Free Book

Chapter 17: Lamartine's Cedar and the Lost Lady of Joun

Untitled.jpg

We wake to the dizygotic delights of a breakfast of fresh, crisp manqoushe oozing cheese and za’atar and cool, cloudy skies.

The first two hours of the walk present the unappetising prospect of a gruelling vertical climb from Ma’asser to the Cedar reserve on the peaks above, and honestly, I can’t be bothered. 

As the weekend walkers hit the slopes with all the pent-up energy and eagerness accumulated by their week as wage slaves, I thumb my nose at gratuitous torture and decide to save my knees for a more worthy goal – like making it to the end of this 480-km long walk - so I hop on a minibus and arrange to meet the rest of the gang in the reserve.

The Shouf Cedar Reserve is home to some very distinguished trees. The oldest amongst them are as much as three thousand years old, which means that when they first sprouted, the Assyrians still ruled Phoenicia, but most are much younger, barely a few hundred years old.

Although the ancient copse of cedars up in Al Arz gets more attention - largely for its cinematic sexiness - the Shouf Reserve is a proper forest and has far more trees. Reforestation began here in earnest during the civil war, when this swathe of the mountains was under the control of Druze clan leader, Walid Joumblatt, who for all his manifest faults and bloody complicity in massacres, at least cared enough about his fiefdom’s environment to legislate its preservation – something the rest of the country is still happy to ignore.

By the time I get off the bus, which has coughed and chugged its way up to the road-head outside the main entrance to the reserve, the clouds have lowered and it's absolutely freezing. Shrouded in mist, the trees are magnificent, their vast horizontal planes and solid bulk softened, dissolving and rematerialising in the swirling clouds. 

For some reason best known to God, the reserve shop is closed and so I can’t even buy a cup of tea to keep the chill from my bone, so by the time the first walkers stagger into view, wearing the kind of expressions that confirm to me that taking the bus was the correct choice, I feel like I am on the verge of pneumonia. After a short pause, to allow stragglers to limp their way to the top, we set off into the trees. 

Extolled for its scent in the Song of Songs and valued by the Pharaohs for its longevity and resistance to pests, Cedrus Libani has been considered a sacred tree since ginger-locked Gilgamesh travelled from the sun-baked plains of Uruk to the snowy peaks of Jabal al-Sheikh in search of its resin, for the Sumerian demigod had been told the cedar was the Tree of Life. 

Interestingly, the cedar is also sacred in India, where it is known as the deodar, and it has been associated with Shiva, Lord of Time, Destruction and Dance, for thousands of years. Clearly, there is something about this particular tree that inspires universal reverence - perhaps its size or the fact that it can survive for thousands of years. 

I had learned the previous day during our introduction to the Biosphere, that the cedar is a monoecious species, a kind of botanical hermaphrodite, which means that each one possesses male and female reproductive systems, and they are able to reproduce by pollinating their own cones, effectively cloning themselves. Once pollinated, cones mature on the branch for three years, changing in colour from green, to striped, to brown, at which point they release their seeds on the wind. 

Lebanon’s forests were already under attack by Roman times. Scattered all over Mount Lebanon you can find stone edicts erected on the orders of the Emperor Hadrian, that prohibit the felling of trees between altitudes of 350 and 2000 metres. But it was during the Ottoman period, that Lebanon’s forests were really put to the torch – quite literally - as trees were cut down to warm homes all over the empire.

Today, pollution, rising temperatures and decreased snowfall has weakened many of the older trees, making them vulnerable to a fairly common arboreal virus. It has wrought havoc in one of the larger reserve to the north, Tannourine, although Joseph tells us that the situation is slightly better now than it was 10 years ago, largely thanks to the aggressive pruning of infected boughs. 

We stop for a quick talk by the cedar that French poet and politician Alphonse de Lamartine apparently liked to sit under and stare out over the valleys below to the coast. Lamartine was rather taken with Lebanon, despite the fact that his daughter died in Beirut, and it features prominently in the account he wrote of his travels in the near east, the Voyage en Orient

His love was reciprocated, for today, he not only has a cedar and a school named after him, he’s got an entire valley, too. All that for spending a couple of months wandering about composing verse. 

