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Chapter 31: Drama, Destruction and Ambarees

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Today, I’m reminded that however fit I think I am becoming, walking Lebanon’s mountains can still be exhausting.

Our trail, which leads us from Horsh Ehden to Bqaa Safrine is what my Granny, had she been the kind of woman prone to expletives, might have described as ‘fucking knackering’. 

The 25 kilometre walk, which rises a total of 1000m and loses a total of 1450m, winds across the uplands along treacherously rocky, ankle-turning trails and to add to our woes, not only is the trail fairly dry in terms of freshwater springs, it’s also fairly exposed and the day is blazingly hot.

What we get in exchange, however, is a sense of complete isolation, and god-like views across the whole of northern Lebanon and a significant sweep of the Syrian coast all the way to Tartus. 

Up here, we’re in juniper country and these slow-growing beauties, the few that have survived being turned into houses or firewood, anyway, are gnarled, ancient and, in Lebanese terms, quite massive. As we crunch across the dried berries that carpet the ground beneath them, the air fills with an intoxicating, if mildly medicinal smell that immediately reminds me of gin.

After the lush, flower-filled meadows and shady cedar and oak groves of the Ehden Reserve, the stark landscapes of the jurd, seem rather lifeless; rolling hills, rocky outcrops and scattered (and thorny) bushes. To survive up here, an area used for hundreds, if not thousands of years, as grazing land for vast fleets of goats, nature’s little omnivore, locusts in horned form, you have to be tough.

In the mountains of Btellaya, just after we’ve passed out of the boundaries of the reserve, we come across our first spring and the rather curious Mgharet el-Hawa, the Cave of the Winds, named for the ice-cold draft of air that blows out of it all year long. For the most part, Mount Lebanon is a massive slab of limestone and as most limestone often is, it is riddled with caves, crevices and cracks. This one, a rather small affair that barely deserves to be called a cave, is linked to a similar opening on the far side of Mount Lebanon, which funnels wind blowing across the Beka’a Valley through the mountain and to the coastal side, cooling it in the process. The draft is surprisingly powerful, even though the air is quite still - well, it is on this side of the mountains – but it is very cold. It’s as though we’ve stepped in front of a natural air-conditioner, which in a way, I suppose we have. It feels so good, that I stand in front of it until my teeth start to chatter.

Not far away, we come across what I take at first to be the ruins of some ancient dwelling. It turns out to be a goat farm, at least during season, but at the moment, it’s still deserted. The farm is known for its yoghurty ambarees, which is curdled in large ceramic pots. It’s one of the few places in Lebanon that still makes the cheese, for despite being one of the oldest kinds of cheese in the world, ambarees is endangered, which is pity given how delicious it is, but tastes have apparently changed and so, like so many other living artefacts (glass-blowing in Sarafand, pottery-making in Rashaya al-Fawkhar), it runs the risk of dying out, and bringing to an end in our lifetimes a chain of production that stretches back thousands of years.

The farm is a curious affair. With few windows and no visible door, it’s more wall than home, and it sits atop an outcrop, roof and walls covered defensively in thorny branches. It doesn’t look like anywhere I’ve seen before, in fact, it reminds me more of the archaic antler and horn-clad buildings of Nepal’s Upper Mustang Valley than it does of Lebanon. Like the cheese its owners come here each summer to make, it looks unspeakably, unimaginably ancient and possibly haunted. The kind of place that superstitious travellers might utter a protective prayer while passing.

It isn’t the only structure up here, though. Robin points to a suspiciously flat hilltop in the distance and tells us that what we can see is the site of a Roman outpost, somewhat inexplicably known as the Aisha Fortress, though who Aisha might be and why a Roman outpost would be named after her, no one seems to know. The part of the jurd affords strategic views and has plenty of water, which explains the outpost and why today, the high-altitude meadows are home to itinerant farmworkers, gypsy rather than Bedouin, who also roam across the Levant, moving with the seasons. It also explains why later we encounter a section of Roman road and find evidence of Roman waterworks, a massive stone-cut reservoir and the remains of an old village near a grove of absolutely gigantic oak trees and slender cypress above the village of Douraiya. 

With Bqaa Safrine now not too far off, I get a second wind. When we finally limp in to our destination for the night, I cannot remember ever feeling quite so tired, but the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen and a brutally-powerful shower revive me sufficiently that I am able to acquit myself magnificently at dinner.

The following morning, for the first time in a long time, I am in pain.

And a little sunburnt, as I had sweated profusely and been lax about reapplying sunscreen.

As usual, our day begins with a climb. Our destination tonight is the former mountain resort town of Sir el-Denniyeh, which had its heyday in the middle of the last century. We won’t be walking the whole way, though, as it’s too far off the trail. Instead, we’ll stop at Kfarbnine and be bussed from the end of the trail to the hotel we’ll be staying in, and then back to the trailhead again the following day. Family accommodation is difficult to find in these parts, apparently, and so we’ll be staying at an old Deco resort, which was very popular in the 1920’s and 30’s. 

Initially, the trail isn’t too bad, there’s a great deal more tree cover today and with high clouds, it isn’t as hot but the trail quickly becomes difficult and it isn’t long before I am sweating profusely again.

Given that the tallest mountain in Lebanon is now several days behind us and that the chain dissolves into foothills once it enters Syria, which is not that far away, I’d expected the scenery here to be pretty rather than spectacular, but it turns out that Akkar, the region where we are now walking, is one of the most beautiful parts of the country.  

I get the first intimation that my expectations are about to be overturned as we sweat our way around the side of an otherwise unassuming mountain along a steep and very rocky trail, when we turn a corner and are treated to the kind of view I didn't think existed Lebanon. 

A magnificently wild-looking mountain appears. At the top of a boulder-strewn scree slope down which tumbles, gushes and roars, the snowmelt swollen waters of the Naba Sukkar (Sugar Spring), Ijra al-Qa’alat as the craggy, weathered massif is called, is a far cry from the gently rolling heights of the rest of Mount Lebanon and reaches through the clouds, crenellations thrust into the heavens. Though not especially high by Lebanese standards, from where we are standing, it towers above us, a sheer, indomitable slab of stone.

There are massive natural rock formations on a rise about halfway up the mountains, and whether it was the mist wreathing the peaks, the roar of the river as it splashed down the slope or the triggering of some long-dormant racial memory hardwired into my genes, my heart caught in my throat. Wild and untamed, the mountain radiated a powerful pagan presence, an aura of holiness, that is so palpable, I’m surprised I haven’t yet fallen to my knees. 

As we climb, the sound of water makes the air vibrate and the clouds begin to roll in, sweeping up the valley and completely obscuring the view. Slowly, we to disappear into the mist, until we are each walking in our own private world. 

I feel the old gods watching. Their presence is tangible here, an area that perhaps is too high and too remote for the coruscating power of monotheism to reach, and through the shifting mists, some of the rocks begin to look like unworthy travellers turned to stone by vengeful gods. 

I’m not the only one to have experienced that vibe, for I later learn that there's a Roman temple up there somewhere, probably built on much older Phoenician remains and as by and large, the Phoenicians tended to stick to the coast, they must have found something special about this place. This was some Levantine Olympus, perhaps and had the mists parted to reveal Ares dallying with Demeter or Hadad getting saucy with Shala, I wouldn't have been entirely surprised.

The spell is broken as I hear what can only be the swoosh of a passing car. There’s a brand new road up here, gods dammit, which connects the Beka’a with the Denniyeh region and Tripoli. It's infrequently used and already crumbling, probably some White Elephant project, or perhaps a way for the Shiite fundamentalists of Hezbollah, who are strong on the other side of the mountain, to keep an eye on the Sunni fundamentalists that Akkar now has a reputation for producing.

Whatever the reason, the road has also permitted local youths to access areas they could not easily reach before and as we draw up to them, I see that those massive, ghostly stone pillars are covered in ugly graffiti. My heart breaks slightly, although on such a day, even this mindless intrusion of modernity – if mindless declarations of love and sad political sloganeering counts as such – cannot detract from the incredible power of this place. 

The clouds have now truly closed in. I can barely see more than a metre or two ahead. I’m almost on top of Robin before I see him standing by the side of the trail, pointing down the scree slope towards the river, which we’ll need to cross to carry on.

In the summer, this would be a simple proposition but fattened by melting snow, the river, though not wide, is a raging torrent. Falling in would not only get you wet, it might also lead to being swept over one of the dozens of small waterfalls, some of which are not that small, along its course. 

We stop at a point where the water is more shallow and hunt around for suitable rocks to throw into the river, to form a makeshift bridge. With all of us engaged, we soon manage to get enough in place to hop carefully across, and Joseph strings a rope across, so that no one slips and falls. It's a moment of slight drama but eventually, we get across safely. As we wait for everyone to cross, we squat beside a concrete water channel that is so steep and so fast flowing, it looks more like a slide at an aquapark than an irrigation channel. 

From there, we thread our way carefully through the boulders, across the scree, slipping and occasionally sliding, sending showers of pebbles tumbling down the mountainside. Just when it feels like we may never be warm again, we finally break through the clouds, and in an instant, warmth returns to the world. 

Unfortunately, we exit right beside a massive new highway, still under construction, which is apparently also going over the mountains to the Beka’a. Quite how many fucking roads an area this sparsely populated needs is anyone's guess but official disdain for nature means that roads like this are being carved unceremoniously through the mountains all over the country, utterly destroying the places they pass through.

We eat lunch there, perched on top of a large outcrop that has somehow managed to survive being razed. Curiously untouched, it is covered in trees and flowers and birds flit between the branches. It was a lovely, if cruel reminder of what had so recently been lost and while life on the outcrop continued much as it had since the beginning of time, it is obvious that once the highway opens, any lingering magic will quickly wither in clouds of fumes, birdsong replaced by impatient honking, so that no one passing this place in the future will ever suspect the beauty that once had been.

Beside the outcrop, which commands sweeping views of the uplands of Denniyeh far below us, the track drops steeply through lush fields and follows beside the concrete watercourse we saw earlier, which here snakes along the side of a cliff. We walk beside it and on it in places where there is no room to walk beside, and it isn’t always easy to keep from falling in. Winding around the cliffs, the channel flows past terraced orchards in full bloom and soon civilisation, in the form of the fragrant village of Kfarbnine, comes into view. 

It’s by far the poorest place we have walked through so far, a reminder of just how overlooked, underdeveloped and underserved the Denniyeh region has always been and the reason why when the fundamentalists washed up here in the 80s, they found such fertile ground for their divisive ideology. 

Though Kfarbnine is desperately in need of development, its inhabitants are warm and welcoming. Those that remain, anyway, for there are a noticeable number of empty and abandoned houses. This is where we are due to stop for the day and as we wait in what passes for the village square for the bus to arrive, a carload of bearded, robed fundamentalists (all with the shaved upper lip and prominent prayer marks on their foreheads that the Egyptians call ‘zabib’ or ‘raisins’) drives past, then stops for a closer look, possibly because all of us, including the women, are wearing t-shirts and most of us are in shorts. 

With a glare, they drive off in a car that looks far too expensive for these parts, towards the gleaming (but sadly unattractive) new mosque on the edge of town, which apart from the municipality, is probably, the nicest building in town. It’s certainly the largest and while it may have been funded by local emigrants, from the looks of it, it’s probably a gift from one of the Gulf Countries, possibly even the same country that funded the nice car the dour gentlemen were driving earlier. Looking around, I can’t help thinking that of all the things Kfarbnine needs, a big new mosque probably isn’t at the top of the list, but then who needs jobs, running water, 24-hour electricity or even a comfortable home when you have somewhere shiny to go and submit your complaints to God? 

Horsh Ehden to Bqaa Safrine  Section 5 of the LMT.  Map/Image © Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Horsh Ehden to Bqaa Safrine

Section 5 of the LMT.

Map/Image ©Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Bqaa Safrine to Kfarbnine  Section 4 of the LMT.  Map/Image © Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Bqaa Safrine to Kfarbnine

Section 4 of the LMT.

Map/Image ©Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Chapter 30: Into the Lands of the Lord of the Snows

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Shortly afterwards, we turn into the Qozhaya Valley, which together with Qannoubine makes up Qadisha.

