What it's prefer to live at the base of the Atlas Mountains: 'My bedroom is situated right over the family cow'

I was in a rut. I had eaten way too many chocolate biscuits and viewed too many Netflix container sets curled up on the sofa with my cats. The result was an expanded body but shrunken soul.

What I needed was an adventure and, as I am by nature an extremist, I hunted around for a thing that was way outside of my comfort zone. I located it: the Everest Trail Competition ultramarathon; six days playing around the world’s highest mountain semi self-supported with 15,000 metres of ascent. When you can imagine climbing a 15-kilometre ladder while struggling to breathe, you then get the theory. I signed on the dotted line.

At that time, I was moving into Essaouira on the Moroccan Atlantic coast, which houses long beaches, nice squares filled up with would-be Bob Marleys, a fabulous souq with the very best range of olives on earth and a fantastic Italian gelateria. Wonderful, but absolutely no use for training at thin air. So I made a decision to move to the Atlas Mountains, to the tiny village of Imlil, which lies at the bottom of Mount Toubkal, North Africa’s highest peak at 4,167 metres.

In Morocco, everything is personal, and I asked my hiking guide friends in the region if indeed they knew of anywhere to stay. Hassan said: "Yes, Hajj Brahim features a small home with his family. He will treat you well. He's a very good and honest gentleman.” Six weeks later I moved in.

Moving was a good foretaste of what my life would be like. I rolled up with my lorry to become met by Hasan, six strong guys, a mule and an assortment of young boys. Already at altitude and with my home a couple of hundred metres away up a steep goat monitor, I puffed and sweated as I carried up my ironing board and a package of shoes.

“Alice, it is better if you head out and sit in the cafe and also have some tea, and we'll do that,” Hassan explained. As I watched, the males loaded the washer onto the mule and the males scampered around with floor cleaners and lampshades.

My little one-bedroomed house is defined in a gated compound of four families, with a shared yard and a major arched door by the end. We will be about 25 people in total. The yard is usually full of kids and cats and occasionally chickens, and my stage is a convenient place for the ladies to stay in the shade. My bedroom is situated right over the relatives cow, so will get somewhat smelly in the mornings, but I am as well perched above a ocean of walnut trees.

I speak Arabic but that was no very good if you ask me here as the language is Tashlaheet, among the 3 Amazigh languages of Morocco. I needed to learn quickly to integrate with my neighbours. Help came in the form of Hajj Brahim’s 90-year-old mother. I had made a decision to leave my entry way open to encourage tourists and she arrived with two ripe peaches. "Peace be upon you my daughter, welcome, my son has generated you a lovely house."

A face glowing with the wisdom of a life kindly spent, she smiled at me and put her scorching, dry side into mine. We walked to the terrace and she began to teach me words - "Odrar: mountains", "Ishwa: gorgeous" - as we sat hearing the birds hand in hand.

Another breakthrough was my initial tea party with the ladies. A flower-like girl of about 8 - Zineb - was delivered to fetch me at five o’clock and I was taken to Rachida’s house. Seven women of differing ages, the wives and moms, were sitting in fluffy pyjamas with glowing robes, aprons and headscarves outrageous. I was welcomed and kissed and guided through the feast: flaky paratha-like bakery, cushiony pancakes, butter, honey and walnuts. “Everything is normally from the house,” Rachida explained proudly, “The butter is normally from the cow downstairs, possibly the honey is from our wild hives in the mountains. Eat, eat.”

I had to train so each day I would get my system on and rise the mountains. “Seem, Madame Sport is coming,” the little boys would yell in delight and jog along with me for a tad, dragging me off the road if they spotted something interesting showing me, like goats climbing trees to access the juicy tips.

I also started doing game titles with the kids in the compound every Sunday, and viewing the little females pelting along to win the running races within their pink plastic material slippers or doing their finest to imitate elephants is becoming an enormous shared pleasure. Musical statues may be the absolute favourite, though.

The race came and I was seen off by the family with every want my success and a speedy return. “God, proceed with you! God get with you,” they cried as little Imran carried my system handbag down the goat monitor - it had been bigger than him. I ran and walked and suffered round Everest, focused exclusively on my target of finishing every day within the time limits in order that I wouldn’t suffer the ignominy to be disqualified and helicoptered back again to Kathmandu. My joy when I went up to gather my finisher’s medal was indescribable.

Using that medal, after a month away, I skipped up the goat monitor back again to my mountain home. “Salaam alaykum,” I called as I peeped across the gate and was instantly swamped by a tidal wave of individuals. I was enveloped in hugs and kisses while the children capered around. “Come, arrive, let’s beverage tea,” stated Fatma, Hajj’s wife, grabbing my side.

"And, sport, Alice,” said little Zineb. "We've been looking forward to you.” I was home.