Mention of Lamartine reminds me of poor old Lady Hester Stanhope. Archaeologist, adventurer, shipwreck survivor and probably the only woman to propose to Ibn Saud, she lived in Lebanon decades longer than the poet, spoke Arabic, wore men’s clothing and became a formidable political force in the Shouf mountains, but today, not even the ruins of her palace in Joun bear her name. A case of classic sexism? Or did the Lebanese feel more comfortable commemorating a Frenchman who wrote a book about Lebanon and left, than they did commemorating an Englishwoman who played politics, and stayed?

For obvious reasons, I’ve always found Stanhope’s story far more compelling than Lamartine’s - Nineteenth Century male Orientalists are ten a penny,but you can count on one hand the number of Nineteenth Century European women who became powerbrokers in the Middle East - though I have to admit that when it came to picking a pretty view, Lamartine knew what he was doing. Not that we can see the coast, today, between the dense canopy and the louring skies, we’re lucky to be able to see the valley floor below.

As we head off through the trees, I get chatting with one of the weekend walkers. Despite his youth, Rabih is a judge in Beirut, a job I cannot say I envy him, for between overt threats (four judges were shot in court by a gunman who is still on the lose, just weeks after I arrived) and political corruption, Lebanon’s judiciary is anything but safe. Or independent. 

Naturally, I don’t find out that he’s a judge until we’ve had a lengthy conversation that amongst other things, involves confessions of my drug-fuelled youth.

Rabih tells me that his job involves fighting absolutely everyone, from the criminals and their clans and political supporters, to the police and the politicians. This constant uphill battle became so overwhelming, that a few years earlier, he had considered giving up his position and briefly tendered his resignation. 

Turning him down, his superiors suggested that he reconsider, so he was given 2 years’ leave, and took up a position as a legal advisor in Abu Dhabi. The environment in the emirate was completely different and although he says that he appreciated the opportunity, he also found it frustrating. As he read it, Abu Dhabi had the desire to change but didn’t always have the means, because the push for reform was constantly hamstrung by the pushback from tradition. 

It was this that prompted his return to Beirut, for while Lebanese officialdom may not seek change, as things are working perfectly well for the oligarchs and kleptocrats, the country’s more liberal environment and history of progressive politics means that it has the means to do so.

As we talk, it becomes clear that Rabih’s experience abroad reinvigorated his belief in the necessity of enacting change at the judicial level, and of tackling Lebanon’s post-war miasma in earnest. Soft-spoken and thoughtful, he nevertheless describes himself as an ‘angry man’, and says that there is something wrong with anyone who sees the world as it is and is not angry, themselves. 

He’s curious to know why, as a journalist in Lebanon, I don’t write about politics, adding that some of the most influential political writers in the region are foreigners - but as he mentions Bernard Lewis, I suspect he's talking more about influence on US foreign policy, than internal Lebanese politics. He’s also curious about my reasons for leaving Lebanon after such a long time, especially as I share much of his passion for his country, and he asks if in deciding to leave, I feel like I am giving up. 

I have often wondered as much, myself. 

For almost two decades, Lebanon has been my personal cause, fought culturally, rather than politically. I can’t say that I don’t feel a twinge at the thought of going, but I have reached a point where I want to leave while I am still in love with the country, before my relationship sours permanently. 

As I tell Rabih this, I can’t help but think again of Lady Hester. In her final years, she was a shadow of her former self, increasingly destitute and so isolated that towards the end, she only received visitors by night, and never allowed them to see her fully. Did she look back on her years in the region with regret? Or did she die knowing that she had lived her life even more fully than most men of her generation? 

It strikes me that Lebanon is no country for old anyones, for although families are much closer and thus far more likely to take care of an elderly relative, age is still perceived as a diminishment. Fifty is old, sixty is ancient, seventy, well you might as well be dead, whereas in the less family-oriented parts of the Developed World, old age has now become an opportunity to start over and become someone new, though whether this is more evidence of implacable Calvinism or a more humane approach that recognises that not every senior citizen believes their lives should revolve around grandchildren, I’m not sure.

