Globusz^® Publishing 

Syria.

A group about twenty women were gathered together, squatting at the roadside. They were dressed in dark, velvet gowns, but in vivid contrast, each wore a brilliantly coloured headscarf. From behind the women where heaps of dung-cakes were stacked for fuel came a growling Saluki dog. Pounding towards us barking aggressively, it leapt at the Land Rover and snapped at the wheels. Then, having chased us several hundred yards from its territory, it stopped and, with hair bristling, returned to its owners. Even in the safety of the Land Rover, Audrey gave a shudder and was obviously relieved when we had driven out of its range. These ferocious dogs not only make very satisfactory guards for the villages, shepherds, for hunting purposes, also use them.

It was a treat, indeed, to see the pure white, snow-capped line of the Anti-Lebanon Mountains stretching away ahead of us into the distance. We had passed through basalt country where villages, constructed from the dark, igneous rock, huddled into the hills. Now this had given way to deep red soil from which lush green vegetation was bursting forth.

We drove straight on to Damascus, which was made the capital of Syria in the seventh century AD, by the first Arab ruler Caliph Mu’awiya. This was the home of the Omayyads, and it was under their rule that the city enjoyed its greatest glories.First, we decided to make our way to the Great Omayyad Mosque by way of the many alleyways and narrow streets that make up the souks of the city. As is usual with all Middle Eastern market places, it was thronged with people. Women from the neighbouring villages, enjoying a day’s shopping trip, wore apricot and black striped woollen shawls thrown over their heads and shoulders. Others had long, frilly pantaloons just showing beneath their ankle-length dresses. Two young girls sauntered past wearing khaki battledress. Men passed by in suits, in flowing gowns, turbans, fezes and baggy trousers – a veritable costume cavalcade. The baggy trousers are called cheroual. All the fullness is between the legs, due to the Moslem belief that when the Messiah returns to earth, he will be born of a man.

Eventually we came to the entrance of the Mosque and went straight into an open courtyard surrounded by arched colonnades. At each end of the courtyard were two small buildings, one the Treasury, the other a sacred bookstore that contained the first hand-written Koran. Above the long line of colonnades rose three minarets; the Jesus minaret, to where, (it is said) Christ will descend on the Day of Judgement, the Western minaret, and the oldest, built in the twelfth century, the Bride’s Minaret. The latter, dazzling white in the sunshine is so called because according to Moslem tradition, the Bride of Jesus will come to this Mosque and reign for a period of forty years. Beneath the many arches are various scenes composed of gold, green and blue mosaics. We stopped to admire a semi-circular window, its intricate, geometric pattern of stained glass enclosed by veined marbles.

Inside the richly carpeted Prayer Hall men, some alone, some in small groups were seated beside great pillars. They gently rocked to and fro chanting prayers and reading aloud from enormous old books. The tranquil atmosphere seemed to be permeated with the ancient teachings and devotion to Islam.

Close by the mosque, in amongst the tumbledown, green-shuttered houses, we found the mausoleum of Saladin. A quietly moving caretaker showed us across a courtyard, which contained numerous trailing and climbing plants. In the midst of so many stone buildings and dusty alleys, these were a delight and obviously well tended. Beyond a corridor was a room containing the tombs, one of wood, the other of stone. Some say that the wooden tomb was the original, others that it was built for Saladin’s closest companion. Placed on top of both tombs were two enormous green silk turbans, which looked as though they had been made for the heads of giants.

Then, on to the Street called Straight, where Roman arches remain at one crowded end of this Biblical landmark.For nearly a mile, carts rattle by and donkeys pad their loads along greasy gutters. Suddenly one donkey, in the centre of the road, caused havoc by refusing to budge. Car drivers became impatient, and the man in charge began to beat his stubborn animal. Groups of men gathered at shop fronts turned to stare but not to help, they were too busy vigorously expounding their views on the unstable politics of their age. In quieter moments, they lured visitors to buy from their stores.

Turning down a side street, we found that we had come upon a dozen or so cobbler’s shops, with myriads of slippers and shoes adorning the fronts. A strap of Audrey’s sandal had broken and this was obviously the most convenient time and place for it to be repaired. A small man wearing, a close-fitting green skullcap sat bent over his antiquated sewing machine. Barely glancing up as we gave him the sandal, he took a reel of strong thread and began working at once. The repair was soon complete. The charge was four pence.

We walked through the El Hamidieh souk past a medley of raucous Eastern bargaining, to the Keesan Gate and St. Paul’s Window, the traditional place where St. Paul was lowered over the wall in a basket in order to escape at the hands of the Jews.

One of the most picturesque mosques in Damascus is the Tekkieh of Suliman, near the Barada River. Two slender white minarets join with the dark spears of Cyprus trees in their attempt to reach the sky, and countless domes, like small bubbles, each with a miniature spire, border the enclosure. The most fascinating thing was the remarkable patterns produced by light and shade.

