And so, having been bullied by a twelve-year-old the previous evening, we now rejoin our two heroes as they breakfast on the terrace of their hostel, trying to summon up the courage to step outside once more, into whatever new adventures await.

Sam and I spent our first morning in Morocco breakfasting on the roof terrace. The view wasn’t exactly grand, but it was certainly alien: stacks of rooftops, all at different heights, all unfinished. Each building was the same: rising sturdily from the clamour of the streets below, only to peter out suddenly, as if the builders had lost interest the minute they thought nobody would see their work. Each terrace adjacent to our own very lovely one was a jumble of breeze blocks and empty paint cans and broomsticks, with stray cats prowling the rubble.