The walk continues through the Biosphere, alternating between open grassland and swathes of thick, lush forest. The clouds still limit the view, but it is a more enjoyable walk than the previous day, if only because of the beauty of the immediate landscape. We stop for a leisurely lunch in a copse of cedars, many of which, sadly, seem to be ailing. 

Not long after we resume walking, we begin a lengthy descent to our stop for the night in the town of Barouk, following a rocky and at times quite treacherous path. 

After about an hour, we pass two couples as they emerge from a clump of bushes. Our presence is clearly unexpected and discombobulating. The men are Lebanese, but the two women are of eastern European origin, and are clad in short skirts and pencil-thin stilettos, the kind of clothing that doesn’t seem especially suited to hiking, especially not at the time of year.

Eastern European women suffer from an unfortunate stereotype in the Middle East, as many of the first to arrive came as ‘entertainers’, and while I have seen Lebanese women take to the hills (and even the swimming pool), in heels before, the way they are readjusting their clothing and smoothing their hair, as well as the faint trace of embarrassment the two men radiate, which gives them the air of randy teens caught in flagrante by their parents, does suggest that the only wildlife they have come here to appreciate walks on two legs. 

Because there are so many of us walking today, we have inevitably divided into smaller groups, and so rather than leave anyone behind, we stop and wait by the side of the trail until everyone catches up again. 

It takes the final arrivals almost thirty minutes to arrive, and it turns out they were waylaid on the trail by the Ambassador of Byelorussia and a US Ambassador-at-Large, who was also apparently wearing heels, and so after the couples we chanced across earlier, I wonder if they too weren’t busy playing geopolitics amongst the trees. 

 As we reach the outskirts of Barouk, we stop at a memorial to journalist and author, Rashid Nakhle, who was also the composer of Lebanon’s national anthem, which of course means an impromptu round of Kullina Lil Watan (All of Us for the Nation), and from there, we drop down into the meadows along the river and wend our way towards town.

 

 

Chapter 16: Of God and Global Warming

Untitled.jpg

 

Refreshed and ready to take on the world, we return to the trail and continue on towards the shrine of Nabi Ayoub, the Prophet Job, which is perched on a hill, thickly forested in twisted, gnarled Mediterranean pine, just above the town of Niha.

Curiously, Niha is one of at least three towns to bear the same name in Lebanon – a fact that led to some confusion when I tried to visit the Roman temples of the Niha over in the northern Beka’a Valley shortly after I arrived in Lebanon, and found myself arguing with the taxi driver who insisted that the only Niha in Lebanon was the town in the Shouf. Back in 1998, with no cellphone, no Google and no guidebook to hand, it was hard to prove otherwise and the driver argued so convincingly that I thought I might have been mistaken, and so we’d ended up outside the decidedly un-Roman fortress we had walked past again the previous day, instead.

Nabi Ayoub is an important Druze shrine and the guides have arranged for us to be met by its guardian, a Druze elder, or uqqal, who regales us with the story of the much put-upon prophet, who according to the Druze, lived in Niha for seven years.

In the uqqal’s telling of the story, Job is a paragon of extremes, a man of unmatched wealth and poverty, happiness and sadness and, of course, health and sickness. He’s also a heavenly punching bag and is afflicted with a terrible ravaging of the skin, just to see if this will cause him to renounce his faith. To further encourage his defection, Job loses his wealth, his happiness and his children – the latter conceivably a blessing, as he apparently had ten of them – and ends up so badly ravaged that he cannot walk and is carted around in a basket, as parasites eat away at his flesh. 

In a further act of divine love, the parasites are prevented from eating away at his brain, because it is the seat of his spirit, and so Job remains lucid, and fully aware of his torment, which, as he is also immortal and so unable to die, threatens to continue until the end of time. Talk about the dangers of catching a deity’s eye.

Perhaps the only bright spot in Job’s tale of woe is that he somehow ends up on this mountaintop above Niha, and so as the prophet decays slowly in his basket, cared for by his long-suffering wife, he does at least have a cracking view.