The Tekkieh was built in 1750 as a hostel for a religious sect known as the Dervishes. Originally, it was the fourteenth century mystic, Rumi, who founded the order of Dancing Dervishes. His faithfull followers know ‘The Mevlana’ as Rumi. It is believed that by dancing to music, a divine ecstasy and unity with God could be attained. Rumi had visited Damascus, but it was at Konya in Southern Turkey, that the movement had its roots. The white, ankle-length robes, which the Dervishes wear are gathered at the waist with a belt, and flare into large, cone-like tents when the dancers whirl. On their heads, the men wear extra tall fezes. Apparently the sect was dissolved by Attaturk, and has not been revived since, although once a year a demonstration of the dancing is given.

Our camp was in the area known as Ghouta, the Garden of Damascus. Around us the fields were planted with peach, apple, almond, and apricot trees, all thick with buds. In another month there would be a sea of pink and white blossom. The Danjani brothers, who owned the campsite as well as groves of fruit trees, made us welcome. Proudly they showed us their swimming pool and showers, before getting on to a much more important subject.

“Have you any cigarettes, clothes or maybe a transistor, that you don’t want?” – They enquired. We disappointed them, I think, for there was nothing we felt we could spare.

That evening they asked if we would like to join with their family in the house. Hoping that we might have an interesting conversation with them, we learnt on our arrival that the Danjani brothers had gone out; only wives and children were at home – all watching the television. We left as early as we possibly could, without being impolite, and returned to our tent. The cool night air was filled with the spring serenade of hundreds of croaking frogs.

Lebanon.

The next morning we crossed the border into Lebanon.[24] The prospect before us was exciting, and we immediately felt that we would enjoy our stay in this mountainous country, knowing that it would give us the added pleasure of being beside the Mediterranean Sea. We began the climb across the mountains and on reaching the top were greeted by an azure blue haze, where sea and sky merged towards the horizon. On a promontory, reaching out into this blue was the capital Beirut.

The descent was quick and we were soon a part of the hot, dusty city. At this particular time, we felt in no mood to begin exploring. In fact, we were relieved to successfully negotiate our way through seething traffic and on to the coast road, which continued northwards to Byblos. There we hoped that we would find a suitable camp where we could stop for a fortnight.

In the village of Amchit, a few kilometres beyond Byblos, we found a camp signposted and following the direction across a single railway track, we arrived at a low, stone building with a small clearing beside it. The name of the camp was Les Colombes meaning ‘The Doves’, because of the old dovecote on a slope nearby, now made into a small, private chapel.

The married couple that ran the site were very pleasant and helpful. They had a small shop where milk, bread, butter, fruit and tinned goods could be purchased There were ample washing facilities including hot showers, a large kitchen, and an open veranda where one could play table-tennis. Last, but not least, we were only a couple of hundred yards from the sea.

Four lively New Zealand girls accompanied by a bald, but bearded Canadian, helped in the shop and had completely decorated the camp buildings. They were all making their way home, having worked in London for five years, but on account of money problems, had to remain in Lebanon for longer than they had intended, so working at the camp helped to pay for their keep. Their plight was becoming quite obvious by their tattered and paint-splattered jeans. Over a period of several hot days these were progressively cut away until they resembled shorts.

Here too, we met Ray and Vera Munsee, an American couple that were enthusiastically and energetically enjoying their retirement travelling around in a Volkswagen Camper. They had toured the Continent and were making their way to Jordan, before shipping to Egypt and driving across North Africa.

“We’ll be coming to London, you know – they would say – and we sure would love to look you up.” (They did, and we all spent a memorable day visiting Hyde Park Corner and Petticoat Lane).

By far the most luxurious set up for travelling that we had seen, belonged to an English man and his wife by the name of Pickering. Their Land Rover was pure white and towed a caravan which had practically every modern convenience known to man that one could wish for. In complete contrast, a Swiss girl and her companion, a young fellow of unknown nationality, owned nothing other than a small rucksack and its contents. They seemed quite satisfied when told that they could sleep in the basement of the camp block, which had not yet been completed.

One morning, one of the New Zealand girls came into the kitchen carrying her transistor radio.

“Well – she said – according to the latest information, whether we like it or not, we can’t get out of Lebanon!”

“Why ever not?”– Everyone asked.

“Apparently there’s been trouble in Damascus, and all the borders have been closed.”

And so they had. During a military coup d’etat in Syria, four hundred soldiers were killed in Aleppo and there had been much bloodshed. The three-year old, left wing Baathist Government of General Hafiz had been overthrown and he had been captured. All Syrian border points were closed for an indefinite length of time. We were reassured that, revolutions of this nature were not uncommon in Syria, and that everything would probably be back to normal within a fortnight. Not that we were too concerned. We had allowed ourselves some time to explore the Lebanon. So we settled down in the pleasant surroundings of Amchit, which was conveniently situated for all the subsequent journeys that we wanted to make in the country.

In the first few days we completed a service on the Land Rover, as we had experienced an ominous knocking in the engine. This completely vanished after an oil change. I suspected that our last supply of oil, which had been collected by the man at the hotel in Jerusalem, must have been inferior, or even diluted. This could have resulted in some serious damage, so I resolved that in future I would be more careful to try and buy from a reputable source.

One morning we decided to visit some people that we had met whilst camping in Jerusalem, who lived and worked at the American University in Beirut. Founded by missionaries in 1866, this University has students from over forty countries, and there are twenty different religious groups. From the Corniche, a modern, tree-lined promenade, we walked across the lawns towards the lecturers’ apartments. A group of children were playing together and, amongst them, we recognised our friends’ young daughter. Although only four years old, she was quite confident enough to show us where her parents lived.

