Sheepfold

Marion Bourbouze

It was a day in the early seventies - and I was probably wearing some flared jeans and my favourite orange t-shirt. I was about five or six years old and we were living in Morocco, where my dad was working with peasant farmers on improving their agricultural practices.

On that occasion, my parents had decided to take my brother Tristan and I with them in the Atlas Mountains to meet some farmers up in the pastures. There was no road to the village, perched high on the side of the Azzaden Valley, and Tristan and I were dragging our feet on the dusty path, behind our guide Abdullah and his mule. Summer is hot in Morocco, even in the mountains, and after an hour walking, we were so exhausted that Abdullah hoisted us up into the huge straw baskets strapped onto the back of the mule. We were the proudest kids in the world, snug as bugs amongst the irrigation equipment, the blankets and the sacks of grain! ... (continues)