Todra Gorge

Todra gorge is, well, gorgeous. Our auberge was at a split in the gorge, the rock faces looming above us, too huge and close to photograph properly. Still, the views from the roof terrace were stunning. An icy-looking stream ran through the gorge, irrigating small river-side plots of well-tended land.

We hired a guide for a trek, which led us up the side of the gorge and over the plateau. At every turn the view took my breath away. The sun shone strongly but a brisk breeze kept us cool. We stopped at a Berber home for mint tea and were looked after by a fifteen year-old girl and her four-year-old brother, the rest of the family being out tending their goats. This was a permanent home for these semi-nomadic people. Every day they carry water up from the river in the gorge. The little boy ran off to bring us a baby goat and presented it to Pam who had been fairly vocal in her longing for one. She squealed with alarm and the kid ran away, whereupon Gerard picked it up to take it back to where the other kids grazed. The little boy chased after him, tugging at his clothes and demanding the goat – obviously well trained in goat-herding and determined to defend his family's stock from marauding tourists.

The walk continued over the high, barren rocks, then looped around as we began our descent to the main village. Here and there we saw Berber men on the hillside, often with donkeys carrying their goods or water up or down. A camel grazed somewhat incongruously on next to nothing. We came back into the village through the old kasbah, maybe two or three hundred years old. Here, at last, I could see up close the building – the use of clay packed or bricked around wooden frames, crumbling in places, recently mended in places. It was a tiny but still a maze, tunnels in between homes, tiny doorways set into the packed clay. But there was electrical wiring and even the odd satellite dish. A short riverside stroll from here took us back to the auberge.

In the evening, Katrina and I went to dinner with Ali, who by now we had met a couple of times. It turned out that he lived in the old kasbah, so we had an even better opportunity to examine the architecture. From his roof-terrace we had a wonderful view, the evening light was perfect on the clay buildings and rock-faces beyond. Of course, I didn't have a camera with me. Inside, the house was plain, furnished only with carpets and a small table that was brought in when we were ready to eat. The ceilings were a higgledy-piggledy collection of logs and branches supporting the clay of the next floor – four storeys in all including the roof terrace – although the floors had been surfaced with something over the clay.

Ali taught us how to make mint tea, all the ceremony of the step-by-step preparation. Later, we made tagine and as it cooked we looked at the carpets made by his little cottage industry. There was no pressure to buy, but it was great to see the different fabrics – including cactus silk – and the variety of designs. He explained the significance of various motifs and the natural dyes used to colour the wools. I loved the shaggy on one side, flat but beautifully patterned on the other side Berber rug that I sat on, but buying one was too impractical to contemplate so I didn't even ask a price. The evening went well, although we weren't surprised that he lacked enthusiasm for our leaving. The young boy and woman had also left and a friend appeared, which didn't seem to bode well. However, the friend went off to a Berber disco, leaving us with an increasingly disgruntled Ali. He walked us back to the auberge and the stars were amazing. I walked along oohing and ahing until I walked smack into someone, who rather politely simply wished me 'Bon soir.'