It is easy to get lost in the Marrakech Medina – a cliché, but it’s true, and also half of the fun. The buildings are squeezed together, to use all available space, and limit the penetration of the hot sun to the heads of those walking within. Through these narrow alleyways people throng day and night, between stalls that sell everything imaginable, dodging the vans, taxis, carts and bikes that compete for space with a sound of the horn and relentless momentum.

The business of the Medina is trade, transactions completed on the street or in wardrobe-sized shops piled high with products for sale. The cries follow you everywhere… “My friend…” the shopkeepers say, with a smile on their face. “Look in my shop…just a look…no need to buy…” And if you want to, it seems as if there is nothing you can’t take home with you. Carpets, scarves, pottery, leather, tables, door frames, candle-holders, all produced in backstreet workshops and sold on the main tourist routes. No money, no problem. A friend two shops down has a machine for AmEx, Visa or Mastercard.

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What to say about Stockholm? It was the one place in Sweden where I already had certain preconceived ideas about what to expect; from the islands and the parklands to the particular style of houses of the old town quayside that I had seen on pictures before we left. We stayed at a campsite in the woods and right on the water, but only ten minutes walk from the T-bana metro line into the city, and it was an interesting way to experience a “city break”, returning each evening to our tent beneath the trees and late night walks down to the water’s edge.

The one downside/advantage of camping – depending on how you see it – is the early morning starts, and we arrived into Stockholm’s central metro station on a Sunday morning where it felt like the majority of the population were sleeping off the after-effects of the night before, whilst council-workers hosed down the mess that they had left behind. The walk down the pedestrianised Drottninggatan shopping street towards the Gamla stan (old town) was relaxed, aside from the whirring brushes of the street-cleaning vehicles, as the owners of souvenir shops stood on the steps of their businesses and looked hopefully up and down for custom.

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(One from the personal archives that seemed apt as the summer comes to an end. Back in the summer of 2006 we took our new-born baby to a holiday island in the north sea… the World Cup had just taken place, which might explain the number of flags flying from the beach chairs)

Early morning and the town is waking up slowly. A few early risers stroll along the pavement towards the bakery. Dog walkers meander along the promenade, the North Sea glassy and still at the end of the sands. Council workers, their orange overalls bright in the early morning sunshine, pick litter and rake the beach between the uniform rows of wicker beach chairs waiting patiently to be rented.

As the morning progresses waiters appear from behind the shuttered interiors of cafes and ice cream parlours, to wipe down tables, unfurl sun umbrellas and distribute ashtrays and menus. The beach begins to fill up as holidaymakers erect windbreaks and washing lines between the beach chairs, flags fluttering in the slight breeze that has picked up as the morning moves lazily along. Children and pensioners take to the water with enthusiasm that is only differentiated by volume, whilst up on the viewed platform a lifeguard surveys the scene, scanning the beach with his binoculars or looking out onto the water, towards the German mainland and Denmark beyond.

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