Spelled with both a ‘k’ and a ‘q’, the name Qadisha is derived from the Syriac root word meaning ‘holy’, and as in Syriac, the letter ‘a’ is pronounced as an ‘o’, people would have spoked of the Qodisha, rather than the Qadisha Valley. It’s testament to the persistence of their linguistic roots that the inhabitants of this region still pronounce it that way in Arabic, a language that wouldn’t have been widely spoken up here until three or four hundred years ago. Indeed an old Levantine equivalent of ‘when pigs fly’ roughly translates as ‘when Christians speak Arabic’.

We hike along the thickly forested valley, which is narrower and not as deep as Qannoubine. Our goal is a monastery, St. Anthony of Qozhaya, which is where we will be spending the night. After a while, it comes into view, floating above a sea of pine trees, which must be laden with pollen, for when the wind blows, shimmering clouds of golden dust blow from trees, covering the surroundings in sticky, heady powder. 

Like the other monasteries in the area, St. Anthony’s is carved out of the side of the valley. Surrounded by pines, its red tiled roofs and weathered sandstone façade makes it look like we have stumbled into Provence or the foothills of the Italian Alps. 

It’s been a long day, and I’m eager for a rest. As we wind up the valley, we drop down to a small bridge across the river and then climb back up the other side to the monastery, a cluster of buildings built over the original rock-cut chapels and rooms, which are well over a thousand years old. One of them in the lower levels of the main building, has been turned into a museum and amongst other exhibits, proudly displays an early 19th Century printing press, which according to its plaque was purchased from Thomas Long and Sons of Edinburgh. Qozhaya has a long history of printing but this one, though venerable, is a mere stripling compared to the original press, which began churning out pamphlets and books in 1610.

Not many places in the region did. For a long time, printing was banned in the Ottoman Empire, ostensibly on the grounds that Arabic, which was the language of God, should not be produced by anything as soulless as a machine. The Empire’s non-Muslim citizens, however, who read doubtlessly inferior books of dubious authority anyway were eventually permitted to use the press, a concession that was to inadvertently give Ottoman Christians and Jews significant advantages over their Muslim counterparts a couple of centuries down the road.

In Lebanon, there’s a running dispute over which monastery was the first to print an Arabic-language book. If you insist that the book has to be printed in Arabic script, then the title goes to Kinchara, where the first locally printed Arabic-language Bible was produced in 1734. But Kinchara was not the first monastery to print a book. That title belongs to St. Anthony’s, which produced a bilingual Syriac-Arabic psalter in 1610, but as both the Arabic and the Syriac texts were printed in the Syriac alphabet, which is closely related to Arabic, Kinchara maintains that the title is theirs. Lebanese disputes about who did what first generally tend to involve Syria, so it’s worth noting that the first Arabic-language books printed in Arabic were produced in Aleppo in 1706. Though this pips Kinchara to the post, it doesn’t come close to Qozhaya. That said, it’s probably worth noting that first book printed anywhere in the Ottoman Empire wasn’t in Arabic or Syriac but in Hebrew, with Jacob ben Asher’s Arbaah Turim appearing in Constantinople in 1493 courtesy of the Ibn Nahmias brothers, who had just been expelled from Spain following the Reconquista.

After a night made significantly more jolly by the unexpected appearance of a friend, who plans to hike the trail for a couple of days, and has come bearing a sackful of rather excellent chocolates and a small bottle of brandy, I settle in and sleep like the dead.

The next morning we get off to a very hot start, with a windless march straight up the valley, during which we rise 600 metres or so over the course of two hours. As mornings go, this one feels interminable. Although we do pass a rather pretty waterfall and are walking in the shade of trees, the views aren’t inspiring, but then as I was woken at 5am by one of the other walkers clumsily crashing about the dormitory room, I’m not in the most accommodating mood. 

We reach the outskirts of Ain Tourine, a village that is apparently in the process of being rebuilt. Between the rubble-filled roads, torn netting on the buildings and ripped up cobbles, it looks more like a post-war zone than the pretty village we’ve been promised. I’m momentarily mollified by an adorable puppy, which squirms with glee as I scratch his back. Dogs bring out an almost maternal instinct in me – something the sight of babies never does – and I’m tempted to wonder if in my past lives I wasn’t always necessarily human. 

As we straggle along the main drag, which will be delightful once the reconstruction is finished, a beaming silver-haired woman in her late 50’s, comes out of her house to greet us bearing an artfully-balanced tray of cups and a steaming rakwe from which she dispenses thick, sweet black coffee with laughter and smiles. We all immediately fall in love with her, and she revels in the flood of attention. 

It’s decided that we’ll take an impromptu break and having dispensed her coffee, the woman, whose name entirely appropriately means ‘the grace of God’, begins reading the finished cups, overturning them on the tray and scrutinising the patterns left in the dregs. It seems that we’re all marvellous, glorious and have glowing futures ahead of us, which is rather nice to hear, whether or not you place any stock in the perusing of coffee grounds.

Elias, who for our sins remains with us today, has been somewhat diminished by the loss of his adoring chorus but as he doesn’t know how not to be the centre of everyone’s attention all of the time, he whips out his nay (yes, that would be a kind of flute…) and attempts to distract us from God’s Grace. His little show feels desperately needy and sad, but then he lost my sympathy five minutes after we first met him. Still, from the looks on some of the other walkers’ faces, I can see that I’m not the only one who thinks he’s a crashing bore. 

Leaving Ain Tourine, the trail takes us through fields of tall, silvery thistles. The ground is a bit loose underfoot and naturally, Captain Clumsy ends up falling face-first into them. I emerge with trousers full of prickles and soon develop a surprisingly itchy rash on my arms, which go red and puffy. Thankfully, Robin is on hand with a miracle spray. I’ve been bitten, stung and pricked by countless plants and noxious creatures over the years and never suffered an allergic reaction, so I’m a bit surprised at my body’s vehement response. Probably falling face first into a large patch of thistles didn’t help, but I resolve to give any future patches the widest possible berth.

On the outskirts of Ehden, we reach an old 17th (or possibly 7th Century, I wasn’t paying close attention) shrine to some saint or another and in a last desperate bid to get attention, Elias the Execrable begins ringing the bell frantically. Perhaps he’s trying out for the role of Qasimodo (though he may want to work on his charm), perhaps he’s been huffing glue, perhaps he was deprived of oxygen at birth, whatever the explanation for this paroxysm of demented campanology, the gambit fails. We file by, pointedly ignoring him. I can only imagine the tribulation that bringing that child up must have been and hope that his parents had access to an ample supply of Prozac.

We wind through the streets of Ehden and make our way towards Mar Gerges Cathedral, outside which there’s a statue to Gibrayil al-Sahyouni (or Gabriel Sionite), the 16th Century polyglot from Ehden who worked on translating assorted religious text from and into Arabic at the College Royal in Paris and at La Sapienza in Rome. Inside, there used to be a mausoleum for Youssef Bey Karam, the 19th Century nationalist freedom fighter and rebel who died in exile in Naples but his body has been moved to the lovely 8th Century Mar Mamas, while the cathedral undergoes rennovation.

After a very early lunch on the famous main square, which is ringed by bars, cafes and restaurants, we climb out of town along a series of old, arcaded sandstone staircase and then along a track that takes us up to the ridge above. It’s a long and gruelling ascent with relatively little tree cover, though the wind does occasionally cool us off. The views from the top of Jabal Mar Sarkis are breath-taking. The red-roofed sprawl of Ehden lies directly beneath us and although it is a bit hazy, we can see all the way out to the snow streaked slopes above the Cedars in the south, up to Tripoli and the coast to the north, and down into the Arz Valley, which is where we are heading next.

But first, we’re allowed a short break. We sprawl out on the rocks at Harf Ehden, on an outcrop near the top of this mountain named after an early Christian martyr. Sarkis and his companion Bakhos (they come as a pair) were officers in the Roman Army who were humiliated and tortured in an attempt to force them to renounce their secret belief. They refused and were separated to break down their resolve. Bakhos was removed to Barbalissos (Qala’at Balis in northern Syria), where he was beaten to death while he was being tortured, while Sarkis was moved to nearby Resafa, an ancient fortified city of Akkadian origin, where he was beheaded.  

Resafa, a city built mostly of mudbrick with a high quartzite content, which I remember made the walls glimmer in the harsh sun when I visited the sprawling, completely deserted site shortly before I came to Lebanon, was renamed Sergiopolis during the Byzantine era, when a basilica was built over the spot where the officer - now a saint - was executed and buried.

As I sit there on an outcrop covered in crosses of different sizes, swinging my feet over the several hundred metre drop, I’m reminded of the early ‘90s book by American academic, John Boswell, who uncovered evidence that Sarkis and Bakhos were invoked during male same-sex union ceremonies performed in the first centuries of the Church. Naturally, Boswell’s book was widely denounced, with ecclesiastical authorities huffing angrily about shoddy scholarship and the blatant misinterpretation of ancient texts.

Whether the early Church performed same-sex unions or not – and the evidence appears to suggest that it did - the saints’ own hagiography clearly refers to them as erastoi, the Greek word for lovers in the physical sense, so it seems that homophobia (and possibly misogyny) was something the Church learned later in life.

Surrendering the heights, we leave Ehden, a town supposedly founded by the descendants of Shem, son of Noah, and home of the great statue of Baal Loubnan, the Canaanite God of the Snows, and make our way along the Arz Valley side of the mountain.

After another short climb, we arrive at the outskirts of the national reserve, where we’re greeted by one of the reserve’s coordinators and guided to a sunny hilltop, where trays of cedar saplings and a stack of shovels await. 

An hour or so later, we’ve planted them all, adding in our small way to the mammoth task of restoring Lebanon’s long-lost forests and as we resume course, following a narrow wadi down to the eco-lodge where we’ll be spending the night, I feel quite proud of my little sapling. Should it survive climate change, careless feet, forest fires and ravening goats, it will eventually grow to become part of the Million Cedar Corridor. As I look down the valley to the coast above Tripoli and north into Syria, I’m happy that wherever in the world I may end up next, a part of me is growing slowly in the mountains of the Lord of Snow. 

Qozhaya to Horsh Ehden  Section 6 of the LMT.  Map/Image © Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Qozhaya to Horsh Ehden

Section 6 of the LMT.

Map/Image ©Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Chapter 29: Cowshit, Connections and the Scent of Sanctity

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The day gets off to a cracking start with a long and in places, extremely steep descent from the edge of Bsharre, down, down, down into Wadi Qannoubine.

We are following one of the old walking trails to the valley floor, which lies some five to six hundred metres directly below the town. It’s narrow, rocky and extremely slippery in places, really not much more than a faint outline most of the time. There’s no room to make mistakes, and so where the trail is either excessively narrow or otherwise precarious, chains have been attached to the cliff walls, to make things easier. 

As it is the weekend, our ranks have once again swollen, and so we are forced to make constant stops to allow everyone to catch up. This time, though, I’m not complaining. Making our way down an almost vertical cliff, the views are absolutely incredible. Qannoubine, one of two valleys that make up the area known as Qadisha (the Syriac word for ‘Holy’), is a riot of spring greenery. On both sides of the valley, multiple ribbons of silvery water fall frothing from the plateau and above us, some of the tallest peaks in the country, rise into the clear sky, their uppermost slopes still streaked with snow. 

Qadisha is an UNESCO World Heritage site and with the exception of a few families, living here is not permitted. As with a couple of the country’s other World Heritage sites (Lebanon has five, in all), that protected status is now under threat, thanks to thoughtless construction work and the laying of new roads commissioned mostly by the Maronite Church, which really ought to know better. 

For centuries, Lebanon’s assorted waqfs, religious endowments which in Lebanon are Christian as well as Muslim, took their responsibilities seriously, and were scrupulous about maintaining the vast swathes of land they own. Since the Civil War, they have been less conscientious and the bulwark they once provided has begun to fail. With few other sectors of the local economy performing well, the modern Lebanese state is aggressively, almost mindlessly construction-oriented nature, building so heedlessly that at times, you might be tempted to wonder if it were not a practitioner of the Great Work, the legendary Masonic goal of leaving the imprint of Humankind on every single atom in the Universe.

At the moment, it is only UNESCO status that prevents Qannoubine from being overrun entirely. The villages on the plateau above already encroach visually, and old dirt track, used by wanderers and church-goers, are slowly being tarmacked in direct contravention of the agreement.

