We headed out of Tripoli along the coast. Trying to be clever (once we had taken a wrong turning), we decided to walk along the beach. Wrong option. We ended up slipping and sliding through a thick layer of slime deposited at the end of a huge concrete drain just where it met the sea. To add insult to (near) injury, James timed his exit from the drain badly and got soaked by a huge wave breaking on the end of the drain. We eventually found our way to the old coast road which hugs the shoreline from Tripoli down to Beirut and headed on down towards Batroun. On the way, Tom got caught gawping at two stunning Lebanese girls who got off a bus in front of us. They were obviously flattered at the attention and came to ask us if they could help us. An acutely embarrassed Tom, turning cherry red, stammered "Uh, uh, we were just looking for somewhere to eat". It was only after they had pointed us in the direction of a couple of snackbars and sauntered off down to the beach that Tom thought of the killer line "We were just looking for a couple of gorgeous girls to have lunch with us". Not sure if either of us could have carried it off though, so it was probably just as well.
Stopping for a beer in Batroun, we got talking to an off duty policeman (at least we hoped he was off-duty as he had drunk 3/4 of a bottle of whisky from the looks of things). Whilst we were sitting there, some big scene kicked off with lots of raised voices and gesticulation behind us. Our policeman friend staggered off to investigate, along with half the bar who went to add their own (loud) opinions to the argument. When he came back, we asked him what was going on. He looked at us and said with an air of gravitas "Ils sont des grands poissons et des petits". James nodded sagely at this deeply profound, Cantona-esque comment on human nature. It was only later that Tom pointed out that he had actually said "lls sont des grandes passions et des petits". No less profound, but a bit more fathomable.
Eschewing the bright lights and fancy hotels of Batroun, we opted for the simple life and headed down to the deserted beach to pitch out tent in the shadow of a small cliff. Tom decided that perhaps the simple life wasn't all it was cracked up to be and went off to find the bright lights. James settled down to some quiet reading and fell asleep in his book. An hour later, he was woken by a clearly terrified Tom, who fell through the tent door in a state of panic. "Shhh, shhh! Can you see her? Shhh, shhh! Just be quiet!" he whispered, fear etched into every line of his face. James was too taken aback to do anything other than exactly as he was told and shut up immediately. Some time later, when it appeared the coast was clear, Tom spilled the beans - he had been picked up by a stalker, some lunatic girl sitting down on the beach ready to prey on any innocent foreigner who happened to be passing late at night. She had called him over to talk to her, then refused to let him go away, starting to stroke him and trying to nuzzle him. He had tried to escape, saying he needed to buy cigarettes, but she had produced a full pack and told him he could have hers. When she had started following him back to the tent, he had literally run away and managed to lose her. Or so he thought... Half an hour later, loony appeared outside our tent, demanding to see Tom. When she didn't get a response, she opened the door and tried to get in. Tom, cowering in the bottom of the tent with his sleeping bag pulled over his head, left James to deal with her. Tired, aching and in a foul mood, he gave her fairly short shrift. To do her credit, she did point out that our bags were liable to be stolen if we left them exposed outside the tent and helpfully put them behind the tent for us (bending one of the poles and filling James' rucksack with sand in the process) and she did then leave us alone. Although Tom was to suffer from repeated indecipherable text messages for weeks afterwards - "Tom, moon love blue eyes you king england king my heart". Left with a renewed respect for his sexual magnetism.
Batroun has something of a reputation as a party town - lots of bars open and pumping out music into the warm night sky. It was confirmed next morning when we went to a 24 hour cafe near the beach to find last night's party goers still out drinking beers at 6am and eating the time honoured greasy food hangover cure. From Batroun we headed to the more sedate town of Byblos. Its peaceful exterior hides a turbulent past. Vying with several other cities in the region for the title of "oldest continually inhabited city in the world", it was founded some 7,000 years ago and has pretty much been inhabited ever since (with the odd total destruction thrown in every few centuries to keep the inhabitants on their toes). It gets its name from the Greek word for "book" as it used to be the centre of the papyrus trade in the Mediterranean. Papyrus was shipped from Egypt to Byblos in exchange for cedar wood from the (now all but disappeared) forests of Mount Lebanon. 
The remains of all 7 millennia of habitation can be seen from the ramparts of the crusader castle. You can also wander round, but we decided that the castle was more interesting (as well as much shadier) than the foundations of lots of old buildings.
Zeina met us again in Byblos and took us to lunch down by the old crusader harbour in a delicious fish restaurant. Taking advantage of our post-lunch food coma, she kidnapped us and took us back to Beirut for a couple of days of R&R - going to fancy restaurants, swanky roof-top bars and hanging out on beautiful sandy beaches populated with beautiful Lebanese (of both sexes). We of course objected strongly... for all of 2 minutes. In Beirut we were in 7th heaven, particularly as we were able to fulfil many of our food fantasies of the past month - steak frites, delicious pasta (
served by a man bearing a remarkable similarity to Terry Nutkins), sushi and Zeina's mother's delicious home cooking (not a kebab or cheese sandwich in sight). Sadly, the curry remained elusive...
Bidding farewell to Zeina's family, we swung inland North of Beirut and headed up into the mountains. Zig-zagging up the sheer cliffs behind Jounieh, we came to the sanctuary of Our Lady of Lebanon. Here a huge statue of the Virgin Mary looks out over the coastal plain. 
It is said that during the civil war, the statue turned on its axis to look towards Beirut and those suffering so terribly there. Unfortunately, no-one seems to have a picture of the statue from before the war so it's impossible to check the story.
Up in the mountains proper, we ran into a couple of farmers who asked us lots of questions about England. "Do you have cows in England? How much is a kilo of beef?... Wow! That's expensive! It's half that price here. Do they have much straw in England [they were carting off several huge sacks of the stuff, so clearly had a professional interest]? Do they sell it a lot?... What? They grow it themselves? But surely they grow lots of straw in the mountains?... What? There aren't any mountains in England? Are you serious?". They left in disgust, bewildered by a country where beef was $20/kilo, you couldn't buy straw for love nor money and there weren't any mountains. 
We could understand their disgust at there not being any mountains - the scenery up there was stunning. In between craggy, bare limestone peaks, rich fertile valleys lined with fruit trees and gushing with streams tumbled down to the coastal plain. Reaching the watershed, the high valleys were filled with yellowing grass which shepherds drove their hungry flocks through, picking their way back to their tents 
and way down below, the Bekaa valley spread out its pretty patchwork of fields across to the barren slopes of the anti-Lebanon, glowing a deep russet in the evening sun. 
Heading down into the Bekaa, we took a morning off to go and visit the ruins at Baalbek. Baalbek is one of the key strongholds of Hezbollah and we were hassled by touts trying to sell us Hezbollah T-shirts or pictures of Hassan Nasrallah. However, the town was less conservative than we had thought it would be - alongside shops selling pictures of Ayatollah Khomeini and the ubiquitous Hezbollah t-shirts were shops selling strappy tops and short skirts, many of the women and young girls were not wearing headscarves and there were not that many thick Islamic beards. The temple complex itself was breathtaking - the sheer scale of the place is mind-boggling. The temple of Jupiter is built on a platform of stone blocks weighing over 1,000 tonnes each. It has been calculated that it would take 40,000 slaves to move just one of those monster blocks. It was by far the largest temple in the Roman world, a symbol of the power and influence of the Roman state in this distant, but extremely important, province. King Herod of Israel donated funds for its building along with a whole line of Roman Emperors. And yet this was never an entirely Roman temple, but was influenced by the alien land in which it was built - typical classical motifs such as Corinthian columns are matched by Eastern symbols such as swastikas (once a symbol of good fortune) and eggs (a symbol of immortality)
It is mind-boggling to think of the scale of conception of its planners. The temple of Jupiter alone took 300 years to build with the labour of something like 10 generations of slaves. Even then, it was never quite finished - with the coming of Constantine and the acceptance of Christianity as the official religion of the Roman Empire in the early 4th Century, building of the pagan temples was stopped and churches were built within the temples to show who was in charge now. Several of the enormous columns from the temple of Jupiter were dismantled and taken to Constantinople to be incorporated into the great Church of Hagia Sophia by the Emperor Justinian. Despite this, the complex is still remarkably well preserved, presumably because the stones it was built with were just too huge to move. Also no doubt because Baalbek fell into obscurity after the Crusaders departed and didn't suffer so much at the hands of future invaders or developers. The Temple of Bacchus 
is one of the most complete Classical temples standing.
Sobering news as sat around our short wave radio that night - the Israeli response to the kidnapping of Corporal Shalit had begun with what appeared to be the collective punishment of the entire population of Gaza, with air strikes throughout the Gaza strip, the blowing up of the electricity generator and preparations for a tank incursion into the territory. Out thoughts went out to the poor long suffering Palestinians, but also to Corporal Shalit, his family and the families of the soldiers who died in the militants' attack. A sobering reminder of the unsettled conflicts and the thin line between peace and war in this region. Little did we realise how bad things were going to get and how the conflict would spread to this very place.
The next day, we crossed the border into Syria again. At the border there were lots of holiday makers coming from the heat of the Arabian peninsular and Iran to the relative cool of the coast and mountains of Lebanon. We met a bevy of Iranian ladies sitting gossiping on a wall while they waited for their passports to be stamped. We were both wondering how we could get a photo of them (they looked so photogenic with their faces lit up with laughter), whether we could take one subtly or if it would be incredibly improper to ask them, when they took the matter out of our hands and asked if they could have their photos taken with us. We certainly weren't expecting that one! More giggling all round. Another guy came over to speak to us - this time someone from Baghdad coming to Lebanon for an escape from the madness. More photos taken with us before we got chatting to them. "Ah, yes, we have your BBC world at home. It is wonderful station. Very good. I am watching much The Weakest Link. Is very good. What is she say? Erh, erh... You are the weakest link - goodbye!". Roars of belly laughter all round. I cringed with shame that this is what Britain's best export is these days.
From the Lebanese border we headed into the barren wastes of the anti-Lebanon - not a drop of water to be had. At least until we reached a huge Duty Free complex just before the Syrian border (some 5 miles from the Lebanese). Rather incongruously stopped for Dunkin' Donuts and coffee next to the beautifully manicured lawns outside the air-conditioned complex. All around, bone dry valleys and bare rock walls looked down on us. More of the same until we started to descend into Syria, where there were more fertile valleys and woods giving delightful shade. More Syrian hospitality with stall holders, truck drivers and random passers by handing us peaches and apples. Just as we were beginning to think about settling down for the night, we came to a vast Syrian army barracks stretching all the way along the side of the road. Rather than camp in the woods opposite and risk being arrested and worse (especially given raised tensions in the region), we decided to press on. By the time we reached the end of the base, however, we were well within the urban sprawl of the outer outskirts of Damascus, so we decided to just push on through until we reached the city. It turned into a monster day - 26 miles in total. Reaching the central districts of Damascus, tired, footsore and in need of cheering up, James decided it was time for an emergency moment and checked us both in to the Sheraton hotel for our first night. There is something about walking in to a very fancy hotel looking like a complete tramp - sweat stains and dirt covering your clothes, a greasy sheen and a few days growth of stubble on the face, smelly rucksacks and dirty boots just giving off the faintest hint of the horrific smell festering inside - walking past the glamorous and immaculately turned out wedding guests hanging around in the lobby, and sauntering up to the front desk to ask for a room. The very professional receptionist only allowed the look of horror and disgust to linger on his face for a few seconds before returning to his usual oleaginous self. "Do you have any idea how much our rates are sir?". When James pulled his corporate Amex out of his hat (literally - it has a secret pocket), he looked at us as if we might have stolen it.
Restored after our power shower and a quick lie down on the enormous comfortable beds, we headed down to investigate the "Genuine English Pub" in the basement of the hotel. No warm beer, no teenagers with fake ID gulping down alco-pops, no fruit machines flashing dirty yellow and red lights, no dart board, no fat middle aged men with beer bellies propping up the bar - so much for the typical English pub. They did serve pints and chips though (no pies or chicken in a basket mind) and there was a group of young men in one corner trying to get drunk on a disgusting combination of drinks, so we were reasonably happy.
