Yet the district has not always been solitary.  Where now the tents are pitched, there was an orange grove in the days when Mulai Abd er Rahman ruled at Fez and Marrakesh, and then Mediunah boasted quite a thriving connection with the coasts of Portugal and Spain.  The little bay wherein one is accustomed to swim or plash about at noonday, then sheltered furtive sailing-boats from the sleepy eyes of Moorish authority, and a profitable smuggling connection was maintained with the Spanish villages between Algeciras and Tarifa Point.  Beyond the rocky caverns, where patient countrymen still quarry for millstones, a bare coast-line leads to the spot where legend places the Gardens of the Hesperides; indeed, the millstone quarries are said to be the original Caves of Hercules, and the golden fruit the hero won flourished, we are assured, not far away.  Small wonder then that the place has an indefinable quality of enchantment that even the twentieth century cannot quite efface.

[Illustration:  A street, Tangier]

Life in camp is exquisitely simple.  We rise with the sun.  If in the raw morning hours a donkey brays, the men are very much perturbed, for they know that the poor beast has seen a djin.  They will remain ill-at-ease until, somewhere in the heights where Mediunah is preparing for another day, a cock crows.  This is a satisfactory omen, atoning for the donkey’s performance.  A cock only crows when he sees an angel, and, if there are angels abroad, the ill intentions of the djinoon will be upset.  When I was travelling in the country some few years ago, it chanced one night that the heavens were full of shooting stars.  My camp attendants ceased work at once.  Satan and all his host were assailing Paradise, they said, and we were spectators of heaven’s artillery making counter-attack upon the djinoon.[1] The wandering meteors passed, the fixed stars shone out with such a splendour as we may not hope to see in these western islands, and the followers of the great Camel Driver gave thanks and praise to His Master Allah, who had conquered the powers of darkness once again.

While I enjoy a morning stroll over the hills, or a plunge in the sea, Salam, squatting at the edge of the cooking tent behind two small charcoal fires, prepares the breakfast.  He has the true wayfarer’s gift that enables a man to cook his food in defiance of wind or weather.  Some wisps of straw and charcoal are arranged in a little hole scooped out of the ground, a match is struck, the bellows are called into play, and the fire is an accomplished fact.  The kettle sings as cheerfully as the cicadas in the tree tops, eggs are made into what Salam calls a “marmalade,” in spite of my oft-repeated assurance that he means omelette, porridge is cooked and served with new milk that has been carefully strained and boiled.  For bread we have the flat brown loaves of Mediunah, and they are better than they look—­ill-made indeed, but vastly more nutritious than the pretty emasculated products of our modern bakeries.