Doha proves to be a box of eastern delights. We are staying in the local rather than expat or tourist area and walking around with the blonde, western tribe we stand out from the more traditionally clad locals in their pristine

white khandoras and black abayas – a large proportion of the women here wear the niqab (full veil that covers all the face but the eyes), but the Tribe barely notice and the smiles that they draw can still be seen in the eyes.

There are also a large amount of workers from India, Bangladesh and Pakistan in the area. We walk across the rubble, pavements and roads that appear to be in a constant state of repairer or disrepair, whichever way you want to look at it.

The souq where Father of the Tribe is currently based is fabulous. Souq Waqif translates to ‘Standing Market’, dating back to a time when the land was marshy (from a long gone river), and sitting was difficult so traders and buyers

would have to stand. The souq dates from the early 19th Century when Doha was a village and people would meet at Wadi Musheireb. It was rebuilt a few years ago after falling into disrepair and is an architectural masterpiece, using traditional materials of stone, mud and wood. Roofs have been rebuilt using wood and bamboo with a binding layer of clay and straw.

Today it is a labyrinth of narrow, twisting alleyways that make up a vibrant, working market. The first place we discover is the falcon souq

where young Qatari boys are taken to buy their first falcon (almost a rite of passage). The falcons sit on low wooden poles, patiently waiting for feeding time. Some are hooded, some not. All are beautiful and with their talons and sharp beaks, deadly to their prey.

We are fortunate to see them being fed as a man places fresh, raw chicken under their talons. They quietly and methodically tear the flesh apart before eating it. A group of local men come in, one carrying his prize falcon and the tribe briefly ask some questions about the bird.

Other shops include silversmiths, glass makers, model dhow builders (the traditional arabian boats), traditional clothing makers, perfume sellers,

spice sellers, shops full of regional honey (the honey from Yemen is supposed to be far superior to New Zealand’s Manuka honey) and an animal souk with a vast number of kittens, puppies, multi coloured chicks (why?!), terrapins, lizards and parrots to name a few! It really is an Aladdin’s Cave.

There are also the Arabian horse stables and the camel stables. The horses are breathtakingly beautiful and two of the Tribe are lucky enough to sit on one as a worker tries to make a bit of extra money. I spend a lot of time with the Tribe walking round the souq and just soaking up its atmosphere.

We sit in coffee shops drinking fresh juices, rubbing shoulders with locals, lounging on sofas enjoying shisha. It is all very evocative of another time.

Before returning home the Tribe visit more art galleries than they have been to in their whole lives including visiting Damien Hirst’s extraordinary exhibition.

The Museum of Islamic Art was another highlight and I only wish that we’d had more time to see more.

Leaving Father of the Tribe in Qatar, we return to Hampshire and its rich autumnal landscape. The days are shorter and the nights drawing in. The first frost catches me completely unawares and it takes a while to defrost the car’s windscreen before setting off on the school run through the villages of North Hampshire! I still find the drive through narrow country lanes striking and the Tribe still comment on things that perhaps would have once seemed rather ordinary. Our robin has returned and of course, the littlest has no memory of these feisty little birds with their puffed out red breast. It is quite sociable and always appears at the top of the shrub just outside the kitchen. We learn that if a robin has a red breast it indicates that it is at least two months old and both males and females flaunt a red breast, hence the fact that ours is an ‘it’. And of course with Christmas fast approaching, the arrival of our robin is perfect timing. The reason that robins are synonymous with christmas is that in years gone past, postmen bringing christmas cards and presents, wore red jackets and were called ‘redbreasts’. Then of course there is the red of Father Christmas’ suit and on a more serious note, the blood of Christ. But to the Tribe he’s a welcome addition to the garden landscape and cheers us up on a grey day.

One day I plan to walk with the littlest’s two godmothers. It turns out to be a pretty foul day but unperturbed, with waterproofs on and the littlest looking like a miniature Michelin man, we head to Stockbridge Common. We also have four dogs with us and as it turns out, we have a splendid time, with the dogs taking great delight in swimming in the Test and then rolling in the black peaty marsh. By the time we return to the cars I am glad that I only have a rather wet 2 year old to bath! It is the first time that I have returned to this area and with the mist rising off the wet ground as we walk across the open space I again marvel at the natural beauty around us.

At the month’s end, Father of the Tribe returns. Chaos and peace descend on our home in equal measures! It feels so deliciously normal to live together as a family in our own home again. The last day of the month is spent clearing fallen leaves, although I think the tribe spend more time jumping and falling into the deep piles. The garden is full of laughter, shouts, screams and the occasional squabble. Normality has almost returned.

Mother of the Tribe