How to Escape from Algecieras  Plan A: Train to north of Seville. Problem: The train line is closed for works❎ Plan B: Bus to north of Seville.  Problem: Can't take 4 bikes on the bus❎ Plan C: Ride to Seville Problem: doesn't leave enough time to ride the bits we want to❎ Plan D: Hire a van and drive to Salamanca then ride from there.✅ It's a strange feeling being in a vehicle after a few weeks on the bikes. Our motorway follows the route of an old Roman Road and runs alongside a railway, a pilgrims path to Santiago and Eurovelo 1. Lots of history and beautiful scenery speed past the windscreen. At Salamanca we now have 6 days to ride to Santander and hastily create a route that allows a reasonable daily milage. The scenery slows down to a more familiar pace as our pedals start turning again.  Most of this feels very different to Morocco. The roads are long, straight, flat and quiet. There seems to be nobody here. Passing through sleepy villages, the only signs of life are the whisps of cigar smoke and sound of chatter emanating from the bar. Tagines and mint tea have been replaced by tortilla, chorizo and cafe con leche.   But the arid colour palette is similar and the low rise, slightly crumbling clusters of houses could be a smarter Moroccan village scene if it wasn't for the huge Catholic church dominating the skyline instead of a mosque.  The flatlands eventually give way to a rocky ridge of hills that spill fierce winds from their slopes. It's a frigid wind too, chilling us to the coldest we've been on the entire trip. Four weeks ago the climbing would have been a strain but with legs honed in the High Atlas we can spin up and over with relative ease. Then it's down from 1011m to sea level. Pushing the bikes to now familiar limits. A cycle path takes us into the bustle of Santander and we pick our way through to the port where our boat sits waiting to complete our journey back to the UK. We'll have 22 hours at sea to try and process everything we've seen together over the last few weeks. I suspect it won't be nearly long enough.

Pop quiz: Does Spain have a land border with Morocco? Answer below.... It's the last few days of the Moroccan leg of the trip and we mix with the tourists in Chefchouen before climbing through the now obligatory route through the town's tip. It must have been a joke by the Bikepacking.com route designer to include a tour of all the tips in the country along the way. Benni rejoins us and we enjoy smooth roads for an easy morning's ride.  We could have been even more chilled out if I'd accepted one of at least a dozen offers of hash along the way. Copious amounts of marijuana are grown on these hillsides and it seems that everyone is a dealer. Another spectacular gorge opens up before us in the evening light and we settle into a campsite right by the river. The same gorge then offers Tara and I our final off road section as we pick our way along a thin ribbon of donkey track perched on a ledge part way up the cliff. The view is magnificent but most of our attention is focussed on staying upright. Back on the road, the deep blue of the Mediterranean appears on the horizon and becomes our companion for the last 2 days. Through Tatouan we find ourselves in what feels like a completely different country. Expensive coffee shops sit next to huge gated communities, golf courses and BMW dealerships. This is where the wealth of Morocco comes to retire and it's a world away from the mountain villages from just a few days ago. Then we reach the border. Police patrol the road leading up to it and there's a tall fence topped with barbed wire. We get waved up to the first booth and asked what is in our panniers. There's not much investigation after peeling back the first layer of dubious smelling kit so we get stamped out and say Hola to Spain. This is Ceuta, a small enclave that has belonged to Spain since 1578. We spend our last night in Africa high up on the peninsula with views over the straight of Gibraltar including the rock itself. Mainland Spain feels within touching distance and will be our destination in the morning. There's still some planning to be done as to how we will be getting home but it will probably involve some buses, trains, cycling and a ferry.

Moroccan kids seem to have a period in their lives where it's compulsory to be as annoying as possible. Shouting, running into the road, trying to grab passing bikes and occasionally throwing stones are universally accepted behaviour. One cheeky little tike even offered to push Zoe's bike only to steal her favourite merino socks from a pannier in the process. Then at a certain age, and we're not sure when or how, they become some of the nicest human beings you're likely to encounter. Perhaps it's the last module they teach before the end of school.  Refreshed from Fez, the road winds out of the city and inevitably ramps back up towards the sky. Sometimes smooth, sometimes bumpy our route takes us further and further north. The hills are now lush and green with acres of olive groves that offer somewhere to camp and some of the tastiest olives so far.  We work our way round a huge reservoir and are now feeling the heat from being at a lower altitude. Bottles get filled and drained on the hour every hour. There are some chunky mountains surrounding us but this is much more densely populated than the Atlas with villages and towns on ridges and plateaus all along the road. People are busy everywhere which means more interaction with kids but also some more kind hospitality. After another unexpected but much needed night with a family the group splits three ways. Benni has a fever so chooses to spend the day resting. Zoe and Kirsty have a stretch of road down to Chefchouen while Tara and I are keen for a challenge.  Sometimes you have to be careful what you wish for. The 44km route through Tallasamtane National Park proves to be one of the toughest days either of us have been stupid enough to spend on a touring bike. We eventually drop down into Chefchouen just before sunset battered, bruised and hungry but somehow still happy that we'd gone that way. There are just a few days left now until we reach The Med. Time to ease off the gas and wring as much out of that time as we can. We won't miss the kids though.

