The Eurostar to Paris was marvellous – took about 5 minutes to clear through security, train left on time, comfortable though packed, arrived just over 2 hours later in the heart of Paris.

Taxi queue a nightmare – tip; don’t join it, walk down to the main road and pick up a passing cab. The little Hotel du Ministere (£70 for the night) just off the Place de la Madeleine, was clean and pretty. I ate in the excellent restaurant above the Hediard shop in the square. It really is a great food and shopping area.

Tragedy next day. Though I arrived problem free in Rabat, Morocco, my baggage didn’t. And since it contained 21 bottles of Clamato Juice to last my three week trip, I was charged £60 excess for the suitcase - £3 a bottle and they lost it.

I had nightmares imagining it lost with all my clothes (and books and Clamato Juice) but next day it arrived, safe, sound and with £25 apology cash (lowering my excess to £35).

The Moroccans at Rabat airport were both efficient and charming – no fault of theirs; Charles de Gaulle had been losing cases left right and centre. There were dozens of other mislaid bags on my flight alone.

It was pouring with rain but that’s rather pleasant in Morocco – the red earth gasps for water and glows and smells delicious when it arrives. It was quite warm (freezing in both London and Paris).

But the strangest event was yet to come. Having just settled in, with my Slingbox working perfectly and English TV beamed on demand to my laptop, I discovered that it was the Day of Sacrifice. The entire country shut down for a festival involving chopping the heads off rams and roasting them in pits by the roadside. The air reeked of barbequed skulls with blackened horns, eyeballs and woolen skins peeled from the poor, dead creatures, washed and cleaned and sold to sheepskin dealers. Intestines turned into sausages, charred meat offered by all to passing tourists – very bizarre. It’s called the EID UL-ADHA and I recommend Googling it – you won’t know a thing about it, as I didn’t; and you’ll be fascinated by the information. All to do with Abraham…

The sun had come out and it was beautiful again; blue skies, cloudless. Very pleasant, warm T-shirt weather but not quite hot enough for swimming.

There is now a chain of massive supermarkets in Morocco called Marjane. Visiting a Marjane is fascinating. You get to see middle class Morocco – the growing wealthy; nice clothes, buying similar goods to Europe at competitive prices. But there are typical local aspects (like vast piles of colourful spices straight from the casbah) and some great bargains. I bought a terrific plastic electric kettle for £5 and a sandwich griddle/grill unit for £6… I like to be able to make my own coffees, teas and sandwiches in my hotel rooms and after using these for 3 weeks I happily give them to the maids in the last hotel I’m in, and they are delighted. I also buy fresh bread, honey, butter, milk and cream and all the other basics to last me for my holiday. And a large bag for £3 to carry them all about in.

I drove off to Marrakech for Christmas. I’d decided that, for the first time in 63 years unable to share the day with my Mum (I spent every Xmas except four with her and those four I was on the phone to her several times each day – they have phones in prison but not in Heaven, a clear design fault), I’d leave the country to escape the memories.

My balcony from the 6th floor of L’Hivernage Hotel had the most stunning view of the city (see PHOTOS)… every morning I awoke to this incredible sight; Marrakech after thousands of years, spread out in front of me. But I suffered from weak Ethernet access at the hotel; my Slingbox disappeared for most of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day; though I caught up with repeats of most of the shows I wanted to watch (by the way, this new BBC iPlayer doesn’t actually carry most of the shows one wants to catch again if you’re out of the country).

Christmas Day started with a flat tyre. Fortunately it was a slow puncture so had developed overnight. I woke up to see it totally devoid of air. The hotel staff rallied and put on the spare; I drove it to the nearest garage where the man said “it is very tired; you need a new one”… to which I replied “no I don’t; it’s a hire car; I need it fixed as cheap and as fast as possible please” to which he roared with Christmas laughter and mended it in five minutes for £5!

Best meals? Actually the excellent Table Du Marche at the hotel has slipped a bit (the Xmas meal was adequate at best)… I had some delicious and improved Thai food at the Amanjena Thai Restaurant (pricey though - £60 a time per person, very expensive for Morocco).

Best restaurant of the trip by far remained the Matsuri Japanese in Rabat; fabulous fresh fish sushi and tasty treats.

After returning to Rabat after my Marrakech Christmas, I set off to Tangiers for New Year’s, rather nervous, as the weather in the very north of Africa can be dodgy.

