A country whose houses are built around the thing you cannot see from the street, and one of them is written down here.
One entry, in one city, and I am not going to dress that up. I have been to Marrakech and to that house; I have not yet been to Fez, or Tangier, or Rabat, and until I have they will not appear here pretending otherwise.
The Moroccan house turns its back on the street on purpose. Nothing on the outside tells you anything; everything is arranged around a courtyard you reach by a bent passage. Stand in that courtyard, look up at the square of sky, and the plan of the whole city arrives at once.
February is the answer. Cold mornings, thin clear light down into the courtyards, and none of the summer heat that makes a person walk past carved cedar without looking up at it. Hours are looser than the websites claim; go early and hold the afternoon loosely.