Marrakech Express — Train Journey from Fez to Marrakech

We’d crossed borders and seas by bus, ferry, and minivan, but it was the train to Marrakech that made me smile. Eight hours of dry plains, chatter, and station dust, and all I could hear was that old tune, Marrakech Express. Sometimes travel hums along to its own soundtrack. The song was written about this very route, though the real train never carried that name.

We left Fez just after one in the afternoon, settling into an old-style first-class compartment. Six seats, a sliding door, and the faint smell of dust and sun-warmed metal. There were five of us from the tour group, which was lucky; it would have felt awkward sharing that tiny space with strangers for eight hours.

We didn’t have to think about tickets or timetables; Explore had it sorted. All we had to do was watch Morocco roll by.

Our tour leader joined us, pointing out towns and cities as we passed them. From the train window, we watched Morocco unfold — the old city walls of Meknes, the sprawl of Salé and Rabat, the high-rises of Casablanca. Beyond them, the scenery softened into plains and villages, blocks of apartments giving way to simpler dwellings, then to open fields baked in light.

The rhythm of the train became its own soundtrack. The light turned gold, then pink, then a deep orange that followed us for miles. By the time we pulled into Marrakech, the sun had set and the city glowed red in the haze. Eight hours gone, but it felt like a single song carried us there.