However, it was gorgeous and my hotel, the Movenpick Casino, had a fantastic view of the bay (see PHOTOS again) which I cherished over coffee every morning. After early troubles with WiFi, the very helpful IT man linked me via Ethernet and reception improved magnificently. I normally stay at the famous El Minzah and ate some great Tagine de Poulet at their 100 year old restaurant but my decision to try the new hotel was a good one; nice rooms, very modern and that stunning view.

I’m a great believer in staying in 5 star hotels, rooms which normally cost several hundred pounds a night, but never paying more than £70. This is perfectly possible thanks to the Internet and some other key ingredients (my greatest success last summer was booking a room at the Venice Lido Excelsior for £70 and getting free upgraded when I pulled up in the Rolls to a £500 a night suite). My Movenpick room should have been £250 a night – I paid £70 and they gave me a refund when I checked out.

Several days of absolutely wonderful weather ended on Jan 2nd when the heavens opened.

Fortunately I had duties elsewhere – my friend Ahmed, a Moroccan who’s lived and worked in London for 40 years, has bought a flat in his home town of Larache for his imminent retirement and wanted me to pop by to check out progress and take photos, which I duly did. Larache is a charming little town on the coast about 40 miles from Tangiers – I used to drive through it before they built the new autoroute. Untouched by tourists, you really get to meet the genuine Moroccans (I love them, they are so gentle and kind and friendly). After viewing and snapping the large flat his cousin and I repaired to a café overlooking the Atlantic and sipped coffees gazing at the storm and the rolling waves.

The contrast between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean is striking. Even when rough the Mediterranean is calm; the Atlantic, at its smoothest, rocks with huge surf and is intimidating when howling with the rage of a thousand angry miles.

I love Biarritz in France for the same waves; my favourite place to watch them in Africa is Sale, near Rabat, where the sea has eaten the earth below the ground and the land hangs over the ocean as the spray sears into the sky. Larache was full of Moroccans huddled against the storm; driving back to Tangiers I saw a whole family of cows followed by sheep followed by shepherd followed by dog, all trudging through the mud and rain with exactly the same attitude, species married by Mother Nature. But in Morocco the refreshing rain (which the earth opens to welcome and turns a deep ochre red and smells wonderfully) stops and is replaced by bright sunshine within seconds. The rain never lasts and disappears totally within seconds as though it was never there.

I was off taking photos of abandoned castles and rugged coastlines.

I watched my DVD of the Bourne Ultimatum with that fabulous chase along every road I had been on that day – even the very same table in the Café du Paris I sipped my Café au Lait at that very morning. Terrific film though the plot is riddled with holes but the action, editing and direction is so great (Paul Greengrass again; love him) that you simply shrug when Bourne boasts about being in the CIA office (why?). My Macbook Pro 17 incher has the most tremendous sound on it.

Back to Rabat and blow me down, the Sale place I mentioned above was crowded with all the locals – the recent storm had so fired up the Atlantic that it was eating away at the earth and you could see chunks of ground being chewed up and spat out by the waves – we all gazed in awe at Mother Nature visibly devouring Africa before our very eyes. And a local man had fallen to his death there. Mother Nature 1 – Humanity 0.

I drove down to Casablanca – only an hour and the Autoroutes in Morocco are terrific – to sample a new Thai restaurant there, in the building which was a Vietnamese ten years ago but is now a branch of the Spanish based chain Thai Gardens – magnificent food (all the kitchen staff are Thai)… and very upper class clientele.

I love Casablanca; far and away the biggest city in Morocco and teeming with life; you can really see the rapidly improving standard of living there. And the new King’s campaign for equality of women. It is a very progressive cosmopolitan town.

The three week break was coming to an end. The flight from Rabat back to Paris was crammed and I was jammed into a window seat (mistake – I normally book on the aisle; more leg room, quicker exit) next to a huge fat crippled Arab woman in a wheelchair. Landing in Paris made it worth being by the window though – we were high up in the blue sky above deep snow which turned out to be incredibly thick, low cloud; we descended and descended, burst through and were on the ground in seconds – a bizarre landing.

A heavy booking at Michelin three star Paris restaurant Michel Rostang, which I’d never been to before, and a fabulous meal – their “truffle” multi-course special. Delicious but I must admit, after the twelfth truffle infused course culminated in mashed potatoes (with truffles) I was happy never to eat another truffle in my life. Mind you, for £300 it needed to be good.

Back to my Paris hotel and Taggart on Slingbox – I love Taggart; it always sends me to sleep within seconds since I don’t understand a word they are saying. Arabic is more comprehensible.

Next morning, back to Eurostar and St Pancras. And two hours later, back home – happy and relaxed.