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Updated: June 28, 2025
In the air was a scent of burnt grass and flowers a honey smell: every time a breeze came we were duly grateful. The mules clattered on over the stones until Sidi Moktar came in sight a saint-house of the deepest sanctity, near which a country market is held one day a week.
Leaving a garden on the left, surrounded by a high tapia wall, we crossed a little streamlet into the brook which waters the valley, and reached at last a corner surrounded with grey olives, deep in lush grass, and overlooked by the inevitable quaint white-domed saint-house on the top of a rocky hillock. It was an ideal spot. R. and I strolled about and photographed.
A little higher up and one of the countless saints' tombs came in sight better known in this case as the Robbers' Tower, where brigands congregate at sunset, and from an excellent coign of vantage keep a look-out on the Tangier road, to drop on any unfortunate so foolhardy as to be on it late in the day. After dark no Moor from Tetuan would walk near this saint-house.
Every bird for miles around was singing: blackbirds sounded like England, wood-pigeons cooed, cuckoos insisted, and among them all, strange and Indian, a hoopoe called. The sun climbed up behind the saint-house and solitary palm; the olives began to cast shadows; the grass was silver with dew. We breakfasted soon after six, our table out on the green lawn. Such air and scents of moist earth!
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