I read those words as a young woman, already daydreaming — mostly about Robert Redford washing my hair on a verandah somewhere. I read them again, decades later, and finally understood the ache underneath the gold light. The losses. The thing that was never really hers to lose.
I don't have a farm in Kenya.
I have one in Morocco. And a riad — three hundred years old, in a quarter of Marrakech where the streets are too narrow for cars and the light moves through the courtyard like it has somewhere to be. The allure is different. No savannah, no lions. Just a kitchen that runs on Zahra's instincts, a fountain that talks to itself at night, Siena asleep somewhere she shouldn't be, and a cat that has opinions about her.
A riad turns inward by design. Blank walls to the street, everything beautiful held in the centre — the courtyard, the fountain, the sky framed in a square. You don't see a riad from the outside. You walk into it. The life happens facing in.
The years here have taken the same shape. Less performing, more paying attention. Less out there, more in here. A journey within, aligned with the architecture.
This is where I write from. Derb 37 — the address, and the name.
Not a travel blog. Not a riad blog. The cuisine of Morocco, written from inside it — and a life around the kitchen.