His best friend described Eric as an elderly curmudgeon. Everyone else just thought he was a grumpy, nasty old git. Nevertheless, even the most crabby of sour old crab apples get to go on holiday these days. And not just to Margate either. Eric, much against his better judgement, found himself enveloped in the bustling alleyways and stalls of a Casablanca souk.

Now, Eric was not what you would call the poetic sort, but still, he was shocked by how much the assault of new sights, sounds and smells made an impression. For a start, the air was thick with the pungent aroma of exotic spices, swirling around him like a vibrant tapestry. Cumin, cardamom, and cinnamon mingled with the salty tang of freshly caught fish, assaulting his nostrils with their potent fragrances. The scent of richly brewed mint tea wafted from nearby stalls, promising something, but he wasn't sure what. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t like it, though. A small boy tried to sell him something, shouting loudly at Eric, who snarled back at the boy with a loud “geroutofityerlittleshite.”

He carried on, and as he navigated through the throngs of people, the press of bodies against his own was inescapable. The rough fabric of traditional djellabas brushed against his skin, while the occasional bump from a passing shopper jolted him from his thoughts. Each touch, fleeting yet insistent, reminded him of his foreignness and solitude amidst the crowd. What’s more, although nobody would have called Eric the most sanitary of persons, even he was overwhelmed by the sheer stink of humanity. It’s hot, animal, sweaty, stale musk. He was revolted. He decided to up his Lifebuoy soap usage by an extra wash when he got back to his hotel.

Just as he was dealing with the assault on his senses from the smell of the human crush, he became aware of the noise. Above the constant babble of bargaining and banter, the market thrummed with a huge variety of sounds. The rhythmic clang of metal pots being stacked, the sharp crackle of open flames beneath sizzling skewers, and the melodic call of vendors hawking their wares filled his head. Children's laughter intermingled with the plaintive cries of street performers, creating a racket that seemed to both energise and overwhelm. Give me Watford Market every time, he thought.

But despite his grumbling disposition, Eric couldn't help but be swept up in the outright joyous life in the marketplace. Amidst the chaos, there was, he admitted to himself, a certain allure, a reminder of life's vivid tapestry, even in his advanced years. I’m having none of that, he thought, heading back to the hotel bar.