The news came down heavy on Sunday morning. On one half of the Observer’s front page: Amy Winehouse is dead. On the other: a Norwegian fascist has gone on a killing spree, murdering a hundred teenagers and an increasing number of people in Oslo. People borrow each other’s newspapers and shake their heads. The tone is quieter today.

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By Saturday morning, the rat head had been knocked over. I noted this with glee as we passed it on our way to the 9 am yoga class, also held in the main house. It was a self-directed Ashtanga class, which meant the teacher kind of meandered around while the students somewhat robotically went through their sun salutation sequences.

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The thing about Port Eliot, which is true of most festivals, conferences, and other such gatherings, is there’s always something fabulous happening just nearby. Down the hill near the Big Top or up the hill in the Walled Garden: you just have to catch it in time.

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There is an inherent problem in my being here, in Agadir, a town on the coast of central Morocco, to cover and participate in a literary conference. The theme of the conference is space and I am not from this place, have never been to this part of the world, and do not speak the language spoken here, my tongue unable to articulate, my mind unable to decipher, the fluid warblings of Arabic.

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