Moving house is one of the most stressful things you can do we are told – right up there with divorce and starting a new job.

Last July I was in my car driving from my old home on the coast of Morocco to my new home in a tiny village in Morocco’s Atlas Mountains, Imlil. Squeaky the Cat was with me, making her displeasure known, and I was worrying about how I was going to get my washing machine up the steep, rocky hill. That was all a welcome distraction from the real worry: how would I fit in in a small, traditional community where I was going to be the only foreigner.

The day passed in a whirl. As my truck and I drew up at the bottom of the mountain, I was met by six of the local men and a mule and my washing machine problem was solved. I panted my way up to my one bedroomed house, cursing the altitude that sucked the oxygen from my lungs, and the door was flung open by Imran, aged eight and a half, who was desperate to show me round. He guided me proudly from the kitchen, to the bedroom, to the sitting room and then, hopping from foot to foot with glee, produced the piece de resistance…. The landlord had fitted pink and blue disco lights round the side of the sitting room. I was left momentarily speechless but soon recovered.

“Ifulki, Ifulki! (beautiful),” crowed Imran. Tea was produced and my six helpers came in and drank the sweet brew gratefully and, finally, I was alone.

The unexpected power of making a new friendship in a foreign country