Rosemary Marrakech: A Slow Surrender to the City

There’s something about Marrakech that doesn’t fully reveal itself until you’ve been there long enough to stop trying to figure it out. The chaos, the calm, the call to prayer echoing through roofs and alleyways—all of it collides into a rhythm that starts to feel like its own kind of poetry. You come here expecting color, spice, souks, but you leave remembering light, shadows, and a sort of softness that stays with you.

 

Tucked into one of Marrakech’s oldest neighborhoods, the historic medina, is Rosemary, a five-room boutique riad that quietly redefines what staying in Marrakech can feel like. Opened in 2024 by Belgian artist Laurence Leenaert and her husband Ayoub Boualam, founders of cult lifestyle brand LRNCE, the riad is more than just a place to stay. It’s a living extension of the brand’s aesthetic universe. Think sun-washed plaster, checkerboard tiles, bespoke furniture, sculptural lighting, handcrafted ceramics, and shelves lined with art books and framed prints. Our bathroom featured a marble sunken tub carved directly into the floor. That should tell you everything you need to know about the level of craftsmanship and luxury at play here. It’s a love letter to Moroccan tradition, filtered through the lens of contemporary design and artistic intimacy.

 

The space opens up like a secret. At its center lies a turquoise courtyard pool, flanked by citrus trees and terracotta walls, where sunlight dances on the water and time seems to stretch. The interiors carry the quiet authority of considered beauty. Every corner holds something to admire: a curved bookshelf, a piece of LRNCE pottery, cushions dyed in earthy tones. The downstairs salon became our living room, where we curled up after long days with glasses of fresh mint tea and thick slices of banana bread, both made in-house and served like offerings. It became a ritual, something we returned to every night without fail.

 

Mornings began with the gentle clink of cutlery on the rooftop, where a beautifully laid table awaited us each day: msemmen, baghrir, freshly sliced melon, eggs made to order, sticky date-and-sesame energy balls, cold glasses of watermelon and orange juice. The kind of breakfast that sets the tone for the whole day, bright, nourishing, and full of promise.

 

One evening, Mohamed, one of the kind and ever-present hosts, arranged a private rooftop dinner for us. We were served a beef tagine still bubbling in its clay pot, surrounded by an array of breads and roasted vegetables, and were gently walked through every dish. He told us how to pour Moroccan tea properly (just under the ridged line of the glass — “It’s short, like a whisky”) and offered up tips for navigating the city, always with warmth and humor.

 

Days unfolded in a loose rhythm: wandering through Le Jardin Secret, a garden where stillness bloomed in perfect symmetry; multiple detours through the souks, where every turn brought new treasures; simple, the place for matcha in Marrakech, and where I got my dose of strawberry matcha (yes, I am that girl). We zigzagged through Jemaa el-Fnaa, dodging motorbikes pulling carts of everything imaginable, grabbing fresh juices along the way before slipping into Kartell Kollektiv, a coffee spot tucked away from the chaos, iced coffees and calm playlists. Naturally, we returned from the markets with more than memories: yellow Moroccan slippers, gold heart-shaped mirrors, and about ten fridge magnets, mainly in the name of gifts, or so we told ourselves. These weren’t over-the-top trinkets. They were tiny mementos, tangible reminders of a place that had quietly woven itself into us.

 

Evenings were golden and unhurried. Anh-Mai and I stretched out on sunbeds on the rooftop, the sky melting into dusty pinks as we swapped stories about dreams, nightmares, the next city we’d like to live in, and whatever Netflix true crime documentary had us spiraling. Mint tea and banana bread reappeared here too, quietly closing the day just as they had the night before.

 

All around us, life kept happening in these gentle, beautiful ways. Men played cards on street corners. Locals sprinkled water over the pavements to keep the dust down and the air cool. Cats were everywhere, curled together in shady corners or padded silently through the alleys. One man quietly cut his plastic water bottle in half so a kitten could drink from it, a moment of tenderness that somehow summed up the soul of the city.

 

Marrakech isn’t a place you conquer. It’s a place you surrender to, and Rosemary makes that surrender feel like an art form. It’s a warm embrace, a sensory balm, a place where the edges of your thoughts soften and you remember how good it feels to do nothing at all. You don’t just stay here. You sink in. And for a little while, you forget the rest of the world exists.

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Relax, recharge, and revel at Rosemary — book your stay today.