In Morocco you should always pour a glass of tea then immediately return it to the pot. Then each glass is filled from as great a height as you dare. Proficient pourers can get the pot near to the ceiling with the glass still on the table and not spill a drop. Leaving Oum Rabia we're pleased to see that the rain has stopped and the blue skies are back. From here until Tangiers we are loosely following The Route of the Caravans which has been published on Bikepacking.com and claims to offer some of the best off road tracks and trails in this part of the country. Half the group loves this idea while the other half prefers smooth tarmac (as as near as you can get to smooth in Morocco) so Kirsty has devised options to suit both sides. For each off road section there's a road option so everyone can choose which one they want to do. At our first split point, Kirsty and Zoe continue on the road while Tara, Benni and I begin a 20km loop through the forest and across the moor. Along the way we meet two Belgians carrying little more than a bivvy bag and a pair of flip flops, traveling light, moving fast and sleeping rough. They marvel at our heavy rigs but we have the luxury of time so don't mind that our progress is a bit slower.  We regroup with the others to camp together and share some trails in the morning into the smart town of Ifrane then split again. The next section puts the rock into Morocco. There are rocks by the trail, rocks on the trail, rocks in the puddles and a rock that throws me over the bars on a fast descent. I'll have sore ribs for a few days, but thankfully the bike is unharmed. We're now approaching Fez and after being hosted by another wonderful family we enter the modern city and then the labyrinth that is the ancient Medina to arrive at our traditional riad. We're ready for our day off which gives us a chance to fettle the bikes, clean clothes, refuel on tasty food and Benni and I experience a local hammam. It's not exactly a soothing spa treatment but we leave about as clean as we can possibly get and with minimal bruising.  We may be out of the Atlas Mountains but there should still be plenty of great riding ahead as we pedal north.

Benni!....Benni!......Benni! Benni! Benni! Benni! Benni! I must sound like a high volume, low quality Elton John tribute as I chase after the cyclist that has just zoomed past the cafe where we're all sat. It's been a week since our farewell at the top of the Tizi n'Tichka and we weren't sure if we'd see him again but after a detour further south, Benni has caught us up again. He joins us to warm his toes by the fire in the cafe. We're on the last stretch in the High Atlas which means we're rewarded with lots of descending down to Tounfite. One hotel is full, the other is a smoke-filled working man's hostel so we huddle near a street BBQ to weigh up our options. As the rain starts, the prospect of pitching our tents doesn't seem too appealing. But our saviour comes in the form of Khalid who asks if he can help before offering his home for us to stay the night. His whole family embrace us and we're given henna tattoos by his sisters, warmed to boiling point by their stove and fed the largest pile of cous cous we've ever seen. Once again, Moroccan hospitality leaves us grateful and humbled. With the snow covered peaks behind us, we pedal into the wind across a barren plain into Boumia. The tarmac disappears and we're challenged with a steep rocky climb that takes us towards Khanifra National Park and the Middle Atlas Mountains. These feel more alpine, with dense forest interspersed with lush green pastures. The only clue that we're not in Switzerland are the monkeys calling to the rest of the troop from the tree tops. Patient shepherds watch huge flocks of sheep and goats. Between them the fruit orchards are beginning to sprout coloured blossom. Each afternoon we've been dodging thunder storms and on a last, speedy descent into Oum Rabia we get a soaking. The five of us pile into a guest house and hang our soggy kit off every available hook. Luckily Moroccan floors are always tiled so the drips can be mopped up easily in the morning. From here we begin to eye up some more off road routes that have some of the group excited and others more apprehensive. Hopefully there will be a way to satisfy everyone.

The drummers beat a rhythm on their bendir while the crowd chant in unison. We join the villagers to form a circle surrounding the musicians linking arms, clapping and gently bobbing our shoulders. The circle moves round as the music picks up pace while some people break away to dance in a frenzy in the centre of the circle, arms held wide and grinning from ear to ear. When we eventually peel ourselves away from the party we ask our new friend Azi what the occasion is. He tells us this happens every night in Tamalout "It's a crazy village!" It never ceases to amaze me how chance can change a journey like this in an instant. To get to that party we'd ridden over a 2900m pass capped in snow. We'd camped in a small copse of silver birch and then ridden along a long valley filled with terraced farmland before climbing further into the mountains. The asphalt roads had given way to rocky dirt tracks with fast flowing streams to cross, filled with ice-cold melt water. The excitement of a 10km descent was soon forgotten when the reward was a steep climb, just as long. But we arrived at the top of what we hoped was the last climb of the day just before Mohammed in his little Dacia. He jumped out of the car and in broken French began a conversation regarding football, our love of Morocco and eventually where we planned to spend the night. "Vouz restez a chez moi" he told us.  With directions to his village, we sped down the mountain and into Tamalout to be greeted by his cousin Azi who spoke very good English. Surrounded by excited children we push up to his house and spend the rest of the evening eating, dancing and meeting what felt like the entire community. Everyone knows everyone here and Azi explains that they all help each other out. This is why Mohammed wanted to help us and had offered the invitation without a second thought.  The whole experience is a highlight of the trip and a glimpse of a life that is so far removed from our own. We continue on the next day with new friendships, full hearts and an eagerness to find out what might happen around the next corner.

