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Story-time in Rabat

Life, as it always will, gets in the way of our plans. It's been fairly hectic here the last 2 weeks, so I haven't had a chance to finish off Chapter 3 of the Morocco trip, Fes.

So, instead, we're talking a little break this week and taking some time out in Rabat, in the Kasbah des Oudaias. An ancient fortress in with breath-taking views of the ocean.


Sometimes, inspiration will strike in the strangest of ways. Have you ever looked at a photo or artwork and thought, there's a story there? When we create a design, we tell a story. When I walked past this scene, I had to capture it, because it told me a story.

I began to wonder, who sits here? Why just one chair? It's so obviously old and worn. What is its history?

So, let me tell you a little tale...


The old man and the cat...

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived an old man, in a magical walled city of ochre. Every afternoon, the old man came out to his garden, to sit on his favourite rocking chair under the shade of the orange tree. He walked down the garden path with a measured step. The crunch, crunch, crunch, of his cane against the gravel echoed off the tall stone walls. He paused by the rose bushes, as he always did. He leaned in and breathed in deep, their scent reminding him of his wife, who passed all those years ago. He picked out his favourite rose, careful to avoid the thorns, and carried it to the ornate fountain at the centre of the garden, as he always did.

The fountain was housed in a structure that resembled a temple minaret, with its slightly domed roof and horseshoe arches in the same soft ochre as the walls. Azure blue mosaics lined the structure, glistening in the afternoon sun. Water here was as rare as gold and worthy of such worship. He crushed the rose in his gnarled hands and sprinkled the petals over the water, as he always did.

After a moment, he made the final few steps over to the old ebony rocking chair and lowered himself into it carefully. He leaned back, rocked back and forth, and watched the fragrant branches wave gently in the afternoon wind. The branches reached out and always looked to him as if trying to reach the precious water of the fountain. So near, yet so far. As he sat and gazed with longing at the fountain, the little orange and black calico cat crawled out if its cool nest and paddled over to join the old man, as it always did.

The old man reached down and ran his knuckles gently over its soft fur, eliciting a delicate purr that belied its scarred features. The cat turned once, twice, and three times, before finding the perfect spot to lie down to bask. Here the old man and the cat sat in companionable silence, as they always did.

The wind rustled the leaves and offered a cool respite from the constant heat. Carried on the wind, one could hear the clip clop of hooves on cobblestones from the mules carrying goods to the medina. Occasionally, the laughter of children would echo out over the walls, dancing on the wind. The constant trickle of water in the fountain soothed a weary soul. The ornate blue and white mosaic glittered and sparked, like a mesmerising desert mirage. It was a peaceful afternoon, as it always was.

Until suddenly, a crash of smashed terracotta broke the silence, startling both man and cat. Nothing will ever again be as it always was...

Enjoyed this little snippet? Stay tuned for more in the future.

À bientôt!

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