
Then I dream that we ride our bikes,
Or catch a bus or go hitch-hike,
Up the valleys, over mountains,
Rivers deep and magic fountains,
Fields of kif and grass and hash,
Where together we can rest, smashed!
But I return to hotel room,
Where all the morn and afternoon,
We can lay and smoke and play,
But in this place one has to pay:
Five Dirhams a gram: