The sun is rising crimson in a clear sky, the air is cold as Houssain, navigates the dusty tracks of the Moroccan Sahara. We listen to haunting Music from Mali. The dunes glisten white with frost.

Houssain becomes my mentor and friend as we work together for long hours whilst a feature film is being made.

I fall in love with the desert and the people who live in it.

Houssain is a Berber, the desert is in his blood. He is a gentle and thoughtful man in his early twenties and over a three -month period a bond develops between us and I gain another son.

This is over twenty years ago, we keep in touch, and I bring members of my family to Morocco and we traverse the desert on camels and later, we trek in the Atlas Mountains, climbing mount M’Goun and Houssain is part of both trips but when climbing the mountain, and as we reach the snowline, I develop altitude sickness and Houssain holds my hand as I vomit into the snow,

This is 15 years ago.

In the interim, Houssain moves to Spain to find work and has since married a Spanish girl and now has a two -year- old son.

He is now 45 years old and I am 84.

I am lying in bed and think,

           ‘Before I die, I would like to see Houssain.’

I go.

The flight lands in Valencia and I feel nervous. Will I recognise him? Will he recognise me? I have never met his wife or child and I don’t speak Spanish. I am visually impaired which makes recognising people difficult.

           ‘Patricia!’

And there they are before me.

I encircle Houssain plus a small sweet boy that he is holding in my arms.

His wife looks on shyly.

It is difficult to find our way out of the carpark.

‘This is catastrophic!’ says Houssain.

This makes me laugh. He is using English whilst in the past we communicated in French.

After driving in a few circles, we emerge into Valencian sunlight and drive towards the coast. It feels comfortable to see the familiar somewhat ugly architecture of urban Spain.

We arrive, and let ourselves into a super and spacious Air B&B terraced apartment on the beach, with the sound of the sea ever present.

They have gone to so much trouble on my behalf and I feel humble and a little worried

 I ought to explain that I arrive with a few issues, I have tendonitis in my hip which I think is improving, I have difficulty with eating dry food plus I have a lung problem in which I can quite rapidly have great difficulty in breathing.

My only instruction to Houssain is,

           ‘Please give me lots of gravy.’

We walk along the beach in the cool of the evening and a brisk wind, the little boy, who is two and a half years old, trots along holding my hand and talking to me in Spanish and I talk to him in English. He is not phased that to him I am talking gibberish; this may be because he is learning four languages simultaneously, English, French, Arabic and Spanish so he already has a concept of different languages.

He is a remarkable little boy.

In the evening, I am served soft potato and fish with kindness, but I chew and chew but the food won’t go down. I ask for milk to be poured over it.

           ‘Milk?’ asks Houssain in surprise.

Is this a strange European habit?

I am treated with such warmth and kindness.

I am sitting at a long table with fifteen other people, the atmosphere is convivial, a soft breeze comes in from the sea, children play and the table is piled high with succulent lamb and chicken tajine and couscous. I am given my own jug of gravy.

In the evening, Houssain, his sweet son and I walk along the pebble beach, we talk of the past and the present and in the little boy chatters to me and I chatter back and we seem to understand each other perfectly.

           ‘I miss the desert’ Houssain says wistfully

The next morning, the tendonitis in my hip returns with a vengeance and I am unable to walk for pain and Houssain drives me to the nearest hospital and deftly manoeuvres my wheelchair along corridors. I leave armed with painkillers.

In the afternoon, we are invited to an aunt’s flat for lunch, set in a pleasant tree lined street in Valencia, we park by the wide flowing river in which the houses that border it are still in a state of destruction from the devastating floods that destroyed them.

To walk the short distance to the flat becomes a challenge and I grip Houssain’s hand and am transported back to a similar moment on a snow- covered mountain in Morocco.

We enter a pristine flat with gleaming white walls, chandeliers and dark polished furniture, the table laid for lunch upon an intricate white lace tablecloth. I discover that the aunt still makes the local Valencian lace.

The Aunt has been forewarned about my eating difficulty and has gone to massive effort to provide suitably liquid food which consisted of a delicious fish stew, followed by flan, the Spanish egg custard which is my favourite pudding, and all the time I am treated with the affection given to a special guest.

As the week goes on, Houssain’s wife manages to unearth so many English words and we become friends.

It is time to leave and we all feel emotional.

           ‘You must come to Morocco, ’says Houssain.

`Aren’t I too much trouble?’ I ask

           ‘No.’ We are at the airport and I am about to be whisked in a wheelchair to customs, we hug and the little boy rests his head on my lap and I have a strong desire to cry