Next day as we were checking out, we bumped into a rich young Lebanese man and his friend who were returning to Lebanon after few days' holiday in Damascus. He warned us not to stay "Syria is soooo awful man. I mean, like, there's nowhere you can get your hair cut properly, they have no clue about styling and the clubs, they're todally awful - you can't dance on your own, you have to pay like $60 to dance with some Russian girl and then she tells you it's $250 to sleep with her. I mean, it's cheaper in Lebanon! I tell you man, this place is just so uncivilized". It was more like talking to a spoilt Californian teenager than a Lebanese. Luckily, we ignored his advice and spent a very happy couple of days exploring Damascus. James even went to visit one of the "awful" barbers - although only for a shave so can't comment on their lack of styling ability.
The old city is fascinating - a real warren of winding souks and narrow backstreets. Rather than being a sterile museum piece, however, it is still very much a living, working city with its ancient heritage (it vies with Byblos for the title of oldest continually inhabited city) seamlessly incorporated into the fabric of the modern. The main souk which leads down from the citadel to the Umayyad mosque has a corrugated iron roof, peppered with holes from the celebratory firing of the members of the Arab revolt when they swept into the town under King Feisal and Lawrence of Arabia
. Some larger holes commemorate the aerial bombardment of the town by the French airforce when it rebelled against the French Mandate rule in the 1920s. At the bottom end of the Souk, an ancient Roman arch, part of the enclosure of a pagan temple, frames the temple's successor - the magnificent Umayyad Mosque. Built by the Caliph Al Walid between 706 and 715 AD to adorn the new capital of the Muslim world, it is like the Roman's temple complex in Baalbek, a vast demonstration of the power and prestige of the new religion and the new state. 
Thousands of skilled artisans were employed in its construction and its scale is huge. The Byzantine emperor himself is said to have sent 200 artisans to help the caliph in its construction (no doubt they were responsible for the beautiful mosaics that cover the walls of the courtyard in gold, greens and blues, showing lush vegetation, flowing rivers and magnificent palaces. And yet again, this is no dead monument, but an active place of worship, a place for meetings, for kids to play, running around the main courtyard
, or just for a peaceful snooze to escape the heat of the midday sun. A man is employed by the mosque authorities to go round the main prayer hall banging a piece of wood to wake those who are too obviously sleeping. Tom sat and watched him do the rounds waking the happy sleepers who pulled themselves upright for just long enough for him to walk out of range, then slumped back into oblivion until he returned again half an hour later. In the centre of the prayer hall is the tomb of John the Baptist, venerated by Muslims and Christians alike as a prophet and the forerunner of Jesus.
The city is still divided into Muslim, Jewish and Christian quarters. The Jewish quarter has mostly emptied since the remaining Jewish population was allowed to leave in 1994, but there are still some 150 Jews living in Damascus (now by choice rather than compulsion), a small reminder of the once thriving multi-cultural. multi-religious community that thrived in Damascus for many centuries. In the national museum, another reminder of the Levantine world left behind - the remains of a third century synagogue, beautifully painted with depictions of bible stories that was found at Dura Europos, a Roman settlement right at the edge of their empire on the banks of the Euphrates river in the far East of Syria. The Christian quarter is still very much alive and well, and peppered with shrines and churches - the house where St Paul is said to have stayed with Ananias following his "Road to Damascus" conversion and a monastery at the site where he was lowered over the city walls to escape from the angry Jewish community.
We met lots of lovely people in Damascus, most of them there to study Arabic, including a wonderful American girl called Andrea, a teacher who seems to spend her summers travelling the world and picking up languages. She already speaks Pharsee, French, Spanish and a whole string of other languages, but had decided to pick up Arabic as well. We first met her at the border where she was jumping into a taxi and wished us luck, only to bump into us two days later as we walked into our hostel in Damascus. We were taken under the wing of her Arabic teacher, a fascinating man called Tariq, who was a lecturer in Engineering at the University of Damascus. I got the impression he did the teaching as a bit of a hobby to meet new people as he seemed to spend almost as much money on taking his students and their friends out for dinner (he refused to let us pay for a thing) as he got from teaching them!
We were also met in Damascus by Trin and Emma who had decided very bravely (having met us once) to entrust their summer holidays to us and join us for the final two weeks from Damascus to Jerusalem. However, they decided that the souks of Damascus were too good a shopping opportunity to miss, so left Tom and I to struggle through the barren heat of the Hauran South of Damascus...
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