JOHN SIMPSON

This is a strange and lovely place, perfect for staying in and finishing off a book about my wanderings round the world.

The weather is cool; the little fountain in the courtyard makes a lovely background noise as I write; and the birds twitter in the orange trees outside my window. The Maghreb, the land of the setting sun, is one of my favourite regions: African yet Arabic-speaking, European in its customs yet magnificently Moorish, and often Byzantine or Roman in its architecture.

But I haven’t been able to see enough of Fez to write about it yet; most of my time has been spent looking at a laptop screen. Still, I remember clearly the last time I spent time among Moroccans, and it wasn’t here. It was in Libya, which scarcely counts as the Maghreb.

I’m not terribly persona grata in Libya nowadays – something I wrote a few years ago didn’t exactly fill everyone with the let-bygones-be-bygones spirit. But I have spent so much of my life upsetting governments that I’ve learned not to worry. It usually gets forgotten in the end, and if it doesn’t there are plenty of other countries to visit: more than 200, at the last count.

One day, though, I hope I’ll go back to Libya and breathe that superb desert air and revisit the wonderful Roman cities near Tripoli, and wander across Green Square with the moon hanging low over the Mediterranean and the streets empty and echoing.

The last time I was there I was staying in one of the larger hotels in Tripoli, a place with a vast echoing entrance hall and strangely furnished rooms. The staff were mostly Moroccan and wistful for their own relaxed, comfortable country. There was a big international conference going on and my hotel was the one where the foreign journalists were staying.

Outside in the street, at around nine o’clock at night, there was a terrible racket: yelling, the banging of drums, and high-pitched singing. I peered out of the window. A large camel lay on its side in the roadway, obviously dead, and a group of men was dancing round it gleefully.

There was a Moroccan in the room with us, and he looked out disapprovingly. Moroccans regard themselves as being above that kind of thing. Soon someone was banging excitedly on the door. “Sir! A feast! All foreign journalists are invited!” “What sort of feast?” “Camel, sir!”

Had the feast been based on some other meat, I think we would have gone, though in the past I’ve eaten camel and quite enjoyed it – but then I’ve got strong teeth and a powerful digestion. Instead, I explained we were likely to be busy for a while, editing a report. The other, more intrepid journalists who went said the camel was quite edible, and the whole occasion delightful. Still, I was glad afterwards that we hadn’t joined in. My Moroccan friend agreed.

The story we edited that night captured the interest of the world far more than the international conference we had come to observe. That afternoon, without quite knowing what was about to happen, we were summoned to a place in the middle of Tripoli.

It was entirely roped off, and heavily guarded, which indicated an imminent appearance by Colonel Gaddafi, who is one of the handful of world leaders whose doings always seem to attract international interest.

But there was something else on show – something that, we were told, would entirely revolutionise the future. When we reached the heavily guarded area, there was a large object the size of a car on a low daïs, covered with a vast silver cloth.

We had plenty of time to speculate about it. The unveiling of the intriguing object was due at, as far as I remember, four in the afternoon. By five, some of us were thinking of leaving, until the guards persuaded us otherwise. It clearly wasn’t a good idea to leave.

But as it turned out, the guards were right. Eventually Gaddafi turned up, looking as remarkable as ever, and with him were his all-women team of bodyguards, which always fascinates news editors and ensures you more airtime. Better still, the mysterious object under the silver cloth turned out to be a car.

Not any old car, either. It had, we were told, been designed by the Colonel himself, and its purpose was to end road accidents. Instead of the blunt front end of a traditional car, which can knock you down and injure you, Gaddafi’s invention had a sharply pointed bonnet, which would avoid collisions and save lives.

The car resembled a predatory fish – a barracuda, perhaps – and it was certainly a beautiful object. If it had been on sale, and was as cheap as the official handout seemed to suggest, I would have bought one on the spot.

But there was no opportunity to do so, and my Moroccan friend doubted there would be. It’s true the world never heard any more about it. The next day we ended our time in Libya by filming at the wonderful Roman ruins of Leptis Magna, perhaps the most complete Roman city in the world.

Standing among the columns and watching the sunset over the Maghreb, the sunset region, was unforgettable. Not everyone thinks of Libya as a place for a holiday, and I can’t undertake that if you go there you’ll see Colonel Gaddafi or his anti-accident car. But you can have a delightful time.

Libya may not be Morocco, but it has its moments. And don’t let its bad press lead you to think otherwise.

Twenty Tales from the War Zone: The Best of John Simpson (Macmillan, £1.99) is out now. John Simpson is the BBC world affairs editor and can be seen around the globe on the BBC World news channel. BBC World is available in 200 countries and territories worldwide and on selected flights.