It is the evening before the day after. I stumble my way out of my student bolthole, my cavernous rucksack barely squeezing through the door frame, and waddle my way to the train station. As I sit on the train to Oxford, my spinal column somewhat the worse for wear, I make a mental inventory of all the things I probably should have packed but haven't. Oh well, it's too late now. And anyway, this is a journey into the soul itself. We will most likely be divesting ourselves of material possessions as we progress, because

a) things are heavy, and we'll get sick of carrying them, and
b) we will be brimming with spirituality by the time we reach fair Morocco, and hence we will have no need of consumer durables. I'd like to keep hold of the toothpaste though. If I'm going to radiate holiness and attract a band of followers, I want to make sure my gnashers sparkle.

Sofia picks me up at the station, and drives me to her palatial family pile. The whole interior is immeasurably Swedish, the airy minimalism vandalised by Sofia in her bid to make it feel "homely". The fridge has been splattered with magnetic coloured spots, and a sign above the toilet helps you identity how dehydrated you are from the hue of your urine. Sofia's mother implores me to take good care of her, which I promise to do. Thankfully she didn't get that in writing though. I'm under no contractual obligations to return her in one piece.

We pack and re-pack our bags and try and ready ourselves for our quest. Next stop, Morocco!