At the top of the cliff of Sidi Bouknadel, firmly attached to it, a Kasbah house like the others is there, between the great wall of the Borg Namm (The wall with pigeons) and the fountain of Bouknadel. We don't guess anything about the alley. A mysterious garden facing the Detroit, in terraces up to the road below which was the children's beach of the Kasbah. Like a lookout overlooking this biblical landscape marked by the modernity of the new fishing port, she watches over the sleeping citadel. The garden made of chance and trial and error is a haven of peace that takes you to laziness and travel: a mixture of local species of plants resistant to spray and the east wind fills you with a tangle of greens so varied: from the most tender to the deepest. The house is that of a traveler who has never traveled but has dreamed a lot. Timeless, it is welcoming in its kaleidoscopic bric-a-brac and organized with embroidery, pottery, tiles and other objects torn with passion, over the years.