Eventually, God tires of his little test, and sends Gabriel and Jesus to Job to deliver the good news that he' has passed. Announcing that his suffering is at an end, the Archangel strikes a rock with his sword, causing a spring to gush out of a rock. He instructs Job to bathe and instantly, the prophet is not only healed but is also transformed from an doddering old man into a strapping 20 year-old. For extra fun, Gabriel decides to test Job’s wife, who has probably had the life sucked out of her already by the loss of her family, her comfortable life and decades as a pariah as she carted her putrefying husband around in a basket, by asking her to pick the rejuvenated Job out of a crowd of people, if she can. When she does, presumably passing the ‘good girl’ test herself, she too is made young again. 

The kicker – well apart from the obvious disconnect between the God of mercy and love and this Old Testament sadist - and especially if, like me, you harbour aspirations to immortality, is that the water that makes Job young, also makes him mortal. Healthy and now free to die - no sense in having too much of a good thing, is there ? - he and his wife leave Niha and is the fact that both Iraq and Oman lay claim to his body is an indication, apparently begin wandering the region. 

The Druze version of the story an interesting take on the Biblical one and although the Archangel’s fountain of youth no longer flows (see above), there are a few massive oak trees nearby that legend has it were planted by Job as thanks for his deliverance.

As for Madame Job, whether she is also buried with her husband, or decided that as she was young again and no longer needed to carry that basket, it was time to break free and live her Very Best Life, well that is not part of the story, but I like to think she chose to settle on some nice beachfront in Byblos or perhaps retire to a life of perfumed indolence in a townhouse in Tyre, rather than traipse around the sun-baked wastelands of Arabia following hubbie. 

As the day draws to a close, we descend to the town through the forest. The path is steep, and rocky and after almost an hour of knee-knackering downhill walking, we reach Niha and climb onto the trail bus, which is taking us to our lodgings for the night over in the lovely, but very empty village of Ba’adaran, which like many villages in the mountains is a virtual ghost town during the week, as most inhabitants live and work in the coastal cities. 

The star of breakfast the following morning – apart from the irresistibly fluffy and very friendly dog – is an amazingly simple dish called emayche that is made of a mix of burghul and kishk, with chopped onions and a hint of cinnamon, that is drizzled in olive oil and eaten with tart, crumbling goat cheese and nutty, chewy rounds of marqook bread, which I consume in vast quantities. 

Shamefully stuffed – speaking for myself, anyway - we are driven back to the trailhead in Niha and set off for our evening destination in Ma’asser el-Shouf, a lovely village of traditional Levantine homes, with an unfortunate civil war past, that was once home to a mixed Christian-Druze population but which is now almost exclusively Druze.

We begin with a long and surprisingly taxing climb up and out of Niha, part of which follows a massive and impressively oriented vertical rock ridge that looks like a gargantuan, boulder-strewn stone dorsal fin cleaving the grassy waters of the hillside. It’s one of many in this part of the mountains, the remains of a once submerged layer of ancient seabed that tectonic forces have pushed out of the water and exposed in vertical folds that undulate across the slopes.

My healthy appreciation of breakfast probably hasn’t helped but the climb leaves me feeling wobbly and quite winded, so I’m grateful when the trail finally begins to level out again. 

As it turns out, this section of the trail is not the most interesting, especially after the visual drama of the first six days of the walk, but it does take us into start of the Shouf Biosphere, the largest of Lebanon’s (erratically) protected areas, through which we will walk for the next three days.

For the first time, I notice that Salam, the only other walker who is going all the way to the end the trail with me, and who is on the board of the Lebanon Mountain Trail Association, has attached a black bin bag to her backpack and as we walk, she picks up recyclable rubbish that she finds along the trail, which she drops off at the end of the day. It’s a reminder of how seriously the association takes their job, not only maintaining and reblazing the trail and forging links between walkers and local residents that benefit rural families financially, but also reporting issues of illegal dumping and deforestation to relevant local authorities. 

When I ask her a bit later how much good that does, she points out that even though most local authorities either lack the will, the organisation or, more frequently, the means to tackle such issues (the issue of funding for local authorities is a long and arcane subject better suited to another book), at least by letting them know that infractions are taking place, they cannot say they were unaware.

It also presents an opportunity for the Association to work with those authorities willing to step in, by raising money for specific projects, or helping them find foreign partners or funding they might not be aware exist. It’s a useful reminder of the overall ethos that the LMT is not just a walking trail, it’s part of a project to help regenerate rural communities in a country in which anywhere that is not Beirut or to a lesser extent, one of its other cities, is usually starved of funding. 

