Leading on the Frontline

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How learning to be tenacious paid off with love in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco

The road from Asni to Imlil meandered along a dried-up river bed. It was a startling, lunar-like landscape. My driver snaked his way through the canyon, under rocky ledges, the air getting distinctly cooler as we climbed. Finally there it was above us: the famous Kasbah du Toubkal, perched on a hilltop framed by the towering High Atlas Mountains. It took my breath away. Hajj Maurice had asked me to lunch and had warned me that the hotel could be accessed only on foot or by mule. He told me to wear sensible shoes and to ask for directions from Imlil, the village tucked into the valley below.

Imlil, it turned out, was no more than a small row of shops and restaurants that served the backpackers who wanted to conquer Mount Toubkal, the highest peak in Morocco. A shopkeeper pointed out the route to me and I climbed for 15 minutes through fragrant apple orchards and walnut groves. When I reached the top, I was panting. The hotel receptionist invited me to sit down (presumably before I collapsed!). While I held my hands over a metal bowl, he poured rosewater over them in a traditional Berber greeting. I was then given a date to eat, and a bowl of milk to dip it into.

Rather than being run by professional expat hoteliers, all the staff of this spectacular hotel in the mountains, including manager Hajj Maurice, were local Berbers. The far-sighted and generous British owners of the hotel, Mike ...