I love the British winter.

I love the ritual of it.

The log fires and low lighting.

Candles flickering against early darkness.

Wholesome, slow-cooked food.

Cashmere jumpers. Woolly socks.

The quiet nurturing of a season that asks you to turn inward.

Over the past few years, I’ve learnt not just to tolerate the UK winter, but to truly appreciate it. Its invitation to rest. To root. To restore.

And then I went to Morocco.

We found ourselves in a small coastal village just outside Essaouira, and for five glorious days we lived in warmth. The kind of warmth that seeps beyond skin. The kind you don’t realise your body has been craving until it is wrapped inside it.

Each morning we climbed to the rooftop before the world stirred. Coffee in hand. Watching the sun pull itself slowly from behind the horizon. We welcomed it with silence, with gratitude, with sun salutations that felt less like movement and more like prayer. Never have those shapes felt so energising. So alive. Standing there in awe, as light spilled across sea and sky, we welcomed a new day.

We ran along the beach to the crash of Atlantic waves.

Breakfast was fresh fruit, warm eggs, homemade Moroccan breads, fig jam. Smiling waiters. Slow conversation. No rush.

We cycled dusty tracks and took e-bike tours through open landscapes. We surfed cold waves under blue skies. We wandered the ancient medina of Essaouira, its narrow alleyways alive with colour, craft, scent and sound. Stalls piled high with woven rugs, clay pots, hammered metal, spices in pyramids of ochre and gold. The busyness. The beauty. The hum of life.

We joined a cooking class and learnt the rhythm of local food. We bought mugs and cushions and hand-thrown ceramics that still carry the scent of earth. We drank endless mint tea. We ate paella on rooftops overlooking the ocean, watching the sun sink into flame.

This place is heavenly. Healing. It softened the hard edges of the British winter I had come to love.

I read a book from cover to cover.

I napped by the pool.

I breathed.

The smell of jasmine drifted on the breeze. The roar of the waves became our constant soundtrack. Sunrise and sunset felt amplified here, as though nature insists you pay attention.

It was Ramadan, and everything moved around sunset. A sacred pause. A collective inhale before the fast was broken. At that hour, the streets emptied. Kitchens stirred. Families gathered. We felt the rhythm of it too, the reverence, the anticipation, the gratitude. The culture here is extraordinary. Deeply rooted. And there is a fine, visible line between culture and poverty that humbles you as you walk.

There is a relaxed ease to this place. Surfers padding barefoot through sandy streets. No one dressed to impress. No performance. Just being. Our apartment sat without streetlights, and at night the sky spilled over with stars.

The landscape was greener than I had imagined. Recent rain had coaxed wildflowers into bloom, carpets of colour stretching across the earth. Everything felt alive.

What struck me most was the simplicity. Local materials everywhere. Clay, metal, wood, glass. Little to no plastic. Buildings that breathe. Spaces that feel honest. Natural. Your nervous system exhales without being told to.

Blue skies.

Salt air.

Sun-warmed skin.

I still love the British winter, its depth, its darkness, its invitation inward. But Morocco reminded me of something elemental. That we are solar beings. That warmth heals in ways we forget.

I cannot wait to return.

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