Dick and Vivian were delighted to see us again, and showed us around their beautifully cool apartment, which had tiled floors and white leather furniture. After telling us something of their work in Beirut, they brought us refreshing glasses of lemon juice and, getting out a large map of the Lebanon, they proceeded to tell us about all the places that we shouldn’t miss seeing. This was very useful for us, as Dick and Vivian had been in the country long enough to know the really attractive places, many of them small villages perched up in the mountains.

Beirut, being an international banking centre, enjoys freedom of monetary transactions. Alongside shops and cafes in the huge central square, the Place des Canons, were numerous independent moneychangers. We wondered what rate of exchange we would get for our money. Making enquiries at several doorways, we found that we could obtain about thirty-four liras for one-pound sterling. This was considerably better than the official rate of twenty-three liras to the pound, so we changed several of our travellers’ cheques.

About the square modern arched street lamps emulated a few palm trees, whose branches miraculously retained some greenness in spite of the dust. There were crowds of jostling people and heavy traffic. Noises penetrated from all directions. Lurid pictures advertised the latest films, and acted as magnets to the majority of young men of the city. Finding Thomas Cooks as quickly as we could, we collected our mail and set off back on the road to Amchit. On the few occasions when we braved the twenty-mile nightmare drive into the capital, we were always glad to return to this delightful place by the sea but, unluckily, before we could escape the city on this particular day we had a puncture. To change the offside wheel was akin to dicing with death. There were so many cars speeding close beside us, that we were relieved to have completed the job without an accident.

Looking over a wall, near to where we had stopped, we were confronted by an area cluttered with the filthiest hovels imaginable. Nothing had been considered useless in the building of these shacks. Old wooden boxes, cardboard, sheets of corrugated iron, scrap metal, all had been thrown together to make some form of living accommodation. Several grubby children squatted on their haunches beside a sluggish stream, playing with odd bits of scrap and garbage. This pitiful scene was the refugee camp for hundreds of homeless Palestinians. Directly behind it was a multi-storeyed factory with an advertising sign: ‘SLEEP COMFORT’ incongruously spread across the whole building.

When mornings dawned clear and sunny we often felt quite disinclined to travel anywhere, so we would walk down the stony path that led to the sea. There was only one large house on this path, complete with its own swimming pool. It had belonged to a wealthy Arab who, we were told, married a German girl. Unfortunately, she did not realise that this lovely house was not to be hers alone. All her husband’s relations moved in too. Disillusioned, she returned to Germany and now the house stands locked and shuttered – the pool empty.

A little further on, just as the path took a turn to the cliff edge, there was the most primitive of houses, built just beneath the overhanging ledge of rock. It could hardly be called a house since it was barely ten feet in length and had only one window. To be more accurate it was only a wall built across a cave opening. The occupant must have been a hermit, for only once did we see a man clamber down over the rocky ledge as though he was going enter. Sometimes if we were out early in the morning, we would catch sight of a solitary figure with a fishing rod, standing well out on an almost inaccessible rock.

The soft, springy green grass along the path felt good underfoot, and we thought how little of it we had seen during the preceding few months. Here and there were small, wild iris, their thin leaves curling about each blue flower. Beside us was a field of maize, now tall and swaying gently in the breeze, but sometimes lashed and bent by gale force winds. At one spot there were the twisted and rusty remains of a wind-pump which, when silhouetted against the golden sky of the west, looked not unlike some mechanised robot from another planet. At one time it had been used to raise water from the sea to shallow pans, each about fifty square feet in area, from which salt was gathered when the water had evaporated. The method is still used today along the coastline near Tripoli.

The pounding sea beat the extensive rocky foreshore, criss-crossed with gashes, as if slashed with some Herculean knife, incessantly. A seething mass of brilliant white foam cascaded over rocks covered with seaweed of the deepest green, and water continually rushed to and fro between crevices, and noisily bubbled up from hidden holes, causing splendid water spouts. Often we sat gazing at the never-ending inferno caused by the waves. In places the rocks had been washed white and clean, and there were smoothly rounded shallow pools, clear and without ripples.

We rarely saw anyone else along the way except on one occasion when we met an old woman dressed completely in black. As she slowly walked along we noticed her wrinkled but healthy face. From time to time she stooped to gather a handful of green leaves, which she pushed into an old black bag. Seeing that we were interested in what she was doing, she made signs to show us that the leaves were good to eat.

Another day, whilst beachcombing, quite by surprise we came upon a man dressed in a tattered old pair of trousers and a straw hat. He walked barefooted along the rock pools prising up sea urchins from below the water line using a short knife. When he caught sight of us he held one up. We joined him, hoping that he would not ask us to eat one of them then and there, for obviously he was collecting them for a meal. Fortunately, he wanted them all for himself, but he did show us how, with a quick deft scoop, he could remove the stubborn things from the rocks upon which they clung.

