I inch my way towards the summit, head down, one foot shuffling in front of the other. The peak lies less than 50 metres away, but it feels like more than a mile. Breathing steadily to control my nausea, I curl my freezing fingers into tight fists inside my gloves and try to ignore my streaming nose. But when I glance up momentarily to check my progress, I’m frozen to the spot: I’m standing on the roof of Morocco with the whole of North Africa rolled out beneath my feet.

Having escaped a rainy January in England, I’d touched-down a few days earlier. Marrakesh had been magnificent: I’d chased through alleyways and shopped in the souks, weaved past sputtering mopeds and haggled with sparkly-eyed stall owners for hand-painted pottery. I’d explored regal palaces with marble floors, cooled-off in quiet courtyards and smelt overflowing flowerbeds and laden orange trees. I’d eaten tasty tagines in rooftop restaurants, smelt grilled meats sizzling on hot coals and stayed in a wonderful French-owned riad with quiet rooms, crisp sheets and a sun-drenched terrace.

Mountain Highs

After a couple of days in Marrakesh, I took a two hour taxi ride into the Atlas Mountains, to the village of Imlil. Here I met my guide, Mohammed, and hired walking books, an ice axe and sleeping bag, ready for a two-day ascent of Mount Toubkal (4167m) – North Africa’s highest peak.

Setting off in the sun, I climbed out of the village on a dusty path, filling my lungs with fresh air, as loose stones and mountain goats tumbled down the hillsides towards me. The smell of horse dung and fallen apples seemed comfortingly English, but ahead, the pink and grey mountains were distinctly desert-like and the tallest peaks were speckled with snow.

We climbed deeper and deeper into this mountain kingdom, following a stream which rushed noisily across its bedrock and bounded over car-sized boulders. After pausing for a picnic lunch, the temperature began to drop with every metre we climbed and the sun sank rapidly in the sky. Soon, we were navigating past patches of snow and ice.

Five hours after leaving Imlil, I staggered through the doorway of the Refuge du Toubkal – a basic but welcoming mountain hostel at the base of Toubkal’s summit, where I wolfed down a chicken tagine and crawled into a musty bunk in a communal dorm room.

After a patchy night’s sleep, Mohammed woke me at 5am and we began our ascent, climbing with head-torches until the rising sun had illuminated the icy landscape around us. Altitude sickness was quick to kick in, and while many hikers strode confidently to the top, I (and a handful of unlucky others) dragged my feet and longed to return to the warmth of my sleeping bag.

But the view at the top made two hours of uphill slog seem more than worthwhile. I sat on the summit, gazing at the hundreds of snowy peaks which rose-up around me, loving the way the softer foothills cascaded down the valley, reaching north towards the plains of Marrakech and east to the Sahara.

Surf’s Up
Twelve hours later, Atlantic waves were lulling me to sleep. After a day-long decent back to Imlil, I’d travelled through the night to reach the coastal town of Taghazout, where I’d checked into the ‘L’Auberge’ surf hostel and fallen asleep for a full 12 hours, missing out on my first day of surfing.

Once an unassuming fishing village, Taghazout has spent the last ten years securing a reputation as Morocco’s number one surf spot. Today, flip-flopped dudes stroll next to scarf-wearing Berbers; hire shops lay their surf boards next to the daily fish market; and when old men launch their boats each morning, the younger generation paddle out through the breakers on short-boards.

With this stretch of shoreline receiving year-round swell, Taghazout draws in more and more surf tourists each year. I first visited last Easter, when the waist- and chest-high waves were perfect for beginners and intermediates. Now returning in winter, I’d been warned that the waves could be house-size.

But luckily for me, the surf report showed manageable 4-6ft waves for my first few days, before building to 20ft faces towards the end of the week. After hiring a board and hopping in L’Auberge’s surf van, I headed a few miles south to ride the beach breaks at Devil’s Rock and Agadir. But in winter, even these forgiving breaks can have a fair bit of force behind them – every session in the sea saw me punched in the face, catapulted onto the beach, swept up in the surf and churned around in the white water, emerging with an ear-to-ear grin, and horrifically dishevelled hair each time. Meanwhile, the more experienced were surfing the glowing green tubes and achingly long rides at the world-class point breaks further north – places like Killers, Draculas and the legendary Anchor Point.

After five days in Taghazout the waves were jaw-droppingly huge, and even the beach break at Agadir was getting a bit too much. My evenings at L’Auberge were spent listening to stories of smashed boards, huge wipe-outs and ‘everlasting rides’ on single waves. On my last day I woke to find that some of the local fishing boats had been sucked out to sea, while the rest were strewn across the beach. Most surfers were planning a day inside with beers and a film, but a handful of eccentrics grinned madly as they waxed their boards and headed to Anchor Point.

From mountain peaks to massive waves, a Moroccan winter should be on every adventure-lover’s bucket list. Hardy surfers and altitude-resilient hikers are in for a real treat, while the rest of us can look forward to blisters, bruises and bad hair, but a hell of good time.