Abdeslam Bennani Smires nudges his grey Arab-Barb forwards into a canter, and then a gallop. I follow suit and soon both horses are striding forward, a cloud of red dust billowing at their hooves. We ride up a steep track flanked by a hedge of prickly pear, the plump, orange fruit looking inviting in the dry heat. To the south, the Atlas mountains rise as far as the eye can see, crowned by the snowy summit of Toubkal, north Africa’s highest peak.
Our first stop is in a dusty Berber outpost where our arrival draws a 30-strong crowd of wide-eyed children and villagers. We’re greeted with warmth and enthusiasm – our visit, it appears, is the most exciting to happen locally since the king came to a neighbouring village a few years ago. We dismount and are led through a wooden door to a tiny courtyard, past a cow and into the lounge of a traditional Berber house. The room is bare, save for a few blankets, a portrait of Mohammed VI and an electricity socket sprouting a spidery mess of wires.
We sit cross-legged and chat to our host, a beaming matriarch with 11 children, who serves us syrupy mint tea and flat bread straight from the smoking oven, with butter churned that morning.