We set off one morning for a walk across the fields and along the beach to Byblos. In the fourth century BC it had been a commercial centre, greater than Tyre or Sidon, which were probably only fishing ports. Looking across the languid waters of the small harbour, to where colourful boats nodded gently against the stone wall, and blue fishing nets were draped in the sun, it was not difficult to imagine some of the long-nosed Phoenician ships being loaded with timber for Egypt, and papyrus for Greece. In time, the horizons of the Phoenicians spread to Spain and North Africa, even – it is said – to Britain.

We continued walking up through the old town, past orange and eucalyptus trees, and through the souks, until we came to an arched gateway above, which was a statue of the Virgin Mary. Looking down over other smaller buildings were the Crusader church of St. John the Baptist and the tower of a Crusader castle. An impressive moat surrounds the castle, the tower of which we climbed by a flight of steps built into the thick stone walls. From the top there was a splendid view over the modern town backed by mountains, and also of the excavation area around the castle, which stretched down to the curving sweep of the coastline. Research in this area has proved that the site has been inhabited for at least seven thousand years.

A fresh breeze blew from the sea. It was enough to urge us back to ground level, where we walked across the grass to the reconstructed obelisk temple, where once Phoenicians offered their gifts to the god Reshef. All about the ground were broken funerary jars, pillars and stones. The obelisks, strange stone monoliths none taller than ten feet, were all enclosed by a low stonewall. One, about three feet high with a hole through the top, has been identified as a votive anchor.

Determined to see more of the old Phoenician ports, we drove southwards the next day to Sidon and Tyre. Not long after leaving Byblos, we came to the Nahr Ibraheem, or Adonis River, the source of which rises high in the mountains in the Afga grotto. In February, the melting snow causes the river to flood and carry down the reddish mud washed from the lower slopes. According to legend this is the blood of Adonis. When the river runs red, the Lebanese remember how Adonis, the most handsome of gods, loved by both Persephone and Aphrodite, received a fatal wound from a wild boar whilst he was out hunting. Even the red anemones, heralds of the spring, are said to grow where drops of his blood were scattered. Although his lover Astarte (Aphrodite) found Adonis she was unable to save him. Her grief was so great that Zeus decreed that Adonis should spend the winter of each year in the underworld with Persephone and the six months of summer with Aphrodite.

We passed on, through villages of typical Lebanese houses, built of cream coloured, cut stone and generally two storeys high. The doorways were arched and the windows shuttered. Most houses had a veranda at first floor level, decorated with pots of flowers and climbing plants where the family could sit and entertain friends.

Near Jounieh we stopped beside a pebbled beach to speak with a couple of cheery fishermen wearing wide-brimmed straw hats. Tanned by the sun they sat barefooted, deftly sewing their nets. All the while the rounded stones clattered and tumbled one against the other as the tide came in.

There are many stories associated with the Dog River, which flows into the sea just before one reaches the outskirts of Beirut. At the headland is a white plinth. Arabs tell that a statue of a wolf once stood here, howling a warning at the approach of an enemy, which could be heard for two leagues around. Whatever stories there are, one may see for oneself the mark that various conquerors have left in the form of steles, some of them thousands of years old. These stones, with their various inscriptions in different languages, tell of Ramesses II and his victories against the Hittites, of Sultan Selim’s victory over Syria and of Nebuchadnezzar’s homage to the valour of his warriors. There are, too, more recent plaques, one of which commemorates the 1946 evacuation from Lebanon of all foreign troops.

A little further up the river, just opposite a small inn, is a lovely old cobbled bridge of three arches. A mimosa tree in full bloom gave the air a sweet scent as we walked along a path and made our way up the steep rise of the bridge to spend a few minutes looking down at the water flowing below.

We negotiated the main streets of Beirut and left by way of the coastal road, which allowed us a view of the Pigeon grottoes; numerous isolated and cavernous rocks a short distance from the shore. At this end of the city are huge, new blocks of flats, not nearly as attractive as the old style Lebanese houses.

From the village of Shoeyafat onwards, we drove through an area where orange, lemon, mulberry, almond and apricot trees grew in abundance. Outside the gates of one plantation were wicker baskets heaped with ripe oranges. We bought five pounds for just over two shillings.

After a picnic on a sandy beach, we collected a box full of various shells; mauve and brown clams, pointed augers, yellow and pink ‘butterfly’ shells, red and white top shells and pearly abalones. It was along this coast that the insignificant murex shellfish was collected which gave fame to the people of Tyre and Sidon. From the colourless liquid that the shellfish secreted, the ‘Tyrian purple’ dyes were obtained. The shades of this colour were not perfected in any other area and the purple became a symbol of royalty. The very name ‘Phoenician’ is said to have derived from the Greek word for purple: phoinix.

Sidon has been built and destroyed many times over, but one can still sense that it must have been a great port in ancient times. After the Emir Fakr-ed-Din closed its entrance to keep out the Turks, it silted up, and there were only a few fishing boats moored there. At one end of the harbour a picturesque Crusader castle projected into the sea, and could be reached by way of a cobbled causeway.

