Hidden Gems in Morocco… Everyone goes to Marrakech. Everyone eats tagine in Jemaa el-Fnaa, rides a camel in the Sahara, and attempts to take a selfie in Chefchaouen without tripping over another influencer. But Morocco’s real charm? It’s in the corners. The places with no tour buses, no printed menus, and not a single shop selling glow-in-the-dark babouches. The kind of places where the coffee still comes in chipped cups, the post office still closes for lunch, and no one’s trying to sell you saffron for a suspiciously good price. If you want to see the country behind the postcard, you need to look sideways. And occasionally backwards. Preferably on foot, ideally with a questionable map and no sense of urgency.
Take Tafraoute, for instance. Nestled in the Anti-Atlas Mountains and surrounded by pink granite rocks that look like a very mellow Martian landscape, this little town is where the pace drops to a slow shuffle. The town itself is sleepy in the best way, with argan trees, almond groves and the kind of silence you can hear. There are cycling routes, walking trails, and a massive blue boulder installation painted by a Belgian artist in the ’80s who apparently got very enthusiastic with a lorry full of paint. It’s weird and wonderful and slightly surreal, especially when the late-afternoon sun turns the rocks the colour of peach sorbet. Go in spring for the almond blossom and a total reset of your nervous system. Stay long enough and you’ll start waving at passing goats like they’re old friends. The locals are easygoing, the bread is always warm, and the view from the hill above town will make you rethink everything you thought you needed from a city break.
Or wander off to Sidi Ifni, perched along the southern Atlantic coast. It’s a leftover from Spanish colonial days, so the architecture is more art deco than Arabic, and it feels like a film set built for a Western that never quite got funded. There’s a crumbling cinema, sleepy plazas, a seafront that looks like it was made for solitary walks, and the kind of coastal quiet that makes you wonder why you ever needed to wear shoes. Nearby Legzira beach used to be famous for its twin arches carved from red rock, until one of them collapsed. The other one is still standing, though, and the sunsets here are ridiculous—so theatrical they deserve their own soundtrack. Add in grilled sardines straight off the boat, homemade harira soup at roadside cafés, and you’ve got a seaside town with just the right amount of melancholy and no sense of urgency. In the evenings, the streets empty out except for the call to prayer and the occasional cat lounging like it owns the place.
Then there’s El Jadida. It’s often overlooked in favour of flashier Essaouira or Tangier, but it’s got its own kind of charm—especially inside the old Portuguese medina. The cistern there is straight out of a fantasy novel, with vaulted ceilings and just enough water to create perfect reflections. It’s the sort of place that feels like it’s been waiting quietly for someone to notice. On a quiet day, it feels like a secret. The town is more about living than posing: good coffee, slow mornings, and beaches full of local families, not tourists chasing kitesurfing credentials. The fish market is loud and messy in the most satisfying way, and if you ask nicely, someone might fry something for you that isn’t even on the menu. Stick around long enough and you’ll find yourself drinking coffee in a corner café that hasn’t changed in 40 years, listening to someone’s uncle complain about football.
Inland, there’s Azrou. Most people barrel through on their way to the cedar forests or to try and catch a glimpse of the Barbary macaques (who will absolutely steal your snacks). But the town itself has a certain under-the-radar elegance—a kind of alpine energy meets Moroccan practicality. The local souk is brilliant for proper woollen blankets, raw honey, and cedarwood trinkets that still smell like the forest they came from. It’s also the kind of place where nobody’s pretending to be a tour guide and the old men play cards outside cafés while sipping mint tea strong enough to restart your heart. The cedar forest nearby? Full of quiet paths and picnic spots with exactly zero crowds. If you hike a little further, you might find shepherds who’ll offer you a chunk of cheese and ask what on earth you’re doing out there without a mule.
And if you like your history a little haunted, try Lixus. Not many tourists make it to this ancient Roman site near Larache, and that’s their loss. Perched on a hill overlooking the Loukkos River, it’s got mosaics, crumbling temples, and the ruins of a fish-salting factory, which is more interesting than it sounds, we promise. There are no queues, no barriers, and very few signs. Which is to say, perfect. Bring a sandwich, climb up past the old theatre, and have a picnic where Roman senators once debated things that definitely didn’t involve Instagram. You might even get the whole place to yourself, save for a few birds, the wind, and the odd goat that seems to know more than it should. The view down to the river is worth the trip alone.
In the far south, just before you hit the sandstorms and mirages, there’s Foum Zguid. It’s a town that barely bothers to exist. Gateway to the real desert, it’s mostly visited by those heading to the wild emptiness of Iriki National Park or planning a very ambitious off-road adventure to Erg Chegaga. Which means if you stop, even for a day, you’ll be one of the few. There’s not much to do—and that’s the point. Watch the sun hit the rocks, feel your phone signal vanish, and chat with whoever happens to be drinking tea nearby. Buy a flatbread from the bakery that also sells petrol by the jug. It’s Morocco unplugged, unfiltered, and quietly profound. In the evenings, stars spill across the sky like someone knocked over a bucket of light.
And for those who like their drama volcanic, head to the Azilal region and look for Imilchil. It’s famous locally for its autumn marriage festival, where the local Amazigh tribes gather for a sort of romantic negotiation extravaganza. But even when there’s no festival, the region’s high lakes and winding passes are spectacular. Think mirror-flat waters surrounded by mountains that somehow manage to be both vast and intimate. You can walk for hours and see no one but a shepherd and a few extremely unimpressed goats. There are valleys that look like Tolkien settings, and roads that suggest your car might need a pep talk. Which is exactly how some of us like it. And if you stay long enough, you might start to recognise constellations you didn’t even know existed.
And if you’re willing to go even further off the radar, head towards the Middle Atlas and look for places like Tighza or Zaouiat Ahansal. These are villages that cling to the mountainside like stubborn dreams, with earth-coloured houses, winding paths, and the kind of views that make you forget how to speak. Hike into the canyons, follow mule tracks, or just sit outside and listen to the wind rearrange your priorities. It’s not polished. It’s not curated. But it feels more like Morocco than any riad with rose petals in the bathtub. Some of these places still measure distance in hours walked rather than kilometres driven.
And then there’s the Draa Valley. Everyone drives through it on their way to somewhere else, but if you stop in places like Tamegroute, you’ll find green pottery studios run by families who haven’t changed their kilns in generations. The library in Tamegroute has manuscripts older than the countries some visitors come from. Further along the valley, small ksars cling to the hillsides, and dates hang from the palms like edible lanterns.
Morocco hides its treasures behind corners. In the high plains, the low hills, the winding roads, and the half-forgotten towns that don’t shout for attention. All you need is a bit of time, a loose plan, a dodgy GPS signal, and the willingness to follow signs that aren’t in your language. The rest will take care of itself. And if you get lost? Even better. That’s where the real stories start—somewhere on a dusty road, three wrong turns past the itinerary, where someone pours you tea and tells you you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. Probably with a smile, a shrug, and absolutely no sense of hurry.
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