A 3-Day Escape into the Rif Mountains: Tangier to Chefchaouen
3 DAYS tur from tangier to the beauty of chefchaouen
Day 1: Tangier – Where Continents Meet
The journey began in Tangier, the city that gazes across the strait toward Spain — a place caught between continents, cultures, and centuries. As I stepped through the arched gates of the Kasbah, the scent of orange blossoms and sea salt lingered in the air. The old medina wrapped around me like a secret, its narrow alleys filled with children’s laughter, cats sunbathing on doorsteps, and shopkeepers offering mint tea with gentle smiles.
In the American Legation Museum, I wandered through halls filled with letters, maps, and memories of another era. As the golden hour settled in, I found myself walking along the beach promenade, where the waves kissed the sand and the breeze carried stories from Andalusia. Dinner was a warm tagine by the harbor, as the lights of Tangier shimmered in the water like lanterns.
Day 2: Through the Rif – Tangier to Chefchaouen
By morning, we left the coast behind and headed inland. The road to Chefchaouen twisted and climbed through the emerald folds of the Rif Mountains, revealing hidden valleys and olive groves. With every turn, the world grew quieter, greener, softer.
Then, like a mirage made real, Chefchaouen appeared — a cascade of blue spilling down the mountainside. The air was cooler here, touched by the scent of pine and fresh spring water. I walked into the medina, where every wall, every step, every arch seemed dipped in sky. The town felt like a painting — one you could walk through, slowly, barefoot if you dared.
I lost myself in the souks, where wool blankets and woven baskets hung beside indigo-dyed scarves. Children played in the plazas, and old men sipped tea under fig trees. I climbed the path to the Spanish Mosque, where the city unfurled below me — a quiet sea of blues, kissed by the last light of day.
Day 3: Stillness and Return
Morning came gently in Chefchaouen, with birdsong echoing through the hills and the distant call to prayer rising with the mist. I strolled to Ras El Maa, where cool water bubbled from the mountain and women washed clothes with rhythmic grace. The town was still, as if pausing just for me.
As midday approached, I said goodbye to the blue walls and peaceful rhythms. The drive back to Tangier felt different — as if I was returning not from a town, but from a dream. Along the way, I watched the landscape roll by, golden and green, carrying a small piece of the mountains and the color blue in my heart
