On my last day in Morocco, I went to visit a shoe-maker who I had resisted buying a pair of leather slippers from in 2005. I regretted not owning those soft leather shoes, and have thought about them since. When I went back there, to the small hole in the wall of the kasbah, I found the shoe-maker still there, nestled amongst his leather goods, his face wrinkled, a white skull cap on his head.

I showed him my broken handbag, bought in Fes in January. He told me, through a neighbouring shop keeper who spoke French, that he could fix it; leather-work was his speciality.



I told him I had to leave for the airport in a few hours and he promised me he would have it done within the hour. When I went back, the shop was shut up, as the whole row were, and the only sound in the empty street was of the muezzin calling prayer from the ancient mosque tower.

I sat, and waited, and eventually he came back. My bag was waiting patiently for me inside.