THINK OF MOROCCO, and a treasure house of tradition comes to mind.
It’s a land of medieval medinas with their maze-like streets, of fabulous Almohad and Andalucían buildings adorned with intricate mosaics, and of unending beaches running along the Mediterranean and Atlantic shores. A crossroads par excellence, it’s where the Arab world meets the African and the Berber. But best of all, Morocco is a land that never fails to surprise in the most enchanting and alluring way.
Less than an hour’s drive from Fès, is the small town of Ifrane. Developed as an Alpine-style resort by the French during their Occupation, it is one of the Kingdom’s most unexpected and precious delights.
The drive from Fès to Ifrane, set high in the fir forests of the Atlas Mountains, begins with olive groves, and with roadside stalls selling honey and pomegranates. Then, as you progress upwards, the food stalls give way to others, where villagers tout fossils and nuggets of quartz, mined in the Atlas.
The road passes fields in which sheep and goats graze, in a land once farmed by the Romans – they grew vines there. Eventually, after a thousand twists and turns, you reach the snowline, with the little town of Ifrane a little further beyond.
Surrounded by nature trails and hiking routes, and packed with cafés, Ifrane surprises all first time visitors – whether they be Moroccans or from farther afield. Covered by a thick blanket of snow through much of the winter, the town is quite European in feel.
There’s none of the detail so readily associated with Morocco – no arched doorways, no mosaics, or geometric friezes carved into plasterwork. Instead, Ifrane is a haven of sloped Alpine roofs and timber frames, set against a backdrop of woodland. It’s straight out of Chamonix.
In the central square there’s the scent of chocolate-covered crêpes and the aroma of log-fires burning. The only tell-tale sign that you’re in Morocco are the flowing jelaba robes, worn by many to keep out the winter chill. And the storks. Their voluminous nests crown too many rooftops to count, and are more Moroccan than almost anything else.
At Café La Paix, a throwback to the days of the French era, I met a retired American couple, George and Gene. They had perma-tans, perfect teeth, and told me both at once that Morocco was their greatest love.
‘We come twice a year,’ said Gene. ‘After spending a few days in Fès, we come up here to Ifrane.’
‘It’s a kind of therapy to balance the frenzy of the Fès medina,’ added Harry.
I asked if he skied. Harry thumped a fist to his thigh. There was a metallic sound.
‘Duff leg,’ he said. ‘Korea’s to blame.’
We sat in awkward silence for a while – Harry lost in the memories of youth, Gene applying lipstick liberally to her oversized smile, and I staring up at a pair of storks robbing twigs from another pair to build their own nest. The birds were all filled with a wonderful enthusiasm, as if they couldn’t quite believe their luck. And, looking around, I could see the source of their zeal.
Ifrane is a mountain sanctuary like no other.
Much favoured by Hassan II, the former King of Morocco, the town has long hosted royalty, and is fêted for its celebrity associations. A champion of the outdoors life, Hassan II would spend months at a time there, moving his royal Court into the mountains when he tired of the capital, Rabat. With its long perimeter fence, the royal palace is in pride of place on the road towards Azrou. In the days of the former King’s rule, a constant stream of dignitaries would make their way up to Ifrane to be received at Court.
A great many of his VIP guests were accommodated at an imposing Alpinesque chalet set on a promontory just above the town. This mixture of royal guesthouse and luxury hotel grew a little tired in recent years. But, after six years of work, not to mention a fortune spent on it, Hotel Michlifen Ifrane – owned by King Mohammed VI – has risen like a phoenix above Morocco’s own Alpine backdrop. With the finishing touches complete, the hotel has reopened to visitors once again.
The Michlifen is one of the cosiest and most luxurious travel hideaways in the Kingdom. Inspired by the simple architecture of the Alps, it’s a sanctuary of natural pine panelling and of dressed stone walls, of painted Scandinavian wood, sculptures and antique furniture.
The hotel’s main lobby is vast but informal, filled with dazzling mountain sunshine by day and understated mood-lighting by night. The exposed stone pillars, the bare wooden floor, and the deep leather couches, give a sense of the American Rockies, rather than the Moroccan Atlas.
While the décor maybe Occidental, the service and warmth are definitely Moroccan. On weekends the hotel is filled with families who arrive mostly from Casablanca and Rabat. As elsewhere, the national obsession with doting over children certainly reaches Ifrane’s snow-covered peaks.
Visiting with my family, I tracked my little son down to the kitchen, where he was being indulged by the chef with a pot of chocolate and a spoon. And my daughter spent an entire afternoon playing checkers with the barman whom, I noticed, always let her win.
A stone’s throw from the hotel, laden in snow, the main square of Ifrane was alive with locals and with visitors through the short winter days. Students from the Al-Akhawayn University pack the cafés. Established through an entente cordiale between the Saudi Arabian and Moroccan Royal Families, the University is one of the most prestigious in Morocco. All around, there were storks building messy twig nests high on the rooftops, and children darting between the poplar trees down near the lake.
In dazzling sunshine, we set off on a hike through the forest.
The small town of Ifrane was soon well behind us, the snow crunching beneath our boots. We walked for miles, weaving a haphazard path between the firs, pausing every so often to hurl snowballs at each other. There was silence, except for birdsong, and the muffled cries of children down in the valley below.
After two hours of hiking, we came to a clearing where a family were gathering sticks. Their faces chapped from the wind, their hands bleeding from thorns, they seemed startled at seeing us. The husband dropped the branch he was holding, and raced over to greet us.
Welcoming us all to that part of the forest, he asked after our health in the prolonged salutations of Moroccan mountain life. His wife and daughters inched forward gingerly and kissed my wife and children.
Minutes later, we found ourselves invited to share their midday meal. No amount of excuses could curb their overwhelming hospitality. As we tucked into a feast of lamb tagine and fresh-baked bread, a fire was lit to warm us, the family throwing on all the twigs they had gathered that morning.
‘The children must eat!’ the husband exclaimed again and again, picking out the best pieces of meat and passing them to my little son and daughter, ‘because children are a gift from God.’
I asked how the winter had gone.
‘The snow’s been deep this year,’ said the man, ‘and that’s good because more people come and ski.’ He paused, wiped a hand over his mouth. ‘I have lived here my entire life,’ he said, ‘I was born in a little house just over there, as my own children were. And I must tell you there is something that I don’t understand.’
‘What?’
‘Why people do want to go up and down all day on skis? It just makes no sense at all!’
In the afternoon we drove to the resort of Michlifen, after which the hotel in Ifrane is named. We reached it through an unending fir forest, lost in the mountain crags of the Atlas.
Although far less organized than European resorts, it has an old world charm that’s been lost through commerciality from much of Europe. Hauled up the mountainside by a simple lift system, skiers were slaloming their way downhill with differing degrees of style. What amused me was the complete absence of pretension. It was as if no one was looking at anyone looking at them. And, for challenged skiers like me, there’s nothing so precious as the feeling that no one’s bothered about how many times you fall.
Huddled along the road were local people with sledges, clusters of used ski equipment for hire, and even horse-drawn sleighs.
While standing at the side of the road bartering for a pair of tenth-hand skis, I got talking to an aged Frenchman. He said he could remember the old days when Ifrane was packed with the chic European crowd through the winter season.
‘You should have seen it,’ he said a glint in his eye. ‘We used to drink Pastis on the square, and eat fondue until late in the night, washed down with a nice Muscadet.’
I asked if Ifrane had lost its magic. The Frenchman waved a finger at me hard.
‘Non, non, monsieur,’ he replied, ‘it’s better than ever.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course it is. Take a look around you! The French never would have permitted such joie de vivre as this!’