real lives S
ix years ago I was living the typical London life – working in a demanding job and spending my free time
with my other single girlfriends. I supplemented my income as an editor for a publishing house with writing books for children. When I could, I nipped down to the family cottage in Cornwall to go climbing. Life was crammed to the gunwales, but something crucial was missing. At 44, I’d concluded I was likely to be single for the rest of my life. Relationships had foundered on
my independence, outspokenness and determination to live my own life. Since childhood (as a terrible little tomboy), I’d sworn I would never get married, wear a slave-bond on my finger or take someone else’s name as my own. And the idea of wearing a great big meringue of a wedding dress? Ugh! Yet here I am, living in a
given up on the idea of love. It proves you never know what fate has in store and that life can be as daring and romantic as the novels I write. I come from a storytelling family. My mother used to spin tales when I was growing up in Cornwall about an ancestor who was taken away by pirates. Fascinated, I began researching our family history and found that 19-year-old Catherine Tregenna, along with 60 men, women and children, had been kidnapped in a raid on a church in Penzance in 1625 by corsairs who then carried them off to Morocco. It
I headed about 800km (500 miles) south-west to climb in Tafraout. Typically, it rained. Unable to climb,
know what fate has in It proves you never
and romantic as store and that your
remote Moroccan village a continent away from my friends, family and job, wearing a ring of white gold forged in Marrakech. I’m known as Madame Zaina Bakrim and am the only blonde European in a sea of dark- eyed, black-robed women. In a dusty African market where vendors call their wares in an alien language, I turn my head and see a handsome man with a razor sharp profile, wearing a sky blue robe and turban, carrying the basket of vegetables we have just bought. He is my husband, a Berber tribesman called Abdellatif. Our journey has been an
extraordinary one. It’s a story that will give hope to anyone who has
was to be the inspiration for the first novel I penned. In February 2005, I took three
weeks’ leave from work to travel to North Africa to find out more. My rock climbing partner Bruce agreed to come along to help with the research as long as we then went climbing in the Anti-Atlas Mountains. I loved Morocco and found Rabat and Salé invaluable for providing stunning settings and intriguing faces to populate my novel. But one face, that of the Moroccan pirate chief, eluded me. Temporarily defeated, Bruce and
life can be as daring the novels I write
we spent the next few days in the local cafes. One night, the door to one restaurant was opened by the owner, a tall man in a turban and robe – very striking and charismatic. I turned to Bruce and said, “That’s my pirate chief!” Over the course of the evening I felt a powerful connection with this stranger – something in his direct, yet diffident regard felt familiar, as if we’d known one another for years. Yet neither of us spoke the other’s language, and the only communication between us consisted of halting phrases – me praising the meal (which was delicious), him thanking me. As he bowed to wish me goodnight, he told me his name was Abdellatif Bakrim. When, at last, the rain
stopped, Bruce and I set off up the mountain to climb a 457m (1,500ft) rock face called the Lion’s Head. The rain had caused mudslides
and waterfalls that impeded our progress and by the time we reached the crux at 5pm we realised there was no time to make our way back down before darkness fell. The nights up in the mountains
in February are cold. Climbing in just T-shirts and jeans, we were unprepared but managed a makeshift shelter on a perilous ledge. All night I lay there shivering uncontrollably. Just before dawn it began to rain again and I began to seriously worry about our safety. In that state of mind, I made three vows. I decided that if I ever got
WWW.CANDIS.CO.UK | OCTOBER 2011 67
Page 1 |
Page 2 |
Page 3 |
Page 4 |
Page 5 |
Page 6 |
Page 7 |
Page 8 |
Page 9 |
Page 10 |
Page 11 |
Page 12 |
Page 13 |
Page 14 |
Page 15 |
Page 16 |
Page 17 |
Page 18 |
Page 19 |
Page 20 |
Page 21 |
Page 22 |
Page 23 |
Page 24 |
Page 25 |
Page 26 |
Page 27 |
Page 28 |
Page 29 |
Page 30 |
Page 31 |
Page 32 |
Page 33 |
Page 34 |
Page 35 |
Page 36 |
Page 37 |
Page 38 |
Page 39 |
Page 40 |
Page 41 |
Page 42 |
Page 43 |
Page 44 |
Page 45 |
Page 46 |
Page 47 |
Page 48 |
Page 49 |
Page 50 |
Page 51 |
Page 52 |
Page 53 |
Page 54 |
Page 55 |
Page 56 |
Page 57 |
Page 58 |
Page 59 |
Page 60 |
Page 61 |
Page 62 |
Page 63 |
Page 64 |
Page 65 |
Page 66 |
Page 67 |
Page 68 |
Page 69 |
Page 70 |
Page 71 |
Page 72 |
Page 73 |
Page 74 |
Page 75 |
Page 76 |
Page 77 |
Page 78 |
Page 79 |
Page 80 |
Page 81 |
Page 82 |
Page 83 |
Page 84 |
Page 85 |
Page 86 |
Page 87 |
Page 88 |
Page 89 |
Page 90 |
Page 91 |
Page 92 |
Page 93 |
Page 94 |
Page 95 |
Page 96 |
Page 97 |
Page 98 |
Page 99 |
Page 100 |
Page 101 |
Page 102 |
Page 103 |
Page 104 |
Page 105 |
Page 106 |
Page 107 |
Page 108 |
Page 109 |
Page 110 |
Page 111 |
Page 112 |
Page 113 |
Page 114 |
Page 115 |
Page 116 |
Page 117 |
Page 118 |
Page 119 |
Page 120 |
Page 121 |
Page 122 |
Page 123 |
Page 124 |
Page 125 |
Page 126 |
Page 127 |
Page 128 |
Page 129 |
Page 130 |
Page 131 |
Page 132 |
Page 133 |
Page 134 |
Page 135 |
Page 136 |
Page 137 |
Page 138 |
Page 139 |
Page 140 |
Page 141 |
Page 142 |
Page 143 |
Page 144 |
Page 145 |
Page 146 |
Page 147 |
Page 148 |
Page 149 |
Page 150 |
Page 151 |
Page 152 |
Page 153 |
Page 154 |
Page 155 |
Page 156 |
Page 157 |
Page 158 |
Page 159 |
Page 160 |
Page 161 |
Page 162 |
Page 163 |
Page 164