Donkeys done with, we were wondering what to do with the rest of our time in the Atlas Mountains. Aziz wasn’t going to drive off without us as we had not paid him yet. Well, it would be rude to not attempt one or two of these peaks around us.
As Rob and Cat were discussing, we seemed to find ourselves in an amalgamation of the Pyrenees and Dartmoor. Realising our time restraints we opted for a peak that emanated those of the moors of South West England.
![20130319_124126[1]](http://61things.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/20130319_1241261.jpg?w=580&h=435)
This involved passing through Biblical hut villages where all the traders live as well as disturbing herds of goats without scaring the kids too much as they chewed up the valley floors.
What amazed me the most was how ridiculously unfit Rob was. This guy does triathlons and should be starting in the Royal Navy, yet he was the one complaining away every 10 metres or so. Deary me.
Eventually we reached our summit covered in sweat and glory. Upon surveying the wondrous scene we came across a devastating reality. The lift was now operating. Ah well.
