The clothes I hand washed still haven't dried this morning, but not having anything else, put them on anyway and endure a damp rainy day feel. Then I can't connect to the internet. Obviously something to do with uninstalling files as Windows popup box suggests. I've been uninstalling files but performance hasn't improved. Now I cannot even use the computer. I'll be doing without for a while.

It is well I turned back into town yesterday evening as there simply wouldn't have been any possible place to stealth camp on the road ahead. There are houses and smallholdings all along. Lots of market gardening with stalls of produce at the roadside and the chug of two-stroke diesels pumping water from wells for irrigations.

The road this morning deteriorates to the most appalling surface I'm ridden on. Deformed and uniformly fractured like broken glass with a few centimetres wide crack between each piece, which the front-wheel jars into as I approach stark red and white striped power station chimneys on the shore side and pylon and power-line forest thereof.

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The rough road and industrial landscape continues all the way into El Jadida, where I've had enough and consider a train or bus. But first stop off at a pizza place as it is already lunchtime. There is a big group of Germans at the restaurant and their leader shows interested in my tour. Once I've answered his questions I sum up by saying I'm fed up with this road and Morocco. He seems to understand, saying "...we fly from Casablanca to Germinee this evening" in a glad to be leaving tone.

I passed a bus station the day I rode out of Marrakesh. Today when I want to find one I see none. I ask two taxi drivers standing talking by the wing of one's car. With language difficulty they get what I'm on about and direct me to La Gare. Its a long way and they laugh, thinking it is funny that I'll be riding so far.

It is back the way I rode into town and then turn "le gauche" at the third lights. But that depends whether they counted the lights beside where they'd parked up, that I pass back through in which case it is the forth lights. I ask two student type young men at a bus stop. Their directions agree with the taxi drivers, but as the bus stop is just ahead of the next lights back, I'm still not exactly sure where to turn. I ask another taxi driver, mistakeingly. He says I don't turn left. I continue back along the way I entered town. Saying "la gare a cinq kilometres" What? I turn on my heel and say "he is talking bullshit" as that would be right out of town, or perhaps that is his meaning.

I ignore what he says and turn left at the lights that looks most likely. I continue for a few blocks then ask again and get new directions to turn right at the second lights. This turning takes me away from the centre through an extremely rundown district of windowless blocks and an open rubbish strewn area where women and children mind cattle and sheep. A disprocessed farm in the city. But seemed not to be going any where near a train station so I turn round and return to the junction, turn right and continue into the city centre. By now I'm fed up with the idea of finding the train station, so pass through town and out the other side continuing on road N1, which is a good road, through woodland and traffic is light as seemingly most of the traffic has gone on the motorway.

I pass through another largish town, Azemmour further on and follow the sign for "Casablanca par la cote" alternative route, thinking it'll be easy finding a place to camp near the beach from this road. But there are farmhouses and people along the roadside everywhere on this road, which is separated from the coast by high sand dunes a field in on the left side.

I ride off along a track which looks as it may lead to a breach in the dunes, continuing through open field and over a crest where a farmhouse comes into view. I turn around. I see in the stubble the people living here have nice light sandy soil. Good for market gardening, which further on is the main activity on either side. Rows upon rows of big protective netted tunnels to keep birds and insects from crops. It is soon dusk and too dangerous to remain on the road, there being a fair amount of fast traffic so I turn off along a service road pass a row of these tunnels determine to hide somewhere. I continue back to the dunes, where I stop and ponder.

I've been seen as a man approaches. He is friendly and shakes my hand. I explain I'm looking for a place to camp using sign language. By now a neighbour has come on the scene and he agrees to let me put the tent in his garden.

Back in the garden Sead, the newcomer's name, sweeps a patch clear for my tent, then insists on helping me put up the tent even though by the look of things he's never put a tent up before, so I show him the sleeve to slide the pole through that he is inspecting and together we manage as a team. I just want to lay down and sleep then, but he is curious to know where I come from and I've to sit up and remain social. He tells me he works here. That they grow flowers that are exported across Europe.