The arrivals hall at Marrakech Airport is an assault on the senses. Horns honking, drivers shouting, lines of bleary-eyed Brits in plane-stale tracksuits, queuing for a ride to the ‘Red City’.

I’m in a stranger’s house, sipping Moroccan mint tea and eating hot, just-off-the-stove bread while gazing at the snow-capped mountains surrounding the Berber village of Imlil. We arrive at Aisha’s ...