Donkeys and mules laden with pails of milk and baskets of goods are led slowly through the streets, some whip-thin, others broader; we stop in our tracks at the sight of the doe-eyed, reluctant beasts. In the gentle lilt of Moroccan Arabic the donkey minders shoo us out the way. We sample a market breakfast of large flat breads, such as harcha the semolina pan-fried bread made with butter and milk with a spicy relish, olives and later dates. Having skipped breakfast, we tuck in with gusto. Men and women in plain djebella are buying their breakfasts here too. I watch them keenly, taking in the easy conversations they are having with vendors, the patient haggling, the packages wrapped up and new customers moving in to the front. It’s a rhythm of the everyday here in Fez – food is bought fresh from a market, as it always has been.
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