Qadisha has a storied history as a place of refuge in time of religious persecution. During the Mamluk era, it was home to a community of Christians (and later of some Sufis), known in Greek as kaino beino or the ‘Community of Life’, who lived a strict, Biblical lifestyle. It is from this term that the name Qannoubine evolved and is why Qadisha is also sometimes referred to as the Valley of the Saints.

Now viewed rather dewily as ‘pure, decent’ folk, one can only imagine the puritan fervour, not that dissimilar to the Salafism running rampant across the rest of the region at the moment, that must have characterised their everyday. Still, it was this history that led to the building of dozens of rock-cut churches, chapels, monasteries and nunneries, and which attracted hermits, who made their homes in the caves and crevices that riddle the valley’s steep walls, some of whom came here from as far away as Ethiopia.

As we continue our descent, Mar Elisha, the monastery where the Maronites threw off ‘heresy’ and officially became Catholic, comes into view. Glommed onto the side of the cliff a hundred or so metres above the valley floor (sanctity always comes at a cost) it is a gleaming sandstone beacon in a sea of green, while above it, the snow-streaked slopes of Jabal Makmel glitter in the sun. 

When we eventually reach the bottom of the trail, my knees are rubbery from the strain. Though it’s good to be back on level ground, the trail here disappointingly gives way to a section of tarmac road but thankfully today, there is no traffic and soon, the road veers off across the valley floor and switchbacks up the opposite valley wall, our trail becoming a cool, tree-shaded dirt track, that winds along the bank of a river, which is in full post-winter flow. 

We pass several more waterfalls, including one that tumbles spectacularly from the plateau high above us and through a massive keyhole in the walls of the gorge. Qannoubine may not be pristine, but it is incredibly impressive, a kind of Lebanese Grand Canyon (though greener) that in places is almost a kilometre deep, more, if you take into consideration the height of the mountains all around us.

We begin to see some of the old hermit caves. Around 35 have been found so far, many still bearing traces of flaking murals and calligraphy, some in Arabic, but most in Syriac, Greek and, in places where Ethiopian hermits lived, Amharic, as well. There were so many Ethiopians here at one time – a Roman-era saint from Tyre is credited with the conversion, explaining the ties between the two countries – that one of the nearby monasteries was given over to them, which would no doubt surprise many contemporary Lebanese who can only conceive of Ethiopians as domestic workers. 

The trail meanders along the valley floor and we continue to lose altitude, albeit more gently. Sometimes it disappears altogether and, in a reprise of the trail to Baskinta, we end up walking along a wide concrete tube that contains sewage, rather than water. It’s old and tatty, so we have to be careful not to fall through holes in places. 

Our local guide today is every bit as annoying as Georges. Clearly, there’s something about this region and the people who live here. Elias is tall, tattooed and a native of the valley - his family is one of the few permitted to live in Qannoubine itself. This should make him the ideal person to lead us. Unfortunately, he is also very much in love with himself, and seems appears to walk with an invisible mirror suspended in front of him, so relentlessly does he preen. 

He also sings, God help us, and at the top of his voice. In this, he is aided and abetted by a handful of other walkers, amongst them the gay couple and his apparent love interest, a slightly older woman who feigns constant terror, clinging to his arm every time the slightest bump appears in the trail and screeching like a chicken being plucked, singlehandedly reversing the work of generations of feminists in the process.

Perhaps noticing the way our self-obsessed chaperone discretely but inappropriately cops a feel of Chicken Woman each time she attaches herself to him, the portlier of the two chorus queens, who is obviously interested in the one muscle Elias hasn’t yet flexed in public, attempts the same gambit. But when his second, admittedly artful attempt at a ‘stumble-and-grab’ is rewarded with a frigid glare, he dusts himself off and finds consolation in flirtation via sing-along. Between Chicken Woman, the Chorus Queen and Narcissus, we have descended to such a level of camp that this point, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Barbra Windsor come wobbling out of the undergrowth.

The sewage pipe at least is wider and flatter than the water pipe, so our walk along it proceeds at a fair pace. As we get deeper into the valley, we pass the remains of the occasional ruined home, though how old these remains may be is difficult to tell. The few hamlets permitted to exist in Qannoubine, which are quite literally no more than a couple of houses, are all along the far side of the valley, where the walls of the gorge are less sheer. 

As the trail rises from the valley floor and up into pine forests, we catch a glimpse of a number of ruins dotting the wall of the far side of the valley, amongst them the remains of Mar Semaan, the ancient Maronite patriarchate, which is built into a series of caves. We also pass beneath the remains of an old hermitage-cum-monastery just beneath the town of Hadshit, which Joseph says still had traces of 4th and 5th Century frescos the last time he was there, though as the ruins are not protected, there’s no knowing how much remains intact. Like their 18th and 19th Century European counterparts, when faced with a wall of medieval frescos, the response of too many local visitors is to carve their initials into the plaster. So much of Lebanon’s unique and impressive heritage remains undiscovered and uncatalogued, and most of what is known is unprotected. Properly managed, it would make the country far more money in the long run than pointless construction, but as the political ‘elite’ here - and indeed, in so many other countries, these days - repeatedly demonstrates, the environment and heritage are only useful in so much as they can be used for immediate profit.

Shortly before lunch, we climb up to Our Lady of Qannoubine, a monastery that was once also the seat of the Maronite Patriarch. The church is full of teenage second and third-generation Lebanese emigrants, back in the fatherland for the summer to discover their roots, but once they file out, we’re able to admire the remaining 12th century frescos (most didn’t survive the mandatory whitewashing required by Ottoman authorities), including a psychedelic number depicting St. Stephen and the Virgin. The big draw though, is the surprisingly well-preserved mummy of Patriarch Youssef Tyan in a small chapel next door to the rock-cut church. Tyan died in 1820 in an ‘odour of sanctity’ - which apparently means that his corpse emitted a ‘fragrance’ after death - and was first buried under the church, before he was later exhumed and placed on view in a glass coffin. I can’t help feeling a stab of pity. He looks good for a 200 year-old corpse, but to be place on display like a rack of lamb, seems an ignominious end.

We have lunch in a cave at one end of the monastery and then resume our walk. From here, the trail drops back down towards the river and after a while, we pass Abou Joseph, a fairly well-known restaurant, popular in summer months and at weekends, which is strangely empty today, but perhaps its still too early for lunch.

From here, we climb steeply out of Qannoubine, through a side valley and down to Fradis, a rather remote village between the two main valleys of Qadisha area. The village’s name is unusual. Some say it’s Byzantine, some that it’s Canaanite, but the most commonly accepted story is that it’s a corruption of the Persian word ferdows, or Paradise - though how a Lebanese town would end up getting a Persian name isn’t clear. The thickly forested valley it occupies certainly deserves the description, but the village itself is a cluster of fairly unattractive buildings. We make entry beside a row of animal sheds and so if this is, indeed, paradise, our first impression of it is that it smells overwhelmingly of cow shit. 

Immediately, we’re greeted by a cheekily cheerful, possibly inebriated cowherd, ciggie dangling from his lips, who insists on introducing us to his prize Frisian, which he informs us, only half mockingly, that he’s willing to sell us for a mere $2000. Gender not-withstanding, the cow is called Obama. Being no expert on the average price of milch cows in Mount Lebanon, I can’t tell whether the name has been given as homage or as a joke. Perhaps if he were to name a pig ‘Trump’, all would become clear.

Walking into the village, which is more attractive within than from without, we hear music and we stop at a rather vigorous spring to fill up. In a nearby house, there’s a party going on. The day is warm and our spirits are high - mine especially, now that Elias has stopped singing - and we begin to dance. We quickly attract attention. Some of the children at the party lean out of the window to watch and a neighbour comes out onto his porch, where he stands beaming, clapping in time and shouting ‘aiwaaiwa’ (‘that’s it, that’s it’) as we dance, until the host of the party emerges to see what the fuss is all about. 

As greetings are exchanged, we learn that his name is Richard and that the slightly sulky, sleepy-eyed little girl he’s clutching in one arm is his daughter, who has recently broken her arm. Momentarily distracted from pouting, she raises one arm, which is wrapped in a shiny new cast. Hilariously, Richard is a childhood friend of one of the women walking with us today. This leads to a great deal of hugging and cries of joy, as neither has seen the other since they were children in Guadeloupe. Of all places. Naturally, this felicitous reunion means that we’re invited to the party and we we learn that when he left Guadeloupe, Richard lived in Paris for a while, but missed the countryside and so when on a trip to Lebanon one year, he fell in love with a girl from Fradis, he decided to move with her back to her village. 

It is a classic Lebanon moment. Nowhere else would someone born in the Caribbean and brought up Paris end up in a remote mountain village, where one day, he would chance across a friend he had not seen since they were both children. I’ve witnessed so many of these unexpected encounters over the years - some less desired than others - that I’m no longer surprised by them. After all, Lebanon is a small country and the usual six degrees of separation that pertain elsewhere, are often reduced here to one, or at most two. This means that for the most part, almost everyone, from the Prime Minister to the owner of a cow called Obama, can be reached by asking friends if they know someone who knows them.

The trail calls and eventually, we are forced to make our goodbyes, with Richard and his friend vowing to remain in touch from now on and Richard’s wife inviting her and her family to ‘come for a coffee, anytime’ and we leave in flurry of goodbyes, as though we had all now become sons and daughters of Fradis.

After the fun and laughter, the stairs out of Paradise feel especially steep. We slog our way upwards dutifully, crossing the narrow road to which the stairs lead, and follow the trail upwards and over the crest of the hill, where we get our last glimpse of fragrant Fradis, already lost amongst the trees. 

Bsharre to Qozhaya  Section 7 of the LMT.  Map/Image © Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Bsharre to Qozhaya

Section 7 of the LMT.

Map/Image ©Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Chapter 28: Treasures in the Trash

Arz.jpg

We’ve been put up the Karam Hotel for two nights, as we have our second day off walking. Built back in the days when the Lebanese, and many other Arabs used to take to the mountains to escape the summer heat, sometimes spending weeks, even months at a time in their cooler confines, it doesn’t look like it has been redecorated much since 1975. 

Lebanon is chock full of hotels (and bars and restaurants and offices) that exist in a timewarp, although many fewer than when I first arrived, when it was still possible to scour rubbish dumps for almost pristine 60’s and 70’s furnishings, chucked out by families that had spent the 15 long years of the war abroad and recently returned, wished to bring their homes up-to-date.

Such were the pickings that some of the savvier local and European antiques dealers employed scouts tasked with finding thrown away Retro gems, which by the late 90’s, had once again become fashionable. A friend of mine found a warehouse full of carpets and prints by Verner Panton, which were still in their original packaging and another lucked upon a pair of mint condition Elephantau Chairs by Jean Royère, who became the subject of renewed interest after a retrospective of his work was arranged by Tom Ford. I don’t know how much he eventually sold the Royère chairs for, but the French interior design boutique that bought them from him put them on sale for $20,000. Each. 

By the time I arrived in ‘98, most of the really big finds had been found, at least the ones that were in good condition - though I did stumble across a dusty old shop in Hamra selling vintage Adidas. My own forays to the dumps netted me a set of locally-made copies of a famous late 60s Danish sofa set that were all but indistinguishable from the originals, a gorgeous pair of Finn Juhl lounge chairs (which heartbreakingly broke shortly after I had them refurbished) and a pair of low, rotating fibreglass veranda chairs straight out of Space Odyssey.

The Karam is less 50’s fabulous than 40’s Fine, with the odd anachronistic touch from the 70s and 80s thrown in for good measure. The rooms are spare, but spacious and although the dining terrace overlooks the main road – even today, many Lebanese restaurants tend to face towards the flow of traffic, rather than the view, to make them look more popular and enticing – it proves to be a pleasant enough place to while away the hours.

Not that I get much chance to do that, as the following morning, just after I’ve finished washing my clothes and tended to my emails, my friend Mouna arrives with camera crew in tow. We are going to fake part of the walk up around Al Arz, and then shoot an interview, which we plan to add to the shots I’ve been filming along the way, in the hopes of making a short documentary, a taster that we can later use to see if there’s any interest in turning the walk into a TV series.

