Solemnly I reach the summit—dead quiet.

I see the summit above me—bare solid rock.

On the lower slopes of the mountain, crickets of all sorts and sizes—with beautiful bright coloured wings jump out in front of your every step.

Though it is still early dawn, they will be the last people I encounter on my way up.

Like a scene from an old Dutch painting, only one little corner of this great hall is still alight with the warm vibrancy of candlelight — dancing dramatically over the ornately carved wooden table that stands at the ready.

Ommar , head chef of the Kasbah, is wearing a dirty red and white chequered apron and a deep burgundy chef’s jacket.

At the end of some stairs, dozens of meters above me, an elderly man walks through a beam of sunlight. His turquoise jellaba lighting up brightly before disappearing behind a corner.

At about 3000 metres above sea level, the village sits precariously glued onto the near vertical Southern rockface of the towering plateau.

A Barbary Lion—that grand majestic creature, also known as the Atlas Lion.

A Barbary Lion—that grand majestic creature, also known as the Atlas Lion.

Like the sun falling on a church floor filtered through its decorative stained-glass windows, the colours of the plants and rocks form a vibrant mosaic that sets off sharply against the light-turquoise hue of the cold mountain air that surrounds the plateau, and the higher peaks lining the valley.

The water flows downhill with great speed, rushing over the small rocks and little stones with an overbearing sound, sparkling brilliance and marvellous flickering.

Breath in the silence…

Complete and utter silence.

With a crackle of the minaret loudspeakers, the muezzin finishes.

Drums, djembes, tambourines, ouds, and the pungi flutes of snake charmer men rise loudly above the stirring crowds, and high into the pink-orange evening sky.

Visiting the Maison de la Photographie earlier, it had struck me how the photographic history of Morocco was constructed not by Moroccans, but by European photographers (aristocrats and military men that arrived during the 19th Century colonial period).

I’ve wandered too far…

You got to be quick on your feet—allowing the balls of your feet to roll left and right as the growing stream of people, mopeds, carts, pack animals, construction trucks, and yet more people, starts flowing ceaselessly around you. 

The labyrinthine streets of the sleepy souks lay dormant, as the rising sun paints long lush strokes of gold across their saffron walls.