Moroccan sun

I am travelling to Morocco in a couple of weeks. A trip I have longed for all my life yet have never made. As a very young child I would sit on the kitchen worktop in our apartment in Hampstead, London, with the sun streaming through the window playing with a collection of exotic shells my mother had collected in a large barrel jar on her travels as a hippy. Each shell fascinated me, and while my mother cooked in a cheese cloth kaftan telling me stories of exotic places and experiences I would run my fingers over the shells and imagine that one day I would visit these places too.
This room reminds me of the bohemian surroundings of my youth, the grounded low level bed and seating, textiles and art which tell stories. Now that’s what good rooms are made of.

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