On the drive up, Mouna tells me about a local family, the Aridas of Berqasha, who owned silver mines in Mexico in the early decades of the Twentieth Century. In her declining years, the matriarch of the family, who had remained in Bsharreh, summoned her descendants back to Lebanon, where they disembarked some time in the 1940’s laden with so many belongings that they had to hire a mule caravan to carry their luggage up the narrow, twisting trail to the village. Fresh out of Mexico City, a wealthy and cosmopolitan city at the time, and returning in the style to which silver barons must have been accustomed, the long, dusty trek up into Mount Lebanon probably had Arida fils wondering what the hell kind of hick country their grandmother called home. Clannish even today, in the 1940s, this part of the country must have been suffocatingly close, especially to people brought up in a bustling city, and one can only imagine the whispering that must have accompanied (and succeeded) such a theatrical arrival.

I experience a faint echo of that notoriety as I return to the Karam late in the afternoon, trailing clouds of glamour, as the appearance of a film crew that morning had not gone unnoticed, but any baronial pretensions I may effect are quickly quashed by the discovery that tonight, I will have roommates, from the looks of them, an older, closeted gay couple. 

I wake slightly tired, as the older half of the couple spent much of the night loudly, if mellifluously snoring. Breakfast is unusually sparse, or possibly just normal. If one thing has been a constant along the trail, it is the effusive hospitality of our hosts, who have always presented us with far more food than we could possibly consume. 

We get off to a delayed start, and as it is Friday, we have been joined by a number of day walkers, and so we are now a group of 20-odd. I still haven’t quite managed to get used to these weekend influxes, which dilutes the dynamic built up during the week, when we return to our core group of four. But it is fun to see fresh, eager faces and now, 21 days in, watching them strain impatiently to get going reminds me of that first, bright morning in Marjayoun, which already feels like a thousand miles and many years ago. 

Thankfully, we skip the long climb out of town along the tarmac and are bussed to the start of the trail. Having walked down that part of the trail, I can't say I'm heartbroken. It is very hot today, and nothing would be less fun than walking with cars for the first twenty minutes.

We’ve been told to be careful with our water, as there are few potable sources of water along today’s route, which begins deep in farmland, where we walk through terraces of cherries, apples and pears. The trail is good and surprisingly flat, once we’ve made our ascent, but as it is quite hazy, the normally stunning view is somewhat diminished. We can already see the entirety of today’s trail, which will lead us around the high cirque at the top of the Qannoubine Valley before swinging around the other side of the valley, where we will drop down to Bsharreh, which is almost directly opposite Bazaoun. 

The view for most of the day will be of the wall of brownish-grey peaks around the cirque, which give onto a stark and otherworldly high-altitude plateau and the underwhelming ‘peak’ of Qornet el Sawda, the highest point in the Middle East, which tops out at 3088 metres. Mind-bogglingly, the Martian-like terrain of the plateau is being touted as the future location of an überdeluxe ‘resort’ for the überwealthy – the kind of people who travel everywhere by helicopter. Naturally. The fact that should this ‘resort’ ever be built, it would pollute one of Lebanon’s main water sources, not to mention ruin the pristine landscape, just to permit a clutch of billionaires to ‘live’ there for a couple of weekends a year, apparently is not a consideration.

As we climb steeply up through the fields above Bqaa Kafra, at 1650m, Lebanon’s highest continually-inhabited village. Al Arz/The Cedars (or to give them their full name, The Cedars of the Lord) come into view as a patch of dark green in the middle of the vast bowl-like cirque, and we begin to drop down, reaching the outskirts of the reserve at almost the exact spot where Mouna and I were filming the day before. Today, we have to circumnavigate a broken main, which is spewing water wastefully into the air. Ageing infrastructure accounts for almost 50% of water loss in Lebanon, a country that increasingly runs dry each summer, despite being most water-rich nation in the Middle East.

The reserve is still protected by a stone wall that was paid for by Queen Victoria, who had a soft-spot for Lebanese cedars and is credited with starting the craze for them in Britain, where the wetter, cooler climate results in faster-growing, though much shorter lived trees. The ones here in The Cedars are amongst the oldest in Lebanon, the largest of which are several thousand years old.

While the wall looks almost as ancient as the tress, it does keep the reserve tidy, which is more than can be said for the area immediately around it, which is awash in rubbish and rubble from construction and new roads. As sights go, this one is sad and desolate and I can only hope that the next time I visit the Cedars, I won’t have to hunt for them in the middle of some flashy, gated country club.

Inside the reserve, ur-Lebanon reasserts itself and as we are directed to a spot to sit and have lunch by the ghastly Rudy Rahme statue carved out of the remains of an ancient cedar that died after it was struck by lightning in the 90's (an ignominious end for such a venerable elder, on both accounts), the glimpses of snow-streak mountains between the trees, the chatter of birdsong and the delicate scent of cedar on the breeze makes it possible to forget the chaos that surrounds us.

After lunch, we wander around the reserve. As one of Lebanon’s top attractions, I’ve been to The Cedars countless times with friends and visitors but despite this, it’s even more beautiful than I remember. The only source of irritation today is our local guide, Georges, who doesn't seem to be fully in control of the gaggle of hikers he’s inherited for the next two days.

We’ve been joined by local guides periodically along the trail. Most are fairly new at the job and so getting them to lead allows Joseph and Robin to determine whether they know what they are doing, where they are going, and what they are talking about. 

Georges does not and we are repeatedly forced to wait for him to show us the way, not because he is a slow walker, but because he is easily distracted by the sight of bouncing breasts, of which today there are a surfeit. One particularly galling wait occurs as we are forced out of Eden and onto the busy, ugly road outside the reserve, where for no discernible reason we stand waiting sullenly until Georges remembers he’s supposed to be in charge and finally leads us into the rolling hills on the other side of the row of roadside shops, all selling things that were probably recherché in the 1850’s, but which today, no one seems to want. How any of them make a living is anyone’s best guess. 

Like the low hills on the other side of the reserve, the land here is disfigured by new roads and plots for holiday chalets, and we discover that last year’s track has once again become a freshly-tarmacked road. Hot, dusty and for some reason full of flies, it feels like we’re walking through the Valley of Death but after a while, we follow a trail beside a sign pointing to Cedar Heaven, a restaurants/resort above us that somewhat ironically, turns out to be located next to a new industrial estate. 

Perched on the edge of a cliff, the rather melancholy restaurant may not be the first place I’d go to have a meal, but it is blessed with an absolutely jaw-dropping view out over Qannoubine and what appears to be half of the Middle East.

As we wait for all the hikers to catch up, we sprawl in the deserted rockery-cum-garden and I strike up a conversation with one of the day-walkers, an English woman called Lauren, who has apparently chosen to study Arabic in Tyre. As we chat, she tells me that her landlord is convinced that she’s a spy. Having been accused of that myself on a number of occasions – though mostly for being a journalist, rather than for being a foreigner - I can see why a man from Southern Lebanon, a place that has seen more than its share of suspicious foreign visitors in the recent past, might make such an assumption, especially with the presence of a large corps of UN staff and soldiers billeted in the town. His frank appraisal of her doesn’t seem to have put him off and Lauren credits much of her Arabic ability to the conversations she’s had with his family at the many home-cooked meals to which she has been invited.

There is a large metal cross at the far end of the garden, which apparently marks the trail down to Bsharreh. It is a steep and in places rather tricky descent, that leads past a large, heavily eroded obelisk that sits above four rock-cut Phoenician tombs, but half of the trail has been obliterated by a massive landslide, so we are forced to make a short, and even steeper detour along rocky goat tracks. 

When we reach the bottom of the trail, we follow a rocky riverbed down to a dirt road, at the end of which waits our bus. From here, the only way into the town is along a busy main road, and while getting onto a bus does feel a bit like cheating, it beats dodging traffic.

We stop off at the Khalil Gibran museum, a collection of the writer’s personal belongings; books, minor antiquities and furniture, as well as a rather nice Armenian tapestry of Christ, and a collection of the author’s paintings, a few of which are interesting in a Blakeish kind of way. Gibran, a native of Bsharreh, is also buried here, which is surprising given the disdain for the town and its people that is evident in his work, but when one is the author of the second biggest-selling book in the English language (The Prophet is beaten only by the Bible), one can be snippy, and still end up a hero.

Bazaoun to Bsharreh  Section 8 of the LMT.  Map/Image © Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Bazaoun to Bsharreh

Section 8 of the LMT.

Map/Image ©Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Chapter 27: Of Cedars, Ascetics and McMansions

Baz.jpg

After nineteen days of walking, the last of my blackened nails, infected during the first two days of the walk because I wasn’t tying my boots properly, finally drops off.

I’m left with three very pink unprotected toes on my right foot and two on my left, including the big toe on both feet. A couple of the nail-less toes have toughened up sufficiently that they’re no longer irritated by socks, but I make sure to wrap the other three up in cotton pads and gauze. Won’t do to have my now naked toes getting re-infected.

On the plus side, I no longer creak when I get out of bed in the morning and it doesn’t take me quite as long to recover at the end of the day. Having two trekking poles has helped. Stubbornly, I only used one for the first two days and broke the second stick when I used it for the first time on the third day, and so had to buy a replacement when I popped down to Beirut on our day off in Dahr el-Baidar. 

Since then, I’ve been walking with both sticks and it’s done wonders. I admit to being resistant. The poles are a bit awkward until you get a rhythm going and using them felt like a concession to age that ego wouldn’t permit me to make at first. Now, having walked with and without them, I’m a convert. Helpful at keeping you steady while you navigate rocky terrain, proving leverage/stability as you clamber up or down rocks, they’re also cracking during long descents, when they prevent your toes from being hammered against your boot caps…

Perhaps I’d have lost fewer nails if I’d just used them from the start.

Today, I’ve decided to take the morning off. When we arrived in Tannourine the previous evening, we were whisked off from the head of the trail in pick-up trucks to a B&B not far from the cedar reserve, which is a fair way above the town. In the interests of hiking the entire trail, Joseph and some of the others have decided to return to where we left off yesterday and hike back up to the reserve. 

Frankly, I can’t be bothered and and so together with three other hikers, including the only other through-walker, Salam, I trundle off to the reserve to enjoy a morning amongst the cedars, while we wait for the four other walkers to catch up.

I love the reserve in Tannourine, though not as extensive as the one in the Shouf, the topography here is more charming. Perhaps because it is hemmed in on either side by the hilly landscape, as you wind up and down the trails that run amongst the towering trees, it’s possible to imagine that this is not just some enchanted grove and that beyond the reserve’s borders, the ancient woodlands that once covered these mountains still extend towards infinity.

When the walkers eventually arrive two hours later than anticipated, Salam’s husband Alfred looks exhausted. To my surprise, Joseph, who has been requesting regular updates about the progress of my blackening toenails, tells me that I should consider skipping the afternoon walk too, as the trail will be tough on my toes. I tell him that I'll think about it but when I turn up ready to go after a quick lunch, I think he's surprised, and possibly a little impressed. 

With Barbie gone - back to her all-pink beach house, no doubt - we’ve been joined by Sami, an older and somewhat severe man in his late 60’s, who keeps his own company and prefers to maintain a slower pace, and so I find that for the afternoon, I'm walking in the lead, rather than lagging behind. 

The climb out of the reserve is steep but not impossible and after about an hour, we reach the highlands of Jabal Mar Semaan, a mountain named after the church on top of it that is dedicated to the 5th Century anchorite, Semaan al-Almoudi. Though the view is not especially memorable – at least not yet - the terrain is so high and the vista so open that it is only fitting the mountain be named after a Syriac ascetic who spent the last 37 years of his life living on top of a series of old Roman columns. 

Though he began modestly - his first perch was just 3 metres off the ground - Semaan’s daring grew and his last perch, on which he died, was 15 metres off the ground, which ensured that he was exposed to the full rigors of a northern Syrian climate; sun, rain, dust, wind and snow. Known in English as Simeon Stylite, the hermit originally took to a pillar to escape the people who flocked to him for advice. The strategy backfired, somewhat as the sight of an ascetic atop a pillar began to draw the curious, as well as the Christian. As the crowds grew, he was forced to find ever taller columns, which only brought in larger crowds. The higher he rose, the smaller his living space grew. In the end, Semaan lived on a platform less than a metre square, his food and water hoisted up to him in a bucket, his bodily wastes similarly hoisted down. A low balustrade prevented him from rolling off when he slept, which apparently wasn’t very much of the time. 