Before we arrived at Tyre we had to stop at a military checkpoint where we were told to hand over our passports. This was much against our wishes, so we spent some time questioning the soldier about the reason for this. We discovered that it was all due to the fact that we were approaching close to Israeli territory. Having satisfied ourselves that we could collect our passports when we returned to Tyre, we continued on our way. We spent about half an hour in this one-time thriving seaport. Tall boats with mast were moored at the quayside, suggesting that the people still make a living from fishing and shipbuilding, but there was little commercial activity. Tyre is no longer a prosperous place, just a cul-de-sac – the end of the road.

High in the mountains northeast of Byblos, stands a grove of old Cedars. These are the famed Cedars of Lebanon, symbols of strength and power and emblem of the country. From the earliest of times cedar wood was sought after and highly prized. The Egyptians used it for their boats and coffins, the Phoenicians constructed their galleys from it, and it also supplied material for the building of King David’s palace and for Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem.

Turning inland at Checkaa, on the coast road to Tripoli, we drove through most attractive countryside. Grassy slopes carpeted with wild iris, mauve and red anemones, and pale pink cyclamen divided green olive groves. As we ascended the great Qadisha Gorge, which in Syriac, (a form of Aramaic used by the Apostles), means Sacred gorge, we passed terraced slopes supporting fruit trees and the occasional red-roofed house. This gorge was the refuge of the Maronite Christians, a religious sect that originated in the district of Antioch. At first they had founded monasteries along the river Orontes but finally, after much persecution they trekked to the safety of the mountains. On a rock face of six hundred feet they constructed their hermit’s cells, chapels and monasteries, where the rites of their community and their records were faithfully maintained.

We drove up to the lovely mountain town of Becharre, the birthplace of the Lebanese poet Khalil Gibran. The road curves past the twin-towered, single domed church and continues to the head of the gorge. There, nestling against the snow-covered slopes, is the dark green patch of the cedars. Altogether there are about four hundred trees, a dozen of which are over a thousand years old. Some are as much as eighty feet high, with trunk circumferences of about forty feet. It is believed that the cedars are tree divinities, and that they indicate and anticipate the changing seasons. A little higher, the snow was deep on either side of the road, and a signpost, marked ‘Baalbek’, pointed towards a white wilderness with barely any indication of a road at all. This route would remain snowed up for at least three months.

Parking the Land Rover, we donned our walking boots and started to climb. Skiers on the slopes made bright splashes of colour against a dazzling white background, but shortly the ski lift was out of sight, and we were treading on virgin snow. We soon felt quite exhausted, due to the effort required to lift our feet high out of the deep depressions that each step made, but we took it slowly. Audrey trod in each of my footprints, and I could hear her behind me swearing that the wall of snow must be vertical. Within half an hour we were able to gaze around at a new world. Our single line of footprints led down to a sprawling brown patch - the car park. Further over were the cedars, seemingly the only link with inhabited country.

At our height, about seven thousand feet, there was nothing to disturb the glistening, pure white expanse of snow, but the over-hanging folds, the ridges and crevices with their soft blue and mauve shadows. The sun shone so that even when we stood still, we felt far from cold. In fact, we thirstily pushed handfuls of snow into our mouths for refreshment, before devoting our efforts to making a group of snowmen, and pounding each other with snowballs.

A couple of days later we were once again climbing the twisting mountain roads to Beit-ed-Din, southeast of Beirut. Many of the mountain villages that we passed through were inhabited by the Druses. These are mountain people, whose religion is about a thousand years old, although little is know about their beliefs. They, like the Maronites, had a hatred of the Turks and managed to guard land that would otherwise have fallen to Moslem rule.

At one time, the Maronites and Druses had shared the territory of the Lebanon Mountains, even though the Turks had tried to disunite them. It was only the local Emirs who could keep the two groups together, uniting their forces against the Ottoman rule. Two such Emirs, national heroes of the Lebanon, were Fakr-ed-Din, and Bechir, who was a Druse by origin, but who could command the respect of both Maronites and Druses, chose to build an elaborate stronghold on the slopes of the Lebanese Mountains, a palace that he named Beit-ed-Din. It lay just across the valley from where we had pulled up, and was enveloped in a swirling mist. We knew that we should continue to the head of the valley, past terraced vineyards, fruit orchards and olive groves, and then back along the other side before we could reach it.

Standing on a precipitous crag, jutting out over the ravine, the palace was built by master builders from Damascus. Its romantic situation and delicate eastern architecture give it an air of fantasy, almost as though it could be one of the palaces from a story of the Arabian Nights. By all accounts the Emir, with piercing eyes and huge, black beard, was exactly the character one would expect to find in such a residence. Everything about the palace was conducive to a restful, calm and relaxed atmosphere, away from the troubles of life.Pools, splashing fountains, floors and walls, all decorated with inlaid marble, suggested the necessity of coolness for weary travellers who had journeyed by horse, or mule from the surrounding valleys. Maybe they would join, with the Emir in the pleasure of a Turkish bath, for he had spared no expense in the building of his hamam. Even a nine-mile aqueduct had been constructed to gain an adequate water supply. After bathing, the guests could recline on low, cushioned divans, in rooms decorated with carved cedar wood, mirror mosaics and mother-of-pearl. Whilst drinking iced sherbet, they could gaze out to the gardens and tall cypress trees.

We spent some time looking at the various rooms in the palace, as well as visiting the Folk Museum, which the Antiquities Department had installed. Here one can view many of the beautiful Lebanese costumes, embroidered with brilliant silks and gold threads.

