We walked down the steep path from our campsite to Chefchaouen, passing through the narrow streets of the old town, doors slightly ajar granting a glimpse of the tiled entrances to the houses. There were little shops with their dark interiors, merchandise spilling out onto the streets. There were market stalls selling fresh produce and local crafts along the narrow streets as well as filling the wide squares.
We passed a row of butcher shops, some selling chickens which were kept alive in pens at the rear of the shop. As I peered into the dark interior of one such shop, a loudly clucking chicken was being dumped unceremoniously on the weighing scales. Seconds later the poor creature was tossed across the shop to another man, who seeing me watching, beckoned me over to watch. I hastily retreated from the doorway as the chicken’s panicking squawks ceased abruptly . . . .