Just beyond the city’s clamor, the hills remember older rhythms. Winding roads reveal Berber villages where time moves to the crunch of olives under stone presses. The air here smells of wild thyme and damp earth, a sharp contrast to Tangier’s salt breezes. In spring, the slopes explode with poppies; by autumn, the fig trees bend with purple fruit. There’s a particular bend in the road where shepherds still pause to share buttermilk with travelers, and a hidden waterfall where local women gather to wash wool. The mountains keep Tangier’s wild heart beating.