No less beautiful was our return journey to Beirut, when we transversed narrow mountain roads, the grass banks of which were star-studded with countless white daisies.

The geological fault of the Great Rift Valley, which extends from the region of Lake Victoria in East Africa through the gulf of Aqaba on the Red Sea and in to the great Wadi Musa in Jordan, leads also into the flat plain of the Bekaa. The two flanking ridges of the Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon mountains border this. Two rivers water this valley, the Litany, which flows southwards to the Mediterranean near Tyre, and the Orontes, which flows northwards into Syria. They are small blue threads of wool decorating the lush green of a patchwork quilt, an oriental carpet stretched between the barren walls of snow-capped mountains.

From this plain one can see six huge pillars of stone, standing like sentinels above an acropolis of Roman architectural splendour. This is Baalbek, a magnificent and highly esteemed spectacle of the present, reflecting the glories of the Roman world of the past. It is enchanting in its setting of tall poplars, orchards and vineyards.

As Christianity spread, it represented a positive danger to the power of Rome. In order to alleviate this and to gain the support of the Orient, their furthermost eastern outpost at the time, the Romans built beautiful temples, combining their architectural standards with those of eastern Mediterranean lands. The temples of Baalbek were built over a settlement built originally to the glory of the sun god Baal. New names were given to the existing gods. Jupiter was worshipped in the Great Temple and Venus in the Temple of Bacchus.

It is the six remaining pillars of the Temple of Jupiter, the tallest pillars in the world, that symbolise travel in the Lebanon today. Pictures of them adorn every tourist organisation office. Each pillar is made of three huge drums jointed together through the middle by metal gadget. They have Corinthian capitals, and are still joined at the top by an elaborate and decorative architrave, frieze and cornice. A section of this has fallen to the ground, so it is possible to see the masterful carvings of acanthus leaves and a magnificent lion’s head at close quarters. A green lizard scurried into a crevice in the stonework. We had obviously disturbed its sun basking. High above our heads an eagle flew screeching from its nest tucked somewhere at the top of the pillars.

Adjacent to the Temple of Jupiter is the Temple of Bacchus, which has weathered the ravages of earthquakes to an extent which allows one at least to see the complete, albeit partly restored, array of pillars on the north and west sides. When viewed from the entrance portal the interior, now open to the sky, presents a rich and exciting complex of fluted columns and decorated pediments in rich, honey colours.

We walked away from the immensities of masonry to a clearing where almond trees gave some shade. Sitting on the grass beneath the trees, listening to the chirping crickets, we looked back upon the magnificence of stone. Its strength and beauty now even further enhanced by a framework of fragile white and pink blossom.

Our return to Byblos was by way of the important commercial town of Zahle. This town is built on different levels up the steep slopes of two hills, separated by a torrent of water. Continuing to well above five thousand feet, with good views of snow-covered Mount Sannin, we descended through the valley of Bois de Boulogne. In this area, known as the Metn, deciduous and evergreen trees, fruit orchards and sweetly scented gorse grow in abundance. Here were the summer resorts, sleepy, shuttered and lacking the urgency that would, no doubt, infect them later in the year when holidaymakers from Beirut would invade.

Life at the camp continued to be enjoyable. One morning we set off for an invigorating walk along the coast but had only gone a short distance, when the sky clouded over and it began to pour with rain. It was almost monsoon-like, and accompanied by high winds. The sea was grey and angry, hurling itself upon the rocks and sending up clouds of spray. Incredibly though, we could guarantee that the rain would end as abruptly as it had begun, giving way to the most perfect weather with clear blue skies and temperatures reaching the nineties. As it was so warm, our cooking was now done in the open air, and we were very satisfied with our outdoor life.

In the evenings we sometimes played table tennis on a large, open veranda, but the game always had to be interrupted for a few minutes at sunset. As the sun’s orb sank lower on the horizon, we all stood amazed at the almost impossible distortions that would occur until it finally disappeared, leaving behind unforgettable effects on the cloud formations in the sky.

A group of people from Austria arrived one evening and, in a great hurry, prepared their food. We learnt that they were travelling to India and had little time to do the journey. Most of the party were from Vienna, and when we mentioned that we were returning home that way we were given the address of one of them, who was a member of the Austro-British Society.

The New Zealand girls, before leaving, decided that they must have a campfire and began gathering all the odd bits of timber and pieces of driftwood that there could be found. We all sat round the blaze on an assortment of old boxes and planks of wood, drinking mugs of cocoa, nibbling at popcorn, singing and reminiscing until late in the evening. Ray Munsee was anxious to record some of the Maori songs that a couple of the girls were singing, and gave everyone a laugh as he told about his attempts at fishing. Apparently, he had gone down to the water’s edge quite early that morning but, having no luck, had returned despondently and cooked the rest of his bait for dinner.

There was a terrific storm the night before we left Amchit. The wind was so blustery that we had to close down the roof of the Land Rover. The following morning, the campsite was a quagmire, and it took us an extra couple of hours to strike camp and clean up. Rather later than we had intended, we began our journey northwards to Tripoli. Scrubland fell down to a beautiful coastline where the translucent green sea washed the beaches of many little coves and inlets. We also noticed more saltpans together with the small wind pumps.