Even perched 15 metres above the ground, he couldn’t entirely escape and eventually, he began to give afternoon sermons to gain himself peace for the rest of the day. Despite this flaw, Semaan’s fame inspired copycats. Over the course of the next couple of centuries, Stylites popped up on columns, some purpose built, all over the Levant and Greece, and the trend even made it to the much chillier wastes of Orthodox Russia, where freezing on top of a column apparently remained in vogue until the 15th Century, which probably says as much about Russian sensibility as it does about Russian devotion.

Even in places where the climate was more benign, some Stylites felt it wasn’t sufficiently mortifying to sit on a column, and so stood upright instead. One such, Saint Alypius of Paphlagonia, a region on what is now Turkey’s Black Sea Coast, stood for 53 years, even sleeping upright and when he was no longer able to stand, he chose to remain aloft and lay on one side for another 14 years until he eventually died. I suspect that this desire to get high was in some ways metaphorical, as well as literal. isolation and self-abnegation have been used as universal tools to unlock the metaphysical, which makes me wonder how many of the 53 years Alypius spent up, he spent tripping.

Of course, a desire to escape the madding crowds probably factored into the decision to take to a pillar. No stranger to misanthropy myself, I can see the appeal of removing oneself from the world - especially one in which it now seems likely that however briefly, Boris Johnson may become Prime Minister. Though were I to take to column one day, I’d plan to have a larger and better sheltered platform, either located much, much further from people, or else properly sound-proofed. And with excellent wifi.

We wend our way across the hillside along goat tracks. The going is good, if a bit slippery at times, both as a result of the rocky terrain and the profusion of gurgling snowmelt springs that have turned stretches of the trail into deep pools of icy water and expanses of sticky mud.

For a while, I lose the track. I’m quite a bit ahead of the guides and the blazing here has either been obscured or else has faded, but after a bit of a scout, I find the signs again and follow the trail around the mountain, where the nondescript view abruptly gives way to a jaw-dropping panorama of the Qannoubine Valley below us, and to the right, the bowl of snow-streaked mountains that wrap around the famous grove of ancient cedars up at Al Arz. 

On this side of the mountain, rivulets of water race down the slopes from patches of snow above us, making vast meltwater pools along the trail. A few hundred metres on, we come to a long, dusty finger of snow that runs all the way down to trail. Gleefully, for it is quite hot, I scoop up a handful of glittering ice crystals, and plop it on my hat. Though now I have my ersatz A/C back, I find it's less needed, as we’ve risen high enough that the temperature has fallen quite sharply, sun now obscure by high altitude clouds.

As we begin another long climb, we pass by new construction of some kind. There’s no road nearby, so I can only hope it's for agricultural terraces rather than a building, for once one of those appears, others inevitably and rapidly, proliferate, as the ‘development’ of the road that rises up from Jounieh to Harissa demonstrates so depressingly.

On the mountains behind Al Arz, I notice a series of high-altitude terraces, covered in lines of green fuzz. The trees are far too high up to be fruit-bearing, and Salam later tells me that they are cedar saplings, part of the reforestation project that aims to link the grove at Al Arz with the reserve at Tannourine. Passing a massive reservoir, by far the largest we've seen along the entire trail so far, we slowly rise upwards to about the 1900-metre mark, not high enough to see over the mountains on the far side of the valley, but enough to feel like we are alone in the world. 

Lebanon is a small, and quite crowded country, the majority of its four or (if you count the Syrian refugees) six million inhabitants are squeezed into the narrow coastal plains and increasingly wash up into the lower reaches of Mount Lebanon. This means that the impression most visitors, and indeed residents get, is of a single strip city that with a few gaps here or there, runs almost from the Syrian to the Israeli border. 

As development follows the roads, even as you drive up to the ski resorts at Faraya for example, you never entirely feel that you’ve left the city behind. But get off the roads, or look out of the window as you fly from Beirut over the mountains heading east, and you realise just how much of the country (thankfully) still remains untouched.

It is these moments of boundlessness that I am finding so rejuvenating. Even when the trail isn’t particularly beautiful, just being outdoors and alone, far enough from ‘civilisation’ to ignore it, is an intoxicating experience, so blissful that at times, it is almost overwhelming. For here, in these hills that are forever in view from the bustling coast below, another world somehow still lives on, one that runs on a different clock. Even now, as metastasising villages and holiday resorts gobble up wild hillsides that were still virgin when I first arrived, paving over raw beauty in a tsunami of shisha bars playing hishik bishik music, mini-malls and fast food joints, ugly apartments and litter-lined roads, a culturally richer and infinitely more interesting, not to mention breathtakingly beautiful Lebanon survives, a country that appears have no connection with the one below.

The red tiled roofs of Hasroun, the village next to where we'll be spending the next two nights, for as Day 20 approaches, we have another day of liberty to hand, come into sight far below us. It’s become quite chilly and so I scrape the remaining snow off my cap, wishing I'd brought a light vest of some kind, but soon enough, we begin our winding, tortuous descent and I quickly shrug off the cold. 

As we drop down, we end up walking through apple orchards and for the first time, I am able to smell their scent. Soft petals dance on the breeze and skitter across the trail in swirls of white, reminding me of Japan at the end of cherry blossom season, when the wind blows the blossoms off the trees, creating sakura-fubuki, brief ‘snowstorms’ of pink petals, and deep, downy drifts of fallen flowers.

For the most part, the descent is easy, although the last half takes us onto tarmac. It seems the farm road here has been ‘improved’. Just on the outskirts of Hasroun, we pass through a field dotted with wild tulips, which I had no idea were native to Lebanon. Joseph and Robin talk animatedly about what they’re looking forward to eating later and my stomach growls in sympathy.

On the edge of Haroun, we walk past an unfinished house that is large enough to make the most egregious American McMansion look like a studio in Ikebukuro. 

Judging by the supersized portico, forest of faux Corinthian columns and massive statue niches on the road, it has been modelled after a Roman temple but looking at it, it is difficult to imagine how this unfinished monument to overweening self-regard could ever become a home. Even by nouveau standards, it is so wildly out of proportion with its surroundings that it is probably visible from space. This is not some cosy familial retreat, but rather the shell of some Las Vegas casino or Bugis Street brothel, Pablo Escobar’s Lebanese hideaway, Hef’s second Playboy Mansion. 

It is every bit as inconspicuous as it is understated, and as we pause to gawk, and giggle, I wonder what statues the two massive niches on either side of the driveway are destined eventually hold - the owner and his wife, perhaps dressed in togas? As we joke that the owners will probably need to cover the walls with every hamsa in Lebanon just to keep the evil eye at bay, a car drives by, and both the driver and his passenger spit out of the window as they pass the house. 

It’s clear that Bazaoun is wealthy. The homes are beautifully restored, the old Ottoman lion head drinking fountain works and the streets are tidy and neatly planted. Cars tend towards the more expensive and the few people we see wandering around look well-heeled. Apparently it has grown rich on money made in West Africa, where Lebanese emigrants have worked for generations, some of them in less than licit trades, such as blood diamonds. 

Hasroun is pretty but with a massive new highway is being built to link the coast to Bsharreh, a town further up the valley which is home to one of Lebanon’s warlord-politicians, Samir Geagea, it might not be for much longer. We enter Hasroun proper, passing a number of lovely old traditional sandstone villas and then a mansion, the usual red-roofed Italianate beauty but with slight Place des Vosges pretensions, in the form of two beautifully carved, lichen spackled stone lions guarding impressive curlicued iron gates. 

A little further on, we reach Bazaoun, our final destination. Like the cities strung along the coast, these two villages on the lip of the vertiginous Qannoubine Valley have run out of room to expand and now bleed into one another. We only know we’ve passed from one to the other thanks to a large sign stretched across the main road simultaneously wishing us a pleasant onward journey from Hasroun and a warm welcome to Bazaoun. There's an old home right on the boundary line and I joke that maybe the owners can probably sleep in Hasroun and eat in Bazaoun. Robin says that in that case, maybe they pay two municipal taxes, as well. The thought is hilarious and we both laugh. Not at the thought that a single house might be subject to tax in two municipalities, but because as we both know, most Lebanese do their level best to pay no municipal tax anywhere at all.

Tannourine to Bazaoun  Section 9 of the LMT.  Map/Image © Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Tannourine to Bazaoun

Section 9 of the LMT.

Map/Image ©Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

 

Chapter 26: Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

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In retrospect, much of today is awful, though it begins pleasantly enough.

As we stroll through the sleepy village of Aaqoura, which we learned the day before has more churches than inhabitants, at least during the week, we’re treated to an explanation for the surfeit, which apparently has less to do with devotion than it does deep pockets and family feuds. 

Apparently there are 42, in addition to rock-cut chapels, one of which was originally a Roman temple, that pepper the surrounding hills and the village is known for having one of the oldest churches in the country (and hence, the world), the 4th Century chapel of Sts. Peter and Paul, which was built into a tomb once reserved for Astarte’s priests. It’s also home to a cluster that date back to the Middle Ages, though the process of constant renovation and repainting, as well as the forced whitewashing of many church murals during the Ottoman period, means that few Levantine churches look their actual age. Most of the 42 are more modern though, built in the last 200 years.

Like many Lebanese villages, Aaqoura has a long history of emigration and it was remittances flowing in from far-off lands that first fuelled the church building. As in many other faiths, one way a sinful Christian can guarantee themselves a better place in the afterlife is to build a house of worship; a chapel or, if they have heavier amends to make, a church. 

It isn’t unusual for even the smallest village to have several churches, as Lebanese Christians come in 12 officially recognised denominations, and each prefers to have their own church. Intractable divisions, another feature of Lebanese and particularly Lebanese village life, also helped add houses of the holy as families splintered, building their own church or chapel, so that they didn’t have to bend head (or knee) with cousins, brothers, aunts or grandparents to whom they no longer spoke. Throw in a dash of remittance-fuelled ‘keeping up with the Khourys’ and you have on your hands a boom.

Regardless of their reasons, the church-building Aaqourans of yesteryear have left quite the architectural legacy, everything from the traditional to the contemporary, though I imagine that come Sunday, when its bells start to toll, the village isn’t as quiet as it is this morning.

We’ve barely left the last houses behind when we’re forced to find a new route. The trail has been completely washed away by a winter landslide, when one of the medium-sized water reservoirs that dot the apple orchards above the village to burst its walls.

Our only option is to take to the old road out of town. Not only will this add 4km to what is already going to be quite a long day, but it's mostly tarmac and concrete and very, very vertical. For a while, the gorgeous views back across the village and the massive escarpment that towers above it help but even so, we’re off to a gruelling start.

Once we get back into the apple orchards, the going become more pleasant. Still, we’ve got close to a two-hour climb ahead of us, as we are headed for the outskirts of the ski resort up at Laqlouq, which is 800 metres above Aaqoura. When we finally make it to the top of the mountain, (in my case, without my favourite sunglasses, which I manage to lose somewhere along the way) dusty and sweaty from a relentless uphill slog on what is the hottest day so far, we are treated to a last, utterly breath-taking view over the lovely Afqa Valley, by far my favourite stretch of the trail since we left the Beka’a.  

As we enter the outskirts of Laqlouq, I notice a brightly painted truck parked outside a shuttered house. Lebanon has its own tradition of painted trucks, neither as spectacularly decorated or as large as their South Asian counterparts, but still quite endearing. Most look similar and I’ve often wondered if they’re the work of the same small group of painters. The paintings are a mixture of warnings to keep one’s distance and naive tableaux, the most popular of which are sunsets, the seaside or nature in all its glory, the latter especially ironic when the truck is being used to haul rocks from the illegal quarries eating up the mountains. Most are also emblazoned with supplications to the Divine, perhaps in the hope that however recklessly one drives, God or at least one of their saints, will be flattered into co-piloting. 

Inside the cabin, the religious décor often continues with miniature qu’rans, crosses, amulets, prayer beads, nazars (the blue eye), hamsas (the Hand of Fatima), zulfikars (the sword of Ali ibn Abi Talib, a Shi’ite symbol) and Druze stars, which depending on the driver’s affiliation and fervour, hang from the rear-view mirror and sometimes decorate the dashboard, as well.

