Breakfast at Ait Benhaddou

So I'd loaded up with bread and honey and then the pancakes appeared. In the time it took me to eat my pancake, the teapot had been refilled with plain hot water, making my second cup a bit of a disappointment. But these were minor irritations compared to the marmalade debacle. We'd been discussing apricot jam and it's eternal ability to disappoint, when I was forcibly informed by our inexhausible oracle of dubious accuracy that the vat of orangey gloop was in fact marmalade. I ladled a piggish amount onto my plate, then slopped it onto my bread. Extra, greedy bread taken just for the joy of marmalade. It was apricot jam. Still I was corrected, no it was marmalade. It was such good apricot jam (if you like that sort of thing) that the apricot flavour was quite overwhelming. This stuff had never clapped eyes on an orange. Luckily, the day had better moments.

The kasbah was magnificent, leading up the hillside to one small ruined building perched at the top. Parts have been restored, other parts are crumbling and being patched up like everywhere else. At each upward turn it was possible to look down at the rooftops below and the valley stretching away into the distance.

From Ait Benhaddou we took a minibus up into and over the mountains, passing first what looked like Scottish hills, sheep country, grassy and vegetated against a stark rocky outcrop. Then we climbed steeply, crossing three main passes. The first was the highest, at 2260 metres. The road hairpinned upwards for hours and at the highest point Dizi Tichka, I leapt out to take a quick photo and clear my nauseous head. I nearly took off. The wind was crazy, exhilarating, energizing. I ran into the wind making so little progress for my efforts, and it was good. I couldn't help but laugh, the sound forced back into my mouth where it echoed with life. So good.

Then down again, then up again, the narrow road clinging to the mountainsides for dear life. Cyclists fought their way up, past tiny souvenir stalls perched on the most improbable corners. To the side we looked down on valleys which pulled me in, making me long to flow down into the beautiful, bleak unknown.

Lavender grew on the hillsides, and thyme. Boys held out small bunches for anyone with good enough brakes to buy. The scenery opened up, folding and unfolding like an origami toy, constantly changing, enchanting, yet always on the same theme. The houses are darker here, using the local mud and stone. I love the way the local materials mean that buildings blend naturally into their surroundings – here they are dark and rocky and I think more solid – but maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.

We left the main road after the mountains and followed it to its end here in Imlil. It's an appealing little village, packed with trekkers and guides and mules, as this is the trailhead for many of the best treks in the High Atlas, including Morocco's highest peak, Toubkal. Four of us have arranged a day-hike for tomorrow, though I should call it a tramp as I'm outnumbered by antipodeans. It's cold here and the mountains are hiding their peaks in the clouds. I like this place.