Syria.

Once through Tripoli, we were soon at the border. Crossing into Syria again was a surprisingly informal affair, although we were advised not to stay in Aleppo, where things were still restless after the recent military coup. A boy of about twelve came rushing up to us when he saw us waiting at the customs post and told us to leave everything to him. He would soon have our Land Rover checked. In fact, while we waited for the custom formalities to be carried out, the officer in charge invited us into his room and gave us coffee.

Krak des Chevaliers, the most perfect of castles, has one of the most ideal settings. I can think of no other place where one can feel, to such an extent, the almost immediate presence of the Crusaders. This is apparent on the approach to, as well as from within the castle. We saw it first from a distance, it sat high on a ridge, with a foreground of emerald green foothills. Huge, billowing white clouds gave a sombre atmosphere to the surrounding wild and rolling countryside, yet the castle seemed to be bathed in sunlight. A winding stony track led up to the spur of a hill, terminating eventually beside the castle’s majestic stone walls, which alone must have been an effective enough sight to deter any would be invader.

In the early eleventh century it was an Arab fortress owned by the Emir of Homs and guarded by a Kurdish military army, to protect the Tripoli-Homs trade route. The Crusaders, who arrived a century later, enlarged and greatly improved the fortifications, and subsequently remained for over a hundred and sixty years.

It was not long before Nur-ed-Din attempted an assault on the castle, but failed miserably. Twenty-five years later, Saladin marched towards it, but when he saw its size, he knew that he was beaten. For many years Krak was the centre of a thriving community. Various notables visited, lived and died there and, at the height of its power, a garrison of no less than two thousand Crusaders lived within its confines. Then, when Jerusalem fell in 1244, subsequent events could, perhaps, have been predicted. The Crusaders hung on desperately, despite crippling financial problems, dwindling numbers of men, and the fact that they were now virtually cut off from military support in hostile territory. Krak became an isolated outpost manned by less than three hundred men. The Sultan, Beibars, attacked and gained considerable ground, but he still could not penetrate the southwest stronghold. The siege lasted long, and was not without cost. At last, the Sultan looking for subtle means resorted to trickery. His method was to arrange for letters to be delivered to Krak, ostensibly from the garrison commander at Tripoli, telling the Knights to surrender. This they did, and Krak des Chevaliers was defeated.

From the heights of the inner castle tower, we looked down to the stalwart, concentric fortifications of shining, grey stonework, now softened by nature’s mossy green growth. Hundreds of feet below, a pattern of greens and mauves, were the fields in the valley. Today, the mighty Krak is the castle of every child’s dream, the castle of every young boy’s storybook, and a classic example of an impregnable mountain stronghold.

We did not stay long in Homs. The buildings had a somewhat faded and shabby appearance, even though flags, which had been strung up as a result of the recent revolution, enlivened them. Our intention was to travel due eastwards to see Palmyra – the ‘Bride of the Desert’ of Syria.

Whilst driving towards it, we caught glimpses of the ‘beehive villages’, typical of this part of the country. The name is quite descriptive as each house consists of one square room, surmounted by a rounded conical roof. Many of the roofs are set with sticks, which project horizontally from the cone, and these could be used as perches by birds that could otherwise damage the roof. Lack of timber and other resources has brought about the domed shape, so common in parts of the East. In recent times, with the advent of more efficient transport, materials have been imported to enable some modern dwellings to be constructed, although in poorer and remoter districts, the mud roof prevails. Apart from the unusual shape, the houses merge into the surrounding countryside, as they are the same, dry sandy colour. We went inside one that was at the side of the road. Perhaps it was used as a rest house for travellers, but it was devoid of any signs of habitation.

The sun had sunk well below the horizon and darkness had spread over the sky long before we nosed our way into the strange and ancient city of Palmyra. We parked, put up the roof and turned into our bunks.

At first light the following morning, I turned over and, half asleep, pulled back the curtains. Instantly I was awake. Before us were pillars, arches and toppled stones in glorious disarray, all warmed to a mellow peach colour. A dry, dusty plain stretched away to high slopes that had watched over this scene, witnessing the rise and subsequent decline of this one time focal point of the desert trade routes. Growing from a hollow at the top of one extinct volcano was a powerful looking Arab castle. A cloud passed in front of the sun, casting a dark shadow over the hills, making them seem strangely forbidding. Hurriedly, we dressed, had some breakfast, and were soon ready to explore.

It was difficult to believe that these solitary ruins in the centre of the Syrian Desert were once part of a magnificent city, the ‘City of Palms.’ This plain had originally been the camping ground of a tribe of Bedouins. One small oasis, known as Tadmor, had thrived and prospered, but it may well have fallen into obscurity, save for its position, a virtual stepping-stone between India, the Far East, and the Mediterranean ports. The Bedouins who lived there were enterprising, tough and cunning in their business deals. Their village was on a caravan route that steadily grew busier, particularly after the decline of Petra. This increase in trade brought more people from other lands, Romans, Greeks, Persians, Arabs and many others from the Far East. Their influence on this trading centre was considerable and, in next to no time, the village of Tadmor had grown into the city of Palmyra. It was not long before Roman legionaries surrounded the city, and Palmyra was proclaimed a Roman colony. However, imperial protection meant that it would not have to suffer from harrying raids by the Persians.