Common to them all is a panel painted in the colours of the national flag, complete with a lovely cedar in the centre. Though clearly an expression of vehicular nationalism, as I walk past it today, the panel serves as a subtle reminder that were it not for incredible initiatives like the Shouf Biosphere, which we spent three days walking through earlier, and the Tannourine Reserve, which we will reach in a day’s time, as well as the Million Tree Corridor, which will eventually link the cedar grove of Al Arz with the forest in Tannourine, we would all be that much closer to a future in which, thanks to climate change, pests and reckless environmental degradation, a panel on a painted truck may one day be the only place to see good old Cedrus Libani in its country of origin.

We’ve barely crested when we’re taken on another short climb up a steep, and in my opinion, entirely avoidable hill. Muttering under my breath, I’m momentarily appeased when, as we crest the hill, we’re faced with a glittering expanse of white, a large and very deep drift of snow that has somehow managed to linger. We crunch our way across, occasionally sinking to knee height and crossing the road at the drift’s base, reach the spring at Ain al-Abiad. 

Out of season, winter prematurely over and summer yet to arrive, Laqlouq feels post-apocalyptic, with boarded-up buildings and uncollected rubbish drifting across flyblown streets. We refill our bottles from the spring, the water, fresh from the slopes above, barely a degree or two above freezing. Though it would be difficult to describe the stop as picturesque, it is welcome, and I take the opportunity to wash off the dust and thoroughly soak my hat and t-shirt, to cool off.

As we relax for a while by the spring, Robin trots off and returns with a carrier bag full of snow, which he’s dug out from beneath the icy crust of the drift. He breaks out a bottle of rose syrup and adds a glug to the snow and voilà, we have our first taste of a traditional delight known as Ba'sama.

The syrup, which turns a bright orange when mixed with the snow, is far too sweet for my tastes, but I can imagine that made with Mulberry syrup, or a bit of pomegranate molasses, it might be quite lovely. I notice that everyone else is just as delighted as I am by the experience. Ba'sama is a forgotten treat in these days of refrigeration and ice cream, but there's something quite exciting, renegade almost, about eating and drinking from the wild, and we’ve happily munched our way north, snacking on herbs, fruit and other edible plants on our way. I’m reminded that much as the UK used to import chunks of Canadian lake ice in the 18th and 19th centuries, the snows of Lebanon were once wrapped in straw and shipped from Byblos and Batroun to the imperial courts of Memphis and Thebes, where the Egyptian god-kings used it to keep their honeyed drinks cool. Though the illusion is difficult to maintain when tattered plastic bags and discarded cigarette cartons skitter across the road in the breeze, I do briefly feel like a pharaoh.

Leaving Ain al-Abiad, we walk through a plantation of sickly young cedar saplings that look like they might not last the summer, and then through limestone uplands to reach what until the previous year had been a very old Maronite church. Recently renovated to within an inch of its life, the evocative traces of centuries of devotion have been comprehensively erased, taking with it the building’s erstwhile charm, so that we are left with yet another ancient building that looks like it was built yesterday - a curious irony in one of the longest continually inhabited regions in the world.

We set off towards the stunning sinkhole at Baatara, where a waterfall plunges through a partially collapsed three-layered cavern. The trail to the sinkhole is quite steep and follows a fairly narrow path but after a number of pauses, we get there just before two in the afternoon and after having a quick look - Baatara is one of Lebanon’s natural wonders and I’ve been a million times, but it never fails to impress - I use the opportunity to sprawl beneath nearby trees and have a quick snooze. 

After lunch, the going gets really tricky. We clamber out of the valley the sinkhole lies in along a rocky goat track, which soon leads us into a treacherous, ankle-turning landscape of sharp karstic limestone rocks, over and between which we are forced to scramble. After an hour and a half, during which we barely cover a kilometre, the track finally opens out and descends sharply into a lush, grassy valley. 

As the rest of the group is still picking its way through the limestone maze, we pause to allow them to catch up, enjoying the gentle flicker of the cool breeze across sun-redenned faces and limbs. As I lounge in the flower filled meadow, my eyes are drawn further down the valley to an old Lebanese home or rather, to a new Lebanese home, complete with triple arched mandaloon windows and Marseilles tile roof, which has been built in traditional style. 

Perched on a rocky outcrop, it has the air of a castle, dominating its surroundings as completely as any Crusader, Assassin or Mamluk fortress and that looks quite capable of controlling the valley below it. Joseph later tells us that it belongs to an officer in the Lebanese army. A rather well-paid army officer, judging by its size. 

The rest of the walkers arrive and we set off again through a narrow, plunging river valley. The scenery is stunning but the track is awkward and slippery, and I fall twice, adding to the ma of cuts and bruises spreading across my body.

Having wound our way slowly down to the river, we cross it carefully and then inevitably, begin the steep climb the other side, to emerge in Chatine, another one of those mountain villages that only fill up at the weekend. It’s packed full of lovely old Lebanese homes, a number of which are abandoned and falling apart and as usual, the sight of them gets me to daydreaming about buying one and doing it up, which of course I could, if I had a million or so dollars to spare. Decay, in Lebanon, inevitably comes with an eye-watering a price tag.

One though, a spectacular ruin at the end of a narrow dirt track on the far edge of Chatine, might almost be worth the money. Removed from the rest of the village, it sits in splendid isolation on a spur of land formed as the side valley Chatine occupies joins the main valley that runs up to the town of Tannourine el Faouqa, where we’ll be stopping for the day. Jutting out into the void, the spur commands uninterrupted views out over the steep, thickly forested valleys and up to the snow-capped mountains that rise above Tannourine, the ruined house sailing on a sea of green.

Thankfully, for as we paused briefly in Chatine, there had been dark talk of still having nine kilometres walk ahead, our stop for the night comes into view. All we have to do is wind our way down to the bottom of the valley and then back up the other side, and we’re done, the by now traditional end to the day, which inevitably begin and end with a steep ascent. It’s been a long, hot day and I’m exhausted, but with the pinkish glow of the setting sun on the snowy mountains ahead lighting our way through the deepening dusk, I feel a sudden burst of energy. Today has been endless and I’m grimier than usual. I’m in need of a shower and a nice cool drink, and I can’t wait to free my poor feet from the Iron Maiden embrace of my battered boots.

Aaqoura to Tannourine  Section 10 of the LMT.  Map/Image © Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Aaqoura to Tannourine

Section 10 of the LMT.

Map/Image ©Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Chapter 24: As We Have Always Done

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Barbie is bobbing along the track ahead. I suspect Robin may have the hots for her, as I noticed him rubbing her foot as I passed by the lounge on the way to bed the night before. His ministrations obviously worked for today, she’s even pinker and more bouncy than ever.

As we swing around to the opposite side of the valley, our walk at first is uninteresting, as it is fairly flat and takes us mostly through orchards. Up above us, the streaks of snow on the peaks make me think of the whorls of vanilla between the stripes of chocolate on a Cornetto. Rarely have the slopes of Faraya looked so toothsome.

We pass another mazar, or commemorative shrine, this one complete with photos and a statue of Mary on top. It was put up in memory of a young woman who fell off the cliff here. Like the others we’ve seen along the way, public memorials commemorating a private loss, it is an invitation to pause and give thanks that one is still alive.

The view this morning is back across the valley and up at the escarpment we walked along yesterday. It’s nice but not breath-taking, although in places, long plumes of water fall from crevices in the opposing cliff wall, temporary waterfalls that will dry up once the snow has all melted. They are too far away to hear, but further along, a low buzzing fills the air as we pass rows of brightly painted hives, which reminded me of rows of beach huts.

Honey is produced all over the country. It’s made from orange blossom in the south, from cedar and mountain flowers in Mount Lebanon and from pine in the Beka’a - though now that someone in France has trained bees to make honey from cannabis plants, there are parts of the Valley that might want to get in on a more lucrative kind of sweetener.

These bees are feeding off wild thyme and rosemary and it has them buzzing about us. As a face full of stings is not the way I want to start my day, I keep a respectful distance. Even so, I attract a number of curious drones, which crawl on my arms and ears as I crouch to take a photo of the hives with the mountains behind. They seem to be trying to find out if I am salty or sweet, but when I don’t deliver up any pollen, fly off peacefully. 

Curiously, despite the relatively poor state of Lebanon’s environment and especially the widespread use of pesticides, the illicit dumping of toxins and the abundance of cell towers, colony collapse does not appear to have made it to these shores. I make a mental note to ask someone about that later, perhaps Robin, but of course, I forget. 

As we pass near the village of Hrajel, once the site of a large Roman encampment, we peel off up into a small wadi that leads off the main valley, which is a panorama of horizontal lines, created by steep rows of terraces. 

There are a scatter of buildings and from their condition, it seems we’re walking through a fairly poor area, but amazingly, even this nothing of a hamlet has its own tiny church. It barely has room for a pew but does have an absolutely enormous statue of Mar Sharbel outside. 

Complete with black robes and long, white beard, Sharbel is one of a number of Lebanese saints canonised by Rome in recent decades,and was born in one of the highest and most isolated villages in Lebanon, Bkaa Kafra, much further to the north. He’s widely venerated, with statues of him appearing almost as frequently as those of Elijah, who is popular with the Greek Orthodox. Somewhat comically, the statue is almost as large as the church. 

It’s a lovely day and the little wadi is quite beautiful, if dusty. There is a cluster of isolated farmsteads a little further along the track, and I assume the church must be theirs. If the name of the sweet and fast-flowing freshwater spring where we stop at to fill up is any indication, the hamlet is either inhabited by a single family or by people who know each other very, very well, for it is called Ain Ana, a rather unusual name that translates simply as ‘My Spring’. As there is no indication of who the ‘Me’ in question might be, it’s safe to assume this is not something the locals need explaining.

As we reach the end of the wadi, we have a short but steep climb to the plateau above. It’s lush and green and quite lovely, until we start to encounter the tell-tale colourful cartridge casings that indicate hunters frequent the area. As we turn a corner, we stumble onto their ‘camp’, a rotting sofa under a tattered plastic tarp, with piles of rubbish strewn everywhere, empty bottles of booze and hundreds, possibly thousands of spent cartridges on the ground. 

My blood boils. Bird hunting is big across the Middle East, much of it carried out illegally, out of season. Lebanon is a particular offender. It lies along a major migratory route and every year, some gurning idiot posts a picture of his ‘great kills’ on Facebook; tiny dead bodies, and some large ones, laid out on the bonnet of his souped-up BMW - though this happens less frequently now that some of them are being tracked down and prosecuted.

It would be one thing if the birds and other animals were being killed for food, but most of the time it’s for sport. Though how much actual ‘sport’ is involved in sitting on shit-stained sofas, getting hammered and shooting anything that moves, is beyond my comprehension. Hunters claim to love the outdoors and nature, though the condition in which they leave their sites would suggest otherwise. This is such a beautiful spot, but now, like so many others, it has been utterly despoiled. 

Further on, we walk past a shooting range/resort, empty for the season, bullet holes peppering a sign for an organic farm nearby. Talk about scary neighbours. The lodge, which is built completely out of scale to its surroundings, is unfinished and ugly, but does at least have spectacular views and as we come over crest of the mountain, my breath is momentarily taken. The Adonis Valley of old stretches out before us in a magnificent 180 degree panorama. 

Walking on we leave death behind us, and climb up and wind through grassy meadows, sprinkled with wildflowers to an abandoned shepherd's hut. Long and rectangular and made of stone, it has a few small openings for windows and a flat, compressed earth roof. It’s remarkably contemporary. Enlarge the openings and replace the metal window grilles with expanses of sliding glass and this would be the perfect Modernist getaway – further reminder that the mid-century Minimalism of Gropius, Corbusier, Van der Rohe et al was inspired by the simple cubic structures of traditional Middle Eastern architecture.

It appears to be abandoned and I remark to Robin that it would make a rather lovely addition to the Lebanon Mountain Trail. An overnight stop perhaps, or somewhere to enjoy lunch. 

That we do in the grassy meadows next to a small Shi’ite shrine a little further ahead, as the call to prayer echoes around us from the village of Afqa below, an incongruous sound in what is now, with a few exceptions, the solidly Christian uplands. 

