The night before we reached Jerusalem, we stayed at the village of Neve Shalom ~ Wahat al Salam – another of the charities we had been raising money for. The village is a joint Arab and Jewish Israeli village, with equal numbers from each community. They run a bi-lingual school for all faiths (for children from the surrounding area too) as well as a peace school which brings people from across Israel together to explore the conflict. Although the community is a multi-faith community, however, the ethos is overwhelmingly secular – there is not a synagogue, mosque or church in the village. In deference to the vision of the founder of the village, a Christian monk called Fr Bruno Hissar, there is a “spiritual centre” – a place of great peace on the outskirts of the village. Reaching the village, we were welcomed by one of the PR officers, Howard, who had started out life in Dewsbury near Leeds before emigrating to Israel as a young man. It was a bit surprising in this far-away place to hear the vestiges of a Yorkshire accent. He kindly sorted us out with rooms in the hotel and got us passes for the swimming pool (bliss).
Tom rejoined the group in NSWaS with his father, ready for the final triumphal progression into Jerusalem. He’d had a bit of a sneak-preview over the previous few days. They’d also been out to the Sea of Galilee, narrowly avoiding more Hezbollah rockets as they were in a deserted Tiberias the day it got hit for the first time, witnessing first hand the dislocation and chaos caused in Northern Israel. 
Our final day, the last 20 miles, we set off late. We hadn’t got very far when we bumped into Howard who had got up at the crack of dawn to show us the path, assumed that we had got up even earlier and followed after us to try and catch us up. He very kindly walked with us for two hours, showing us the route along the Burmah Road, an old British military road which was used by the fledgling IDF to supply the garrison in Jerusalem whilst it was besieged by Arab armies in 1948
. A beautiful, but scorching hot, day’s walk, climbing up into the hills of Judea towards Jerusalem. At lunchtime, having been invaded by a flock of goats
, we met a group of young Jewish American boys and their guides walking along the Israel trail. They invited us to join their Old Testament study group, but unfortunately we had to decline as we were running out of time. They very kindly showed us the springs along the way and pointed out a route for us on their map.
The final few miles into the city itself were along a busy three lane highway. Walking in single file along the hard shoulder as the traffic shot past, tired after walking 20 miles through the heat, grimy with dirt and sweat and aching in our joints from impact on the concrete road, we came close to sense of humour failure and tempting thoughts of jumping on a bus. A few rousing choruses of “To Be a Pilgrim” (largely drowned out by the noise of the traffic) seemed to do the trick, however, and we ploughed on into the outskirts of the city.
We reached the Jaffa gate just as the sun was setting and (after the obligatory photos) 
plunged down along the medieval cobbled streets into the heart of the old city. The beautiful limestone glowed in the evening light and as we walked the muezzin’s call echoed out from the Haram al Sharif over the rooftops as it has done for hundred’s of years. Traders were shutting up their shops and hurrying home for prayers and dinner, whilst a few tourist stragglers wandered along. The whole city breathed out a remarkable sense of peace. We arrived at the Holy Sepulchre, the holiest site in Christendom (traditionally the site of Christ’s crucifixion, burial and resurrection) just as the last light was ebbing from the sky. Inside, the gloom was lit in pockets by a few early candles and the odd flickering oil lamp. It was virtually deserted. We walked over to the sepulchre itself (the tomb of Christ) and sat down in silence and contemplation. For what seemed like and age, we just sat there, staring at it, each absorbed in their own thoughts, a row of pilgrims smiling and gazing in awe and reverence, just as thousands have done in the past. Take away the modern outdoor clothing and it could have been a scene from any time over the past 1,500 years. 
But we couldn’t stay there all evening – there were party plans afoot! Tom’s Dad came and picked us up from the Damascus gate and drove us (bliss!) up the hill to our lodgings, the Maison D’Abraham, where we bumped into Fr Henry Wansbrough, James’s former housemaster, and his party of pilgrims from North London Collegiate School, ably chaperoned by Blanche Girouard. We made our apologies for the smell and disappeared off for much needed showers before returning to share Israeli Champagne and head out for a fantastic celebratory meal. The emotion and excitement proved too much for poor James who fell asleep 
curled up in a ball on a pile of cushions whilst the others (Tom’s Dad included
) smoked hookah pipes and drank vast quantities of wine. It all felt very “Arabian Nights”.
