Like me, he had never found anyone he wanted to marry; like me, he was in search of a life less ordinary.

He did not need a British passport or my money: he had his own restaurant and a great deal of pride in his heritage.

One day, when we sat together in an outdoor cafe watching a donkey trot past with a little old man on its back, Abdel turned to me and said: ‘So, when are we getting married?’

It seemed the natural next step, and, in October 2005, we were married in a Muslim ceremony, followed by a traditional Berber wedding, attended by friends and family.

Seven years on, we have proved the doubters wrong and still feel as strongly about one another as we did when we first met, complementing each other neatly — two pieces of a puzzle which have somehow found one another, despite being continents apart.

Being old enough and experienced enough to understand that compromise and consideration are at the heart of successful relationships, we made the decision to share our worlds equally, spending six months in each country.
Abdel runs his restaurant during the winter months. And, in the summer, when Moroccan temperatures soar, we go to Cornwall, where he has been absorbed into the local artist community and taken up oil painting.

Abdel’s wonderful country, so warm and rich with life, has opened its arms to me and provided me with inspiration. Abdel himself is my sounding-board, and a deep well of stories.

As a reader of Arabic and French, he has mined Morocco’s history for me, and revelled in the telling of his beloved country’s lost tales.

As poor compensation for his gifts, I peel vegetables for him in the restaurant (ah, the glamorous life of an author).

The Dalai Lama says that love and cooking require that you take great risks. I like to think we’re proving him right.

Curated by Erbe
Original Article