The body language suggested he was not enjoying life.
We helped him bring the bike up the cliff, fed him some water and orange juice, filled his water bottles and off he went - on the way to Cape Town.
The locals in the landrover had stopped once to say hello.
They stopped the other side of the water. Looked like they were just making sure we were ok.
The "plough" barely scratches the surface. The crop is patchy.
We disturbed a large flock which circled like a shoal of fish.
And a few fishing huts.
We listened to some opera standard English language Christmas songs from a Spanish or Portuguese FM radio station.
Freak reception, it disappeared after a couple of hours, never to be heard again.
Just like in the movies.
Silica, not lime. Golden, not white sand.
Heavy going getting through the soft sand to the firmer river bed.
Old snail shells were everywhere.
This vehicle emerged from the haze.
Windblown, sand streaming across in front of us.
We celebrated Christmas Eve with three Germans. The only other occupants.
They provided the Spanish beer. We provided the Stollen - they saw the funny side.
Some of the mud bricks.
Daughter Jennifer.
But of course the materials and archways are quite different.
There's also what look like stables as well as barracks.
We've struggled to find much of the history. Morocco was under French control for only 44 years up to 1956.
That's been time for the forts to have been built, used, then abandoned and fallen into ruin.
Something seems to have happened in 1937 but we aren't sure what.
We are the only occupants of the campsite. Looks like an ex-army ordnance depot. We can recommend it - the shower is hot (unlike Bou Jerif).
Eating mince pies, courtesy of Ian and Janice.
We were embarassed to only have Scottish shortbread, crystallised fruit, some dates and chocolate.
Most important though, lovely to speak English to English people with an English sense of humour.
A tedious task but got there.
And of course caught up a month's blog.
The Moroccans seem to have carried on the French approach of having visitors provide all their details for the police.
This is the town hall. Next to the fire station where we weren't allowed photos.
Nothing obviously set up for tourists. Just shops for day to day Moroccan needs.