After a relatively short day, we reach Ma’asser in mid-afternoon, a couple of hours after lunch. We’re taken to the Biosphere Centre, a couple of beautiful old sandstone buildings on the main street that have been artfully converted, where we are given a short talk about the kind of flora and fauna we’ll see in the Biosphere and then watch a couple of short nature films, including one that is a compilation of hidden camera shots of wolves, which have begun to recover after decades of being hunted to near extinction. 

We also watch a short film about projects to reforest Mount Lebanon, site of the world’s first documented deforestation – referred in the Epic of Gilgamesh – and which has been famously bare since late Antiquity, which includes a million-tree corridor of Cedars that are currently being planted to link the two small existing forests in Tannourine and Al Arz, in northern Lebanon. Assuming, of course, that climate change, which has already caused many of the country’s trees at lower levels to sicken and die, doesn’t make it impossible for the giant beauties to grow here, at all.

Both impressed and heartened – for who does not like to know about things that are going right, for a change - we trundle off to spend the night in the dormitories of a church school in Ma’asser, where, because it is Friday, our little band of long-distance walkers is joined by a massive influx of weekenders, who will be with us again until Sunday night. Naturally the arak flows and soon, the singing and dancing begins, and while I join the festivities for a while, I’ve been walking for a week and still have three to go, so with a bit of a bah and a humbug, I try to get an earlyish night, but whether it is the dancing and clapping, the excessive but excellent dinner of dinner of potato and pumpkin kibbe and kishk soup, or the surprising heat, I am unable to sleep and so, after a great deal of grimacing, I give up and decamp to the library, where I open the windows, collapse dazed into an old, but extremely comfortable armchair, curl up and finally, blessedly, manage to get a little sleep. 

 

 

Chapter 14: Death by Goat Tracks

Break.jpg

At first, the climb out of Ain Zibde is easier than I had expected, a fairly gentle meander along wide agricultural tracks, but then the fun begins.

The mountain suddenly becomes much more vertical, as the track peters out and we are confronted by an intimidating 45 degree incline, which we will have to navigate on barely discernable tracks, which Joseph says have been made by goats. 

The disadvantages of only having two feet, neither of which are hooved, quickly become apparent on this rocky mountainside, as toes are stubbed, ankles are twisted and tempers are tried. The climb is tortuous and our pace is immediately reduced to a plodding. Not exactly the fittest walker, my lungs go into overdrive, and I wheeze my way upward, following a trail that in places is barely wide enough for one foot at a time.

We have 600 vertical metres ahead of us before we will once again reach anything approximating flat ground. I’m ashamed to say that it doesn’t take long before early morning bounce gives way to vexation and I grump my way (silently, at least) up the slope, cursing fate, geography and plate tectonics.

Fortunately, the views over the vineyards of Kherbet Qanafar to the north and Lake Qaraoun to the east are absolutely amazing, even though the Beka’a is partially obscured by a hazy, silvery veil of mist mingled with smoke from winter fires. Magnificently, the snowy peaks of Jabal al-Sheikh hover above it all in the distance. 

Although we have not reached the top of today’s walk, the panoramic views are god-like, and after an hour and a half of demoralising slog – which to my darkest delight has tired out even the hardiest amongst us - we stop for a quick break to give our screaming thighs a rest and summon energy for the remainder of the climb, allowing us to bask for a while, in the feeling that we have briefly become all-seeing, if not all-knowing.

A little later, the tracks widen into a trail and the climb becomes gentler as we rise the final 200 metres to the rolling uplands of this part of Mount Lebanon. We’ve reached the top of today’s walk, where we’re at around the 1750 metre-mark, and we will remain up here for a while, until we begin our decent to our stop for the night in the mountain resort of Jezzine. 

Today, we cross from the Beka’a Valley side of Mount Lebanon to the Mediterranean side, and it isn’t long before the coast comes into view for the first time. Lebanon’s narrow coastal strip is the most densely inhabited part of the country, and the location of its four largest cities, which also happen to be some of the longest continually-inhabited in the world - Tyre, for example, has been a city for over 5,000 years and inhabited for at least as long again.