Living in the city, at this time, was a beautiful young girl named Zainab, daughter of a merchant. She fell in love and married Odenathus, the brave young leader of the Palmyrenes, whose father had been assassinated at the hands of the Romans. Odenathus who fought victorious battles against King Shapur of Persia and a rebel Roman general in Syria, was finally given the title, Emperor of the East. Someone saw danger in this, for not long after, he and one of his sons were assassinated.

The young Queen Zainab, now known as Zenobia, helped by a wise adviser, Longinus, decided that she would lead her people. She was indeed a remarkable woman, and it is surprising that she has, so far, escaped the twentieth century epic filmmakers. Educated, and with a good knowledge of languages, she was particularly interested in politics, military tactics and hunting, having learnt a great deal from her father and her husband. She had even persuaded Odenathus to allow her to lead armies into battle. Such manly pursuits for a woman living in the third century AD must surely have aroused public opinion, but the Palmyrenes were devoted to their Queen, worshipping her beauty and strength.

As a widow she ruled for five years and her armies eventually occupied all Syria, Palestine and Egypt. So many victories must have made her either greedy for more land or imprudent, for she decided to make war against Rome. This proved to be her downfall. The Roman Emperor, Aurelian, besieged her city, and although she made one nearly successful attempt to escape, Zenobia was captured. She was taken to Rome, bound by gold chains, and led in the customary triumphal procession before the victorious Emperor’s chariot.

It has not been proved what happened to her after that. Some say she re-married a Roman noble and lived in a villa twenty miles from Rome; others, that she starved herself to death, when she heard that Palmyra had been overcome.

We walked along a paved roadway beside an avenue of slender columns, towards the Triumphal Arch, which is decorated with rosettes and acanthus leaves. The external influences of other nationalities were considerable on the architectural design of the city. The ruins of the temple, theatre, Public Square, roads and houses all bear witness to this. With the exchange of such goods as silks, brocades, and carpets from Persia and India, the buildings must have been luxuriously furnished.

After being besieged, Palmyra was plundered. What treasures there must have been for the Roman soldiers. It is said that when the Emperor Aurelian saw the shattered Temple of Bel, he ordered over two thousand pounds weight of gold and silver to help with the repairs.

Now, we stood in the open courtyard of this ruined temple, looking towards a central sanctuary towards an altar. Bel, or Malakbel, who was the sun god, can be seen, with the moon-god, carved on to a limestone beam. Beside the two figures are tables laden with pomegranates and pineapples, as well as a goat kid and a large tree. Inside the sanctuary, beneath the dome, are signs of the zodiac, stars and planets. For a comprehensive view of the city, a good place is high up on the walls of this temple. We sat in the sun there for some time, picking out all the places referred to on our small guide map of the area. Beyond the ruins we could see some isolated square towers rising straight from the sand. They were scattered somewhat irregularly and numbered about a hundred and fifty. These, we discovered later, were tower tombs, the interior walls of which have shelf-like recesses to hold coffins. We were fortunate to be able to join with a party who had a guide, and visited three of the towers, before wandering off to explore on our own. It was exciting to find quite beautifully decorated stones, parts of original temples, just scattered about or protruding from the sand.

A swarthy Bedouin came along seated on a white mule. One hand held a rope with which he pulled along a stubborn young donkey. The other was tightly clasped about a couple of curly-headed children who sat in front of him. He nodded and smiled as we gave the children a coin each.

Hama is characterised by the musical drone of the slow turning norias or waterwheels.They are to be found for some distance along the Orontes river, which winds its way slowly round the gardens and fruit orchards of the area.

The norias date from the Roman period, and are used for irrigation, feeding aqueducts to transport the water over some distance to the fields. On the circumference of these wooden wheels, the largest of which has a diameter of about seventy feet, are positioned numerous small buckets which are filled as the wheel is turned by the flow of the river. As the buckets move higher, cascades of water can be seen splashing back through the wooden framework down to the river again. The whole system is incredibly inefficient, yet, like happy old men, the wheels continue to turn, their bodies creaking and groaning under the strain of a lifetime’s work.

Some young boys, enjoying a swim, offered to escort us by wading to the far side of the river, but it was getting late in the day. We headed for the mountains, but not without a certain amount of nostalgia. Even after this short visit, the singing of the norias was still in our ears.

The road from Hama to the coast was a complete contrast to our last few days in the Syrian Desert. As we climbed the winding road, which led us across the southern end of the Alawi Mountains, we were aware of so much greenery, and such dampness. It surprised us such conditions could exist.

By late afternoon, we were descending towards Banias, the oil-port. High on a slope, we spotted yet another Crusader fortress, the black basalt towers of Markab, a further stumbling block for Saladin. We stopped at the main sea outlet for Syria, Lattakia. Too many people wandering about the main square made us change our minds about parking the Land Rover and sleeping there for the night. Instead, we made enquiries about a small, cheap hotel. The following day we continued through a very attractive area, known as the Furalloq forest until we came to the customs point.