We are permitted a short nap and the welcome opportunity to free toes from boots, which is made all the more delicious by the delicate play of light across my face and the rustle of wind through the branches of the apple tree under which I am sprawled.

It’s a short break though, and with several hours still to go, we pack up and continue onwards, entering the top end of the Adonis Valley, proper. The mountains here are covered in juniper, which can grow as high as 2400 metres and may once have grown even higher. Something about the lines of greenery and snow, and the shape of the mountains make it looks as though we are somewhere in the Rockies, or the Dolomites. 

Scrambling up a small hill, Robin points towards the far end of our route, where the top of the massive cave known somewhat disarmingly as the Afqa Grotto, can be seen. We’re here to take a look at a curious Roman inscription carved into a rock on the side of the hill, which is thought to mark the end of something, an ancient municipal boundary of some kind, lost to the passage of time.

The sun is hot and there’s no shade. From the Rockies, we pass into Arizona, as temperatures rise and every footfall creates clouds of dust. The valley won’t be pristine for much longer, as the tell-tale traces of construction suggest, but a few sweaty kilometres later, we arrive at the mouth of grotto and the source of the Ibrahim River, which at this time of year is fat and furious, fed by melting snow. The roar the river makes as it plunges out of the grotto cascading through rocks to a second fall into a deep, deliciously clear pool, is deafening.

I’ve never seen the grotto at this time of year. Afqa has usually been a mid-summer visit; a chance to escape from the heat of the coast, by which time the flow is much less fierce. By late June or July, it’s quite easy to get deep into the grotto and, should the mood take you, walk from this side of Mount Lebanon to the other, where you would emerge in Yammouneh, a pocket valley high above the Beka’a.

Whether that's still possible, I don’t know. In the past though, priests walked underground between the temples to Astarte/Aphrodite on either side of the range; the spectacular one here in Afqa, which attracted pilgrims from all over the Ancient World, and the smaller one on an island in the seasonal lake in Yammouneh, as part of their annual celebrations.

The trip up the Adonis Valley to Afqa was once a major pilgrimage route, and the trek from the coast near the town of Byblos, one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world, took three days, with feasting along the way. The revelry reached its peak at the temple, infamously the site of ritual prostitution and sacred orgies, after which, the pilgrims returned, sated, and in some cases, pregnant.

The temple marked the site of Adonis’ death. He was killed on the banks of the river by a boar sent variously by a jealous goddess whose advances he had spurned, or by an angry god seeking vengeance on the demi-god that had stolen his consort’s heart. Whoever was responsible, the boar is said to have gored the Most Beautiful Man in the World in his thigh, and as he bled out by the river, his blood turned its water red.

It’s likely an allegory for spring, for amongst other things, Adonis was the god of fertility, propitiated to ensure a good harvest. Each year, then as now, mountain fields fill with bright red anemones known colloquially as the Blood of Adonis and for a few days, the river turns a reddish brown. This is either a result of the first snowmelt dislodging mineral-rich build-up deep inside the grotto, or Afqa honouring the demi-god who died here, depending on whether you grew up reading Shelly or science.

Sadly, there’s not much left of the temple today apart from a rubble-strewn stone platform, though blame for that lies with the Emperor Constantine, who after seeing the Light, ordered it torn down in a vengeful attempt to erase its powerful associations with fertility and sex.  

Unfortunately for old Constantine, his gambit didn’t entirely work. Long after the temple was gone, the people of the valley continued to propitiate Astarte, albeit after a suitably monotheistic makeover, and so when they wished to conceive, Christian women from nearby villages offered up prayers to the Lady of Afqa, while their Shi’ite neighbours instead petitioned The Great Lady. 

In both cases, what they did was exactly the same, the petition solemnised by tying a piece of white fabric to a tree outside the ruins of the temple, exactly as pilgrims to Astarte had done for thousands of years before them. Exactly, in fact, as some women still do today, though whether modern supplicants suspect that Afqa’s original lady was a pagan goddess, is more difficult to say.

Faraya to Afqa  Section 12 of the LMT.  Map/Image © Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Faraya to Afqa

Section 12 of the LMT.

Map/Image ©Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Chapter 23: Adonis in the Land of Milk and Honey

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This Sunday, we get off to a slow start. It’s the after-effect of the massive influx of walkers the day before, I think.

Also, we have the other team to say our goodbyes to. Finally, after an age and a half, practically an aeon, we head out of Kfardebian at around 9-ish.

Our core group is now down to a more manageable five, though our numbers will be temporarily increased today by new arrivals; a man who works at the Swiss embassy, a vile American couple, who have just been kicked out of Cairo and who will do nothing but complain about how hideous Lebanon is for the rest of the day, a brassy Lebanese woman and her listless husband, who looks like he’d rather be propping up a bar, and a sour-faced Australian and her Barbie-esque travel-mate - blonde, pink tank top, shorts and sneakers and no day pack. Not even a pink one. I presume she's only with us for the day, especially as she seems to hate walking, but it seems she's going to grace us with her company for the next few days. Joy.

We’re on our way up to Faqra and will be overnighting close to the new reservoir at Chabrouh, below the ski resorts up in Faraya. The trail is easy, but the sky's such a cloudless, deep blue and the sun so strong, that at first, I worry it’s going to be a scorcher. Luckily, there’s a great deal more shade today than we’ve had for a while, and even when we re-emerge into direct sunlight later, we’re blessed with a breeze, so in the end, it isn’t as sweaty as I feared. 

Naturally, we start by walking down to where we first entered Kfardebian. It's almost funny now that we’re going down, to remember how hard it had been to make this climb the day before yesterday. At the bottom, we cut off across the fields, plunging into the cool confines of a tunnel of trees that deposits us in a small pine forest. 

We take a short detour to fill up on water. The spring is dry, to Joseph’s surprise, but then it has been a poor winter, with very little snow. I find myself wondering how soon the government-supplied water at home will get cut off, as has happened most summers for the last four or five years, for precisely this reason.  

As we leave the forest, we begin to climb in earnest. Joseph tells us helpfully that it's going to be hard going and in parts, it is certainly steep, but he's either overstated the difficulty - perhaps to make our new arrivals feel better about being out of breath already - or I'm finally becoming fitter, because it doesn't feel particularly tough. Surprisingly quickly, the ruins of the temple complex at Faqra come into view above us. 

The last one hundred metres up to them are a bit of a scrabble though, mostly because the ground is rocky and some of the rocks are loose, but it’s not especially taxing. The Americans are scowling and muttering under their breath, which I now take to be their habitual state, but Barbie’s barely broken a sweat, so she’s either applied an entire can of anti-perspirant that morning, or else like a camel, she’s good at conserving water.

Arriving at the complex, which I’ve visited a thousand times with guests, we wait for the guardian to come and unlock the gate. Like most of the bored souls paid to look after Lebanon’s hundreds of archaeological sites, many of which don’t get visitors for days at a time, he’s less than impressed with the bunch of old stones he’s paid to guard. He even suggests at first that we just take pictures from the entrance. It seems like the kind of advice that ought to get him sacked, but it’s obvious he’d rather not fiddle around finding the key and is just hoping that we don’t care enough, either.

Some of us don’t, of course. The Americans meander off mumbling about ‘having seen the pyramids and so’, and Barbie decides she’d rather sprawl in the lush grass, take Selfies and play with her phone than learn anything, which at least makes me feel less guilty about my instant stereotyping of her. 

Alia, who accompanied us on the first ten days of the walk, joins us by phone and as ever, is full of interesting information. As the rest of us listen, she explains the site’s origins and its subsequent transition from pagan temple to fortified basilica and then ruin.

Most of the photos of you’ll see of Faqra show the dramatic portico of the main temple, which seems to have been dedicated Adonis, the demi-god associated with fertility, who was said to have in these mountains, but there are several temples at Faqra, most of which don’t get mentioned. 

One, which began life as a temple to Astarte, was later turned into a church dedicated to St. Barbara. Alia tells us that as both deity and saint were known for their loving natures, it’s possible that the re-dedication was deliberate, a way to facilitate the eradication of pagan belief by repurposing the site for Christianity in a way that didn’t entirely contradict its past connotations – much as Christmas and Easter were conveniently grafted onto much older and quite different celebrations.

Back to Adonis. That the main temple at Faqra was dedicated to him is an assumption. No identifying statues or dedicatory inscriptions have been found to prove this one way or another, but as the second temple was dedicated to Astarte, his consort, and as the main temple in a complex was usually dedicated to a male god, it’s assumed that Adonis it was.

I’ve always found it a source of some amusement that in Adonis, who died nearby in Afqa, this tiny sliver of the Mediterranean not only gave the world the epitome of male beauty, but also the nec plus ultra of female temptation and sexual license, for Jezebel, the whore of Babylon herself, was a Phoenician princess from Tyre.

But I digress. Like all good Levantine temples, the ones at Faqra began with the Phoenicians, who mostly built temples along the coast and up in the mountains to propitiate the gods of both regions, but was subsequently Hellenised and briefly Romanised shortly before Rome adopted Christianity. 

Although it looks impressive from a distance, the portico was poorly restored and from closer up, the replacement concrete blocks and rusting rebar, are all too visible. Faqra was damaged during the civil war, when several of the repaired sections collapsed, so it may hold the distinction of being the only temple from the ancient world where blocks of chipped and damaged concrete are strewn amongst the original, more millennial remains.

Though the walls of the temple are largely intact, the rear half is taken up by a massive pile of fallen blocks and columns. This being Lebanon, it’s possible to climb onto them and wobble your way to the back wall, which gives out onto a impressive view of the valley beneath and the sea in the distance. Compared to the now anaemic experience that many other ancient ruins have become, roped off, untouchable and remote, I’ve always rather liked the fact that here, a combination of official apathy, rules-don’t-apply-to-me’ism and ambient chaos means that should you desire, you can treat most of the country’s ruins like ancient parkour courses and while I understand that isn’t terribly good for their long-term survival, it does allow for a greater appreciation of them.

We leave the complex, which is nestled into a labyrinth of heavily eroded limestone, twisted by elements into wild and wonderful shapes including, to my eyes anyway, what looks rather like a herd of elephants, and crossing the road to visit a cluster of sacrificial altars and the impressive ruins of a watchtower/altar on the edge of a precipitous escarpment that plunges vertically to the village of Hrajel below.

Alia returns on speakerphone and points out another interesting fact. Despite their importance, the altars are amongst the few to have survived the Christianisation of Lebanon without being destroyed or reconsecrated, possibly because the area was abandoned shortly after the end of the Roman era.

The altars are moderately interesting, but it's the remains of the massive watchtower/altar, dedicated to the Emperor Claudius, successor of the infamous Nero, who funded its last reconstruction, that catch my eye. It has always struck me as vaguely Asian, probably because of the way trees and shrubs grow out of it. Shades of Angkor perhaps, or even Calcutta, albeit on a more modest scale. 

The view from the top of the sixteen-metre pile is anything but modest though; a panoramic vista of Mount Lebanon, and in winter of skiers on the pistes further up the road at Faqra. 

Originally, the tower would have been a few metres taller with a massive sacrificial altar under a wooden loggia on its top, which would have been accessed by a ramp. Of course, the loggia, ramp and altar have long since disappeared and the only way up is via a cramped internal staircase that was probably only used by priests. The pilgrims that would once have come here to propitiate Zeus Beelgalasos, the Lord of the Mountains, a rather grim figure known for his ‘sharp, rending teeth’ and for starting storms, are long gone, too and although most visitors today seem content to gawp as they zip by in their cars, if they notice the ruins at all, it does still attract the occasional admirer. 

Today, this meant a gaggle of Ethiopian women, decked out in their Sunday best, shimmying to Afropop and striking poses against the backdrop of the tower and the sweeping views of the valley, as a Lebanese guy (someone’s boyfriend perhaps?) snapped away like Litchfield. Looking around, I see we’ve stumbled into a Lover’s Lane as nearby, a couple who look like they had been engaging in some serious lip-locking until we ambled in, blast old Abdel Wahab songs from their white Cortina equivalent, all smoked glass windows and attitude, albeit sans the furry dice. 

