Читать книгу The High Atlas. Treks and climbs on Morocco's biggest and best mountains онлайн

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We straggled into the village of Taarart soaked to the skin, the eye of the storm crashing round, which the villagers found hilarious. The cheik took in the tired gang. Even Ali was somewhat weary. We sat steaming round a wood-burning stove made out of an old paint tin, which was as efficient as a four-figure priced equivalent at home. Despite the village’s limited means we were given a huge tagine at supper and bedding appeared after the mint tea. The electric light was supplied by wind power. Some of the old men who came to say hello only spoke Tamazight, not even Arabic. Yet next day we were able to use a thrice-a-week camion out to Tounfite. Ayyachi was plastered in snow.

The exit took all morning as people piled on with goods and goats, and we were 35 on board eventually – a cheerful, sociable run which we thoroughly enjoyed. Ali had chatted up a soldier who took us to his sister’s house for a lunch tagine. At dusk, with clouds building up again, we went to a hammam and came out cooked and clean. We had a room at the back of a shop, and Ali borrowed a tagine dish to cook a marvellous meal from the fresh vegetables we’d bought. There was another storm.