New Farah Hotel

Good staff

I like come back again

Everything good

Right then. Greetings, you gorgeous, swirling maelstrom of sentient stardust. Welcome to Agadir, Morocco—a place that rises from the earthquake rubble like a phoenix with really good tile work. And here, nestled by the Atlantic like a slightly self-satisfied seal, is the new Farah Hotel. Now, let’s talk. I’ve been to ashrams, crack dens, and the odd Green Room where the only thing thinner than the air was the vegan sausage. So when I say this hotel is competent, don’t mistake that for a compliment. It’s competence in the way a spreadsheet is competent. The Good – or, ‘What the Brochure Sells You’ First glimpse? Lush. Palm trees, swooping modernist arches, a pool that seems to stretch toward the ocean like it’s begging for a cigarette. The staff are charming—genuinely. Warm, efficient, with that Moroccan savoir-vivre that makes you feel less like a tourist and more like a long-lost cousin who’s brought biscuits. The rooms are clean. I mean clean. You could perform surgery off the minibar. Big beds, decent Wi-Fi, hot water that arrives with the punctuality of a German train. And the breakfast? Fine. Olives, bread, some sticky pastries that whisper “you’ll regret me by noon.” The Neutral – ‘The Spinal Tap of Soullessness’ But here’s the thing, darlings. This hotel lacks… what’s the word… juju. It has no dirt. No creak. No story bleeding through the wallpaper. It feels like it was designed by a committee of sleep-deprived architects who’ve never had a truly bad trip or a truly good shag. The lobby is airy and grand, yet somehow emotionally inert—like an airport lounge designed by a chatbot. The pool area? Beautiful. Sterile. You could be in Marbella. You could be in Florida. You could be in a virtual rendering of “pleasant.” The music is the kind of ambient lift-shaft nonsense that makes you long for a muezzin’s call or a donkey braying. Any authentic crackle of Morocco has been polished into a very pleasant, very forgettable hum. The Critical – ‘Where’s the Bloody Soul, Man?’ Location: five minutes from the beach, but that beach is a windswept expanse of resigned sunbeds and people who look like they’re trying to forget their mortgages. The hotel’s restaurant? Fine. But “fine” is the enemy of “fabulous.” You want tagine that tastes like someone’s grandmother wrestled a spice demon. Here, you get tagine that tastes like it’s been approved by a risk assessment. And for the price—mid-to-high range—you expect personality. Instead, you get corporate wellness. The spa is clinical. The bar serves drinks with the enthusiasm of a nurse handing out paracetamol. No chaos. No mystery. No elderly Berber man shuffling through with a tray of mint tea and a thousand-yard stare. Neutral Verdict (because Russell Brand can do neutral, look…) Is the New Farah a bad hotel? No. You will sleep. You will eat. You will not get dysentery. It’s a three-and-a-half-star experience wrapped in a four-star suit. For families, business zombies, or anyone who believes a holiday should be “relaxing” in the way a sedated hamster is relaxing—absolutely fine. But for the traveller who wants to feel something? Who wants the grit and grace of actual Agadir? You’ll find more life in a roadside olive stall. This hotel is a beautiful, empty husk. A shiny box of nothing. Go for the pool. Leave for the soul. Toodle-pip.