The early morning sun awoke us with a huge warm smile, so off we headed north to Casablanca.
For the first time there was a plethora of horse-drawn 'carriages'. Ancient wheels creaked as whole families packed into a tiny space to attend the local market, teeming with people. We stopped at one for lunch, a stall-holder grilling chicken in bread and pouring on fiery harissa. Lovely, with freshly squeezed orange juice.
Also, barley was being harvested by hand in many of the fields.
Meanwhile, in another cafe, Young Michael spent time educating a group of enthusiastic linguists, happy to have their photo taken.
Then at our campsite tried out Paul's new chopper
Down to the beach, huge waves lashed us delicate tourists and caught us in its powerful undertow. Sand was later discovered in unlikely locations by all bathers.
Back at the campsite, heads down for sleep was met with 'who let the dogs out?' It seems routine in Morocco, but these Baskerville hounds who were roaming the grounds, allegedly protecting us against invaders, were particularly vicious looking. Waking up in one's hammock to be met by a savage countenance seems increasingly de rigour.
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