The view from here is relatively more recent and our first sight of the coast includes the old French Mandate airfield at Ba’adaran, which Druze leader Walid Joumblatt used during the civil war, and two jumbles of red tiled roofs far below that are the villages of Mresti and Moukhtara, where the Joumblatt family has their feudal palace. 

As we take another quick break, and possibly to make us feel better about out slog, Joseph relates a story about the historic links between Ain Zibde, where we’d spent the night, and Mresti, one of the villages below. It is about a bride in the 1950s, who travelled over the mountains to her wedding in Ain Zibde on a donkey, because there was no road linking the two villages, and travelling down to the coast, up to the main pass across the mountains and back down to Ain Zibde would have taken several days. Whether her hurry to be wed was driven by longing, or some other, growing concern, he did not say.

The path up here is a series of gentle rises and dips, and winds its way along the top of the mountain, switching between the Beka’a and the Mediterranean side. Though the peaks of Mount Lebanon are mostly bare as the result of ancient deforestation – which flocks of voracious goats have helped maintain, we do see a few low trees, bent almost double by the furious winds that howl over the peaks in the winter.  

Normally, there would still be a lot of snow up here at this time of the year, but it has been a poor winter and most of it has melted, leaving large pools of water fringed with lush, temporary meadows but after a while, we begin to come across thick swathes of snow, surfaces covered in the dust that blows out of the Syrian Desert, to the east. The sun is blazing and its quite hot, despite the nip in the air, so after scraping away the dust, we grab handfuls of snow, by now more ice than flake, and rub it over our faces and heads. The trickle of cool water down flushed faces and sweaty backs is invigorating. I scoop up a handful, form it into a ball and squash it onto the top of my floppy sun hat, where I leave it to melt, as a kind of air-conditioning for the head, it is extremely effective.

This part of the trail is mostly old military roads, cut through the earth during the civil war. In two places, it has been deliberately severed, forcing us to clamber up the hillside and around to continue onwards. These trenches are relics from 2008, when Lebanon experienced a short spasm of violence initiated by Hezbollah and its allies in retaliation for what was perceived as an attempt to shut them out of the political process. They were dug by Joumblatt's men to prevent Hezbollah fighters from using the old military roads to reach Moukhtara. A flash in the sky catches my eye and looking up, I can see a pair of contrails as two Israeli warplanes fly overhead on reconnaissance missions. Since moving here, I’ve become inured to the sight, as it’s an almost daily occurrence, but not only is it a flagrant breach of Lebanon’s sovereignty, it is also a violation of international law, but this rarely gets mentioned in discussions about tensions between the two countries in the press. 

As we are climbing up a large rise, Alfred, whose wife Salam is the only other person walking the entire trail, spots a fox on the far hill. He hands me a pair of binoculars but even so, I strain to see it, until it moves and then it suddenly becomes clearly visible. It’s the largest wild animal we've seen so far, apart from eagles, although there must be plenty around, as the ground is full of mole holes, and there are butterflies, lizards, spiders and large black glossy beetles all over the place.

We come to another break in the road, which looks more like it might be a bomb crater from 2006, and a little later, we walk through a desolate camp, that had been in use by Hezbollah fighters. It's empty now, but when she passed this way two years earlier, they had come out and offered Salam water and sweets. 

The camp may be scrappy, but the views from atop the surrounding rocks are spectacular and take in both sides of the mountain, which is clearly the reason the camp was built here, in the first place.

Especially compared to earlier, the walk has taken on the feel of a Sunday stroll in the park. It is hot, though, and when we stop for lunch in a wide bowl, half filled with snow, two of our companions, Nils and Nasser, both accomplished long-distance walkers, decide it’s time for a snow bath. With admirable Nordic élan, Nils strips off completely, while Nasser keeps on his underwear preserving his Middle Eastern modesty, and they roll around in the snow, heaping it on top of themselves and throwing it at each other like delighted children.

