The medina, before the shutters go up

At six in the morning, Marrakech is a different city. The square is empty, the snakes are asleep, and the only sound is a broom against stone. The shutters are still down. The shopkeepers are still at breakfast. For an hour or so, the medina belongs to the people who live in it.

This is the time to walk. Not with a destination, and certainly not with a map. Pick a direction and follow the light. The alleys are narrow enough that the sun only reaches them in slivers, and every corner holds a small theatre: a boy carrying bread, a cat guarding a doorway, a man hosing down the pavement in front of his shop.

Walk without a plan

The temptation in Marrakech is to treat the medina as a puzzle to be solved. It is not. The city rewards drift. Turn left when the street looks interesting. Stop when you smell something good. If a doorway is open, and it looks like a workshop, it is probably fine to look in.

By nine, the first tour groups arrive, and the city changes gear. The alleys fill. The pace quickens. This is not a problem — it is simply a different Marrakech. But the version that stays with you is the earlier one: quiet, unfinished, and entirely itself.

Where to end

Aim for a rooftop. There are dozens, and most serve mint tea from seven. From above, the medina looks like a single earthen organism, punctuated by satellite dishes and the occasional minaret. The Atlas, when the air is clear, sits on the horizon like a rumour.

Order a second glass. You have nowhere to be.