The saying goes that there's no such thing as a tailwind, you just feel stronger on some days. So with new found power we make good progress on the flat, sandy road out of Ourzazarte and manage to tuck down into a dry river bed to camp for the night. Eventually the hills loom large again and we enter the Dades valley where there's enough geography to fill a GCSE textbook. It's taken millions of years to twist and push and carve this incredible landscape and we feel very privileged to be riding our bikes through the middle of it all. Winching up a ladder of hairpins through a steep sided gorge we then climb higher to follow the rim of an enormous canyon with swirling patterns and colours of rock that wouldn't look out of place on a Van Gough masterpiece. The day is amplified by the fact that the new moon has signalled the end of Ramadan so Eid al Fitr has begun. Everyone is dressed in their finest robes and coloured, leather shoes as they happily greet friends and family and begin feasting. Unlike the previous month, nobody goes hungry today and in a small village we're invited to join a family in their home to share in their celebrations. The table is laden with dates, cake, bread, olives and endless tea. We're encouraged to 'mangez, mangez!' and to stay for a few days. If only we had more time. Allah continues to send his blessings with blue skies and friendly greetings for the rest of the date. Excited children offer henna-stained palms for high fives. Another man loads us up with bread and fruit before introducing us to his pet stork. An Eid that we'll always remember, we end the day at an auberge at the foot of the highest pass that we'll cross on the trip. Insha'Allah our legs will stay strong to the top.

Unzipping the tent we discover that we're now pitched on a vegetable patch up above the river valley. Jamal is one of the men that had asked us to move on the night before and this is his land. Perhaps by way of an apology he provides a hearty breakfast for us that more than makes up for the night time upheaval.  Well fed, we climb back on to the bikes and begin two days of climbing. First up to 1800m on double digit gradients and then on shallower roads to the top of the famous Tizi n'Tichka at 2260m. Our legs eventually give up trying to complain. Dropping down off the pass we enter an arid landscape of firey reds and yellow ochre. It's difficult to know which of the villages are inhabited and which ones are being reclaimed by the mountains but there is life in the form of tiny bakeries and basic shops to help keep us going. We speed down to the edge of the desert and into Ourzazate on an unfriendly highway. Without a hard shoulder it's a nerve wracking experience but we make it into the city in one piece.  Benny has now raced on ahead so we're back to a group of 4 and now have two days in the desert before returning to the mountains. I think we already know which landscape we prefer!

There's nothing quite like the sound of the call to prayer to let you know you're somewhere more exotic. It echoes out across the sandy, brown city as we sip mint tea on a roof top terrace. A day is enough for us to get our fill of the narrow alleyways of the souks in Marrakech, laden with coloured ceramics, ornate lanterns and hopeful vendors.  Before leaving town we load up with couscous, porridge and biscuits then steer towards the mountains on the horizon. There's one more week of Ramadan so we're not sure when and if we'll be able to resupply. It turns out we needn't have worried as we soon find fresh oranges and dates from friendly roadside stalls but have to be careful not to eat them in front of anyone while the sun's up. After 25km we turn off the smooth road and quickly scramble for traction on a steep gravel road. It's a taster of what The High Atlas is likely to throw at us and leaves us breathless but beaming. We collect another cycle tourist on the way in the form of Benny from Germany and our peloton of 5 rolls up and over the foot hills slowly but surely. At the end of the day we find a perfect riverside campspot and enjoy the evening with the snowy mountain tops peaking down from further up the valley. Less perfect is the rude awakening by the local sheriff and a policeman at 11pm. They can't be convinced that we are happy where we are so we're forced to decamp and follow them into the night. It seems that Morocco is going to be full of surprises. #routeofcaravans #morococycletouring

A change of plan means a change of map. We were supposed to be flying to Dubai today to begin riding to Muscat but the world had other ideas thanks to Don and Ben. We're extremely fortunate to have the luxury of being able to switch to a more stable region to ride our bikes but will be thinking of all of those who don't have that option at the moment. Next stop Marrakech. #marrakechtomadrid #atlasmountains #routeofcaravans #cycletouring