After the enforced cliquishness of the first two days, when we’d been accompanied by hordes of weekend walkers, the group dynamic has become more relaxed and as they walk, people are falling in and out of conversations, and lingering longer after dinner to talk. They are an interesting bunch and at 48, I’m no spring chicken but with a couple of exceptions, the other walkers are older than me. One, an American who normally lives in Hawai’i and who last visited Lebanon in its ‘Golden Age’ just before the Civil War, is in her late 70’s. They’re also in better shape than me, a realisation that is simultaneously inspiring and chastening. 

We meander along the top of Mount Lebanon for the next few hours and in mid-afternoon, begin our descent towards Jezzine. The bare slopes give way first to grassland and then to pine forests. 

Pines are a crop in Lebanon, prized for their nuts, which are used liberally in Lebanese cuisine and the trees are undergoing their spring trimming to encourage growth, so they look naked and a little sad, but also quite sculptural. They prefer sandy topsoil, which makes large swathes of the mountains ideal and for the next few days, we’ll be walking through the largest pine forests in the Eastern Mediterranean. Unfortunately, sand is also ideal for mining, so Lebanon’s mountains are being quarried, often illegally, for this resource, leaving enormous holes into mountainsides. As we pick through the trees, the ground is littered with brightly coloured plastic shell casings, evidence of the lethal and similarly illegal bird hunting that goes on, often with the connivance of local authorities. 

The mountains above Jezzine are striated by crests of rock forced up by earthquakes that run in curving ridges along their flanks. Bizarre rock formations begin to appear, wildly eroded sandstone sculptures in bright shades of pink, yellow, red and orange that contrast starkly with the greenery of the pines. It has a faintly alien appearance, as if instead of southern Lebanon, we are walking across the surface of Mars after centuries of terraforming. 

We descend towards a small river that we will follow almost all the way to Jezzine. We first encounter it just before it rushes through what, for lack of a better description, is a sandstone wadi, that looks for all the world like a piece of Saudi Arabia pinched off and dropped on Mount Lebanon. The river forms an inviting pool beneath a small waterfall. The water is clean, clear and green and on a warmer day and with a little more time, it would be the perfect place for a dip, or at least to cool aching feet. Today, with at least two hours walk ahead of us and the day drawing on, we content ourselves with admiring it longingly as we pass.  Then, as we wind up and out of the mini wadi, we pass into lush, flower-filled fields and knee-high grass. 

The change is so abrupt, it’s almost comical. In the space of five minutes, we’ve gone from Mediterranean pines and Martian landscapes, through the Arabian Desert to Switzerland. I half expect to find a blonde girl in a dirndl just around the next bend. It’s a reminder of how quickly the landscape changes in the mountains, and of the incredible natural diversity to which Lebanon, a land that boasts a dizzying range of micro-climates that range from the sub-arctic to the sub-tropical, is heir.

Our long descent follows the river, air alive with the sound of rushing water and, as the sun sinks, croaking frogs. Before the end, we wind our way up again, and exit on the broad plateau just above the town. Thankfully, it’s all downhill from here and as we enter the outskirts, the final stretch takes us onto the steep concrete staircase that winds between the houses and down towards Jezzine’s famous naba’a, a freshwater spring that flows out of a cave and into a large pool that might date back to Roman times, from where it flows into the town’s justifiably famous waterfall.

The town’s name apparently means ‘treasures’ in Syriac, possibly for its abundant water sources, but these days, its most precious commodity is tourism. Jezzine was a popular summer getaway for those down on the coast. The town’s star has waned in recent decades because until the turn of the millennium, it was occupied by Israel, and so it was cut off from cities like Sidon and Tyre, which historically provided it with most of its visitors. 

We've been walking for almost 9 hours and frankly, I’m shattered. We limp into a cafe and order drinks before heading to our accommodation for the night, which unusually, will be a hotel. 

The relatively greater comfort of the rooms this night is offset by a shockingly mediocre dinner, served to us reluctantly by maids. After our lovely breakfast on the terrace in Ain Zibde that morning, the incredible meal the night before, Antoinette’s cracking manquoshe and the delicious meals and warm hospitality we’ve enjoyed at homes so far, this sudden return to the commercial is jarring, and so as soon as dinner is done, I decide it’s better to retire and judging by the dampened atmosphere, I sense the sentiment is shared.