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laughter.
There are grand stories in Morocco, the dunes of the Sahara, the blue streets of Chefchaouen, the soaring mosques of Casablanca, but for me, it was always the smaller moments that etched themselves into memory.
It was the man sharpening his knife on a rock by the side of the road, humming a tune from long ago. The teenager who painted his bicycle a different colour every week with leftover house paint. The families in mountain hamlets who insisted we stay for couscous, even though we didn’ t share a single word of language between us. The old man in the souk who sold buttons, not clothes, just buttons, each one laid out like a jewel.
It was the splendid detail that
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