This time last week I was stepping out of a taxi in Marrakech, being absconded by market sellers and speaking a ridiculously unsuitable amalgamation of French, English and Arabic. It. Was. BRILLIANT. Turns out shopping in Morocco is not far different from shopping with my Granny at any Yorkshire market; A bit of haggling, a smidge of acting, a few cheeky smiles and bosh, quarter the price. The trouble with Marrakech is the same trouble in any main city anywhere, everyone has a horror story to tell and few have much to back it with. And so when we did step out onto the night time streets it felt strange not to be met with bogeymen ready to bargain me for a camel and steal our camera as they left. In fact, Marrakech at night is hypnotising. Loud, yes. Busy, oh yes. But my was it pretty. A couple of days in and what had been described as a frightening place became evidently wholesome. Weaving through the mopeds, donkeys and men with monkeys chained to their shoulders you realise how generally the same humans are. Most of us just looking to make a dirham, dollar or pound, the rest of us looking to hold on to it, and a few of us just walking scared from silly horror stories.