Under the relentless blue sky, I travel for hours through Paul Bowles's "mineral landscape" in its varied shades of terra cotta. Occasionally, a decoupage of crenellated ochre outlines a walled farm. Finally, the great palmeries, dusted in darkest orange, announce the imminence of Marrakech. Sustained by the life-giving water of the Atlas, green and spacious Marrakech lives at a fast tempo and displays an astonishing diversity of dress, ethnicities, and pursuits. A day's exploration leaves me exhilarated and exhausted. Tomorrow, the Majorelle Garden.

In 1917, recovering from tuberculosis, Jacques Majorelle took one look at Marrakech and promptly fell in love. He bought a plot of land with a studio and launched into a lifetime of painting and landscaping. The gardens were open to the public in 1947 until his sudden death in 1962. The saying warns that "the garden dies with the gardener" and indeed the future looked grim for the neglected then abandoned gardens, rescued in extremis by French fashion designer Yves St Laurent's timely intervention. Combining generous resources and an appreciation for beauty, he and his partner, Pierre Berger, bought the property and restored the gardens to their original beauty. The studio, converted into a small Museum of Islamic Art complete with antique rugs, Berber pottery as well as sketches and oils by the artist, is , of course, still painted in the famous Majorelle blue.

Majorelle. Its very name sings of light and lightness. The harsh climate has faded the walls of the entrance patio to soft hues of pink; in its center the bright fountain is anchored at each corner by flowers in large blue, blue urns. Majorelle blue. Its first sight gives me a "choc au coeur", a heart-shock. How to describe it? If I say it veers to violet, you'll imagine too much red, and if I mention saturated, will you visualize a midnight blue and rob it of its vibrancy? Perhaps, if you grow giant Black Knight delphiniums. . .

Gray gravel, dark palm trunks, golden cactus flowers; lavender volubilis spilling out of Majorelle blue urns, shocking pink bougainvilliers, fans of spiky palms; heart-shaped oxalis, cream water lilies above signal red fish, crimson geraniums; variegated aloe, Majorelle tiled steps, and cadmium urns filled with violet Purple Queen. Against the Majorelle and azure walls of Villa Oasis, the contrasts of their textures, shapes and colors seize and enchant the senses. Later, I write in my journal "Simply a balm for the soul to be in a place of greenery and beauty. That blue demands to be acknowledged".

Weeks later, in the wintry Northwest, Majorelle floods my memory. I am not sad exactly, just suffering a small attack of the Majorelle blues.