Tom sadly had to leave us the next day – a return to “normal life” with a bump. A hectic weekend saw him move house from Glasgow to Swindon then start work in a new job the Monday after – just 5 days after we reached Jerusalem. The rest of us got to spend a few extra days in Jerusalem, drinking in the incredible atmosphere of the city, visiting the great holy sites of the three mono-theistic religions. We saw the wailing wall
, a curious mix of powerful grief, with ancient elders wailing their laments and stuffing their petitions into the cracks between the stones, and at the same time great joy as wild women ululated and families celebrated bar mitzvahs, mixed in amongst them rabbis lead their flocks up and down singing joyful hymns and chanting scriptures. In contrast to the wild and chaotic scenes of the Wailing Wall, the Haram al Sharif, the noble mount, site of the great temple of the Lord and now home to the Al Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock
, was a haven of peace and ordered tranquillity. Scarcely a sound disturbed its piece save a breath of wind sighing in the leaves of the serried ranks of trees, or a pair of doves cooing gently in their branches, or the gentle soothing plash of water in the great ablution fountains. Sadly, since Ariel Sharon’s incendiary trip onto the temple mount in 2000 which sparked the second intifada, non-Muslims have been banned from entering the mosques in the complex, so we could only admire from outside the graceful symmetry of the Al Aqsa mosque and the beautiful tile work and exquisite mosaics covering the outside of the Dome of the Rock (said to cover the stone altar on which Abraham was to sacrifice Isaac and from which Mohammad ascended into heaven in his midnight journey).
Within the walls of the old city, there were plenty of reminders of the terrible conflict going on in the North. The usual summer flood of tourists had slowed to a trickle as countless groups cancelled their trips and in the doorways of barbers and cafés, Arab men gathered to watch the terrible scenes of destruction being played out on Al-Jazeera, to exchange views and to sympathise with those in Lebanon and Northern Israel. On our final morning, a Friday, James and James went for one last trip around the old city. It was thronged with police in riot gear and IDF soldiers carrying guns. Every gate had a cordon of metal barriers thrown round it and long queues of people trying to get into the city and you could almost touch the tension in the air. If the Sabbath had caught us unprepared, Friday prayers in the middle of a conflict situation completely knocked us for six. We just had time to pick up last souvenirs and for James to go to confession (the crowning moment of the medieval pilgrims’ visit, shriving the pilgrim of all sins and guaranteeing them a place in heaven) and we had to rush out to catch our buses. As we left the old city, we walked past a street filled with riot police and soldiers, backed up with a huge riot van complete with water cannon. Facing them in an uneasy stand-off was a large crowd of young bearded men intent on attending Friday prayers on the Haram al Sharif. Glancing over nervously, we decided we had outstayed our welcome and it was time to go home.
And so our long and arduous pilgrimage drew to a close. 3,650 miles, 247 days, 10 countries, 4 pairs of hiking boots, 3 plenary indulgences and two tired pilgrims. One amazing adventure. Many have pointed out the irony that our walk for peace ended as the worst crisis in 20 years engulfed the Middle East, resulting in over 1,000 innocent civilian deaths on both sides of the border, the destruction of a country’s infrastructure (tragically, of a country still struggling out of the legacy of a disastrous civil war that had just about been getting itself back on its feet) and the death of hopes for an Israeli withdrawal from the West Bank. Rather than be swallowed by despair, however, it just highlights to us that now more than ever peace and reconciliation work is desperately needed in this region. On the way in to Jerusalem we were able to visit three projects run by our chosen charities and saw that despite the desperate situation, Jews, Muslims, Christians and people from all faiths, can live in peace. What’s more, the kindness and welcome we received wherever we went, regardless of race, creed or colour, the gentleness and kindness of our hosts, restored our faith in humankind and made us certain that eventually peace will come.
We couldn’t leave without one last big thank you, to our parents, families and friends for their support and love, to Zeina and Kate for their understanding and support of our wanderlust, to Mickle, Trin, Emma and Clare for making the final furlong so special, to Father Matthew and the Abbot and community of Vaitopedi, to Tover, CVO, Ellie, Victoria Short, Canon Ian Sherwood, Cenk, Firat, Caan, Mehmet, Ahmed, Nadia, Isa and their mother, Nidal, Georges, Lucy and Joumana, Tarek, Helen, Ibrahim and family, Elias and family and Howard, who came to see us or gave us sustenance on the way, to Katherine, Emma, Hugh, Tamsin, Tommy, Jane, Wilma, Andrea, the De Charettes, Ghisalain and family, the Venturas, Harvey, Jon, Andy, Ian, Katherine, Tom, Debs, Meredith and Yannis who walked or hosted last year, to Simon, Angela, Benita, Gillian, Wissam, Jill, Jun, Itay, Josh and Louise for their support and encouragement and to all who donated to St Ethelburgas, NSWaS, Mar Elias and Encompass. Biggest thanks of all go out to the countless nameless individuals, too numerous to mention who gave us tea, food, a smile or a wave and helped us along the way just because we were strangers in a strange land and who reminded us again of the essential goodness of mankind.
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