We stop for lunch outside a nearby café that dates back to the Faqra of pre-wars years. Its walls are covered in faded black and white photos and other reminders of brighter days. As we sit in the shabby ‘garden’, whose decay is clearly not just a result of the recent winter, I feel rather sad. Like so many other places in Lebanon, the café is a ghost of what it once was, though it’s still possible to imagine it as it was, full of day-trippers, tourists and eager skiers, downing plates of fried eggs sprinkled with sumac, before heading on up to the slopes or deeper into the mountains. I wonder how much money it makes. If appearances are anything to judge by, not much. It’s surviving through sheer force of will and I suspect that once its charming, elderly owners die, it will be bulldozed and turned into something more chic, with a pool and an outdoor sheesha deck in place of the garden. That, or a mall.

We continue along the escarpment edge in the direction of Chabrouh, our stop for the night. As we reach Jisr el-Hajjar, the natural rock bridge at Mzaarat Kfardebian (the farmlands, not the town we slept in the night before) the landscape takes on the appearance of a giants’ playground, with massive blocks of strangely shaped stone scattered all around. We traipse across the bridge, milling around and taking pictures, while two of the walkers, Salam and her husband Alfred, slope off to have a quick swim in the river pools below. 

We’re headed in that direction ourselves, as it’s decided that we’ll take the quick (read: sheer) route to our stop for the night. Apparently the river further up is still too wide to cross, even this bone dry year. 

As we pick our way through the sharp rocks towards the streambed below, one of the hikers falls and hurts her knee for the second time that day, necessitating a stop to patch her up so that she can carry on. Barbie looks like she’s about to ask to be carried, though I can’t imagine she’ll get much more than short shrift if she does, and our ever-delightful American compatriots grumble loudly about how Lebanon is full of garbage and how they wish they had never had to leave Cairo. I find myself vividly seconding their emotion.

The final stretch of the trail takes us across farmland, where we discover the desiccated remains of a baby hyena and, further up, encounter a wild baby tortoise, which is very much alive and, as it snaps the twig proffered by one of the walkers, apparently has quite the bite.

After stopping for a drink at what I’m reliably informed is the ‘best spring in Lebanon’ the Nabaa al-Aasal (Spring of Honey) which is near the Nabaa al-Laban (Spring of White/Yoghurt) – thus possibly the origins of the Biblical ‘Land of Milk and Honey’, though naturally, the Israelis would disagree - we arrive at a youth/community centre run by the Order of Malta. The new and newly-renovated building is not exactly overflowing with charm. It is, however, enormous, and as we are the only people staying tonight, I take advantage of the situation to snag a room of my own.  

We have an uninspiring dinner in the vast, cavernous kitchens, prepared by an extremely funny, wise-cracking lady from Tripoli, who informs us to great hilarity that she is divorced and a smoker, statuses frowned upon by her employers, who are doing their best to remedy both.

Sated, I retire to my room to enjoy a quick read before bed and then settle in for a peaceful night’s sleep….only to be kept awake for an hour by the demented barking of a dog, far away on the other side of the valley. 

Kfardebian to Faraya  Section 13 of the LMT.  Map/Image © Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Kfardebian to Faraya

Section 13 of the LMT.

Map/Image ©Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

 

Interlude Two: Kismet

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From the moment I first arrived in Beirut, everything went right. Well okay, maybe not quite everything.

The driver who brought me from Damascus ended up abandoning me miles from where I’d paid him to leave me.

I’d heard Beirut was very expensive and that budget hotels were almost impossible to find. People in Damascus suggested the best bet was to try a neighbourhood called Hamra, in the western part of the city. There were apparently places there that rented rooms for $40 or $50 a night, which was apparently about as budget as Beirut got in the late 90s. 

All I knew about Hamra was that it was by the sea and that in the 1960’s, it had been the swinging heart of the Middle East, home to the main drag in a city somewhat unimaginatively dubbed the ‘Paris of the Middle East’. Because this was to be my first time in Beirut, and so I had no idea where anything was, I paid the taxi driver a little extra to drop me off in Hamra. I thought that once I was in the neighbourhood, I could ask around for suggestions. 

One by one, the other passengers got out. It was late on a Sunday and we were driving through an especially desolate part of Beirut, which I later realised was a neighbourhood called Tayouneh. Located along one of the lines that divided Beirut into sectarian enclaves during the war, Tayouneh was especially desolate in 1998, an expanse of pancaked, ruined buildings, rusting, twisted railings and palm trees with their tops blown off, fist-sized holes shot through their trunks.

As we passed a large roundabout, the driver, who was probably still annoyed that he’d been forced to wait for me at the border, abruptly stopped and told me to get out. We were on a deserted stretch of road next to what looked like it might once have been a large park. The wind had picked up and it was beginning to rain again, and there were no lights or other signs of life anywhere. I had no idea where this was but it certainly didn’t look like it could be some former Levantine Champs-Élysées, and as there were no other cars on the road, how I would get to Hamra from here, wherever here was, wasn’t immediately obvious. I refused.

We argued back and forth. The driver insisted that this desolate, bullet-pocked wasteland, possibly twinned with Hell, was in fact the neighbourhood I paid him to take me to. I insisted that as I couldn’t see the sea, I wasn’t in Hamra, so we hadn’t arrived yet.

The driver was no sap. Realising he had an intractable backpacker on his hands and visibly fighting his irritation, pulled over, got out and without a word, removed my backpack from the trunk and threw it unceremoniously a couple of metres down the road. 

 He tapped on the window and pointed towards my backpack, which had landed in a large puddle.

“Bag water,” he said, packing more contempt into two words that were not profane than seemed possible. 

When I didn’t move, he got back in, started the engine and prepared to drive off. Faced with the choice of loosing my luggage or getting out and wandering lost in a strange city in the rain with the night fast coming on, I got out. I’d barely exited the cab when he roared off down the broad but completely empty road. Then the skies opened and it began to pour.

A few minutes later a local cab drew up beside me. In flawless English, the driver asked where I was going.

I waved him off irritably. I had no way of paying. The only cash I had on me was a few Syrian Pounds, the rest of my money was in Traveller’s Cheques. I’d tried to change a couple of them at one of the money changers in Shtoura, when we’d stopped for that incredibly expensive cup of coffee, but the man behind the counter wouldn’t accept them and told me that in Lebanon, only banks would. As it was Sunday and as Lebanon followed the Western weekend, those banks were all closed. 

I trudged onwards.

“Hey, where are you going?” 

“Hamra. Walking. No money,” I replied, rubbing my fingers together and shrugging my shoulders.

“Get in. I’ll take you”

“No money,” I replied. “No Lebanese money.”

“Get in,” he repeated.  “I’ll take you. No problem.”

Figuring this for a ruse and feeling more than a little miserable thanks the rain, which had already soaked me to the bone, I stopped and rather rudely told him to leave me alone. 

With a shrug, he drove off and then seemed to change his mind and stopped ten metres or so away, waiting. I crossed the road and began walking back towards the roundabout. It was cold and by now, dark as well. So far, we’d driven by checkpoints and heavily armed soldiers, and now I had been abandoned by my perfidious driver and was walking at night, in the rain, through a neighbourhood riddled with bullet holes. Understandably, I was feeling a bit paranoid. I assumed the cabbie was up to no good and reasoned that it would be better to walk on the other side, just in case. 

“Hey,” he shouted “where you going? That’s the wrong way! Hamra’s this way. Come, I’ll take you. No money.”

I ignored him and kept walking.

By now, the street was marginally busier. Abruptly, the cabbie swung across the road, oblivious to the oncoming traffic and screeched to halt in front of me. 

I must have looked startled because when he got, he was holding his hands out in front of him, much in the same way as you would walk towards a frightened dog backed into a corner.

“Listen, you’re going to get lost if you continue. I know you don’t have any money. Don’t worry. I’m going to Hamra anyway. Come on, it’s raining. Let me take you there, at least.”

I made as if to cross the road again.

“Seriously. I’m going home. I’ll take you for free.” 

“I can’t pay you anything if you take me,” I said again, defensively. “I’m not trying to bargain. I have no money.”

He sighed. 

“Just get in, will you?” he said. “I don’t want your money.

I looked around. I really didn’t have a clue where I was and the brief flow of cars had dried up again. I was soaked to the bone. I followed the driver to the cab and got in. My erstwhile saviour introduced himself as Samir and then asked me where I was from.

“England,” I said. “Not far from London.”

“London? I have an uncle in Wimbledon. You know it?”

I said I did.

“I’ve visited a couple of times,” Samir continued, “mostly on my way to the US. I lived in Chicago for almost ten years but after the war ended, I came back here. I missed my country. What are you doing here?”

“I’m a tourist,” I said. “I’m here to see the sights.”

Samir laughed. 

“How’s that working out for you so far?”

I smiled, relaxing.

“Are you of Lebanese origin? We don’t get many foreign tourists here these days. Where are you staying?”

 Uncharitably, I immediately suspected if I told Samir I didn’t have a hotel yet, he might suddenly develop a ‘brother’ who did, but who was I kidding? It was Sunday night, I had no cash and I needed help finding a hotel, anyway.

“I don’t have anywhere yet,” I replied. “Do you known anywhere cheap.”

Samir laughed again.

“This city doesn’t do cheap,” he said, catching my dismayed expression. “But I know a couple of places that aren’t too expensive. Let’s see what we can find for you.”

And so Samir drove me to Hamra, which looked nothing like the Champs-Élysées but at least was more of a thriving neighbourhood than the one I’d been dumped in by the Syrian cabbie. We then drove around for an hour, Samir hopping out of the cab at places he thought might fit the bill, until he found me a room that I could afford and which he thought was suitable. 

“Too dirty,” he said, coming out of one place. “Too expensive,” he said, coming out of another. “That one smelled bad,” he said, condemning a third.

Eventually, Samir found me a room in a student hostel. It was basic -  bare bulbs and thin cotton blankets - but it was clean, warm and best of all, the owner was prepared to wait until the morning to be paid, if I left a couple of travellers cheques as collateral.

Somehow, a thank you didn’t seem sufficient but I didn’t know how what else I could do. Without cash, I couldn’t even take him for a coffee.

‘Listen,” he said, as he was about to drive away, “just one more thing.”

Much to my abiding shame, my immediate and extremely uncharitable thought was that the generosity had been a sham and Samir was going to ask for some money, after all.

“You can’t spend your first night in Beirut alone in your room. I just called my wife and told her about you. She told me that I have to bring you over for dinner. Something simple, you know, but you must be hungry. You like Lebanese food?”

To be honest, at that point I didn’t really know, but I was cashless and I was starving, so as I got back into Samir’s cab, I hoped he wouldn’t notice the flush of embarrassment that swept across my face.

Chapter 21: Adventures in Breathlessness

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Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe I’m exhausted. Maybe the stars are out of alignment. Whatever the reason, I begin today’s walk, a 17.5 km slog from Mtain to Baskinta, which Joseph informs us in our morning pre-walk briefing, will be ‘a little difficult’ – in a foul mood.

Twelve days into the walk, I have already learned to take our estimable head guide’s economical but informative briefings with a pinch of salt. Distance is more suggestion than definition, with personal tallies at the end of the day regularly registering at a several kilometres more than supposed, and so we now hear quotation marks whenever a figure is announced - especially when its related to how much further we have to go before lunch, or our beds.

As for Joseph’s estimation of difficulty, that too has become a fond running joke as both our guides appear to be part mountain goat, bounding up and down all but vertical, rubble-strewn hillsides with the energy, enthusiasm and abandon of a golden retriever on the beach. I’ve yet to see either of them out of breath, even after running some distance uphill. Robin, at least, has the decency to be twenty years younger, but Joseph is a grizzled veteran and he smokes, too. My ego would have been crushed, had my toes not beaten it to it. 

The initial 500 metre climb out of Mtain, fuelled by fruit and a fresh knefebreakfast, leads across rocky terrain, strewn with large, heavily-eroded outcroppings of limestone, some of which look like they are the remains of ancient walls or towers.

There are few views, although the panorama over Mtain and down to the coast in the distance could be considered pretty in a low-key way, but then we’ve been so spoiled by magnificence along the trail, that it takes a little more to get hearts pounding than it did that first day in Marjayoun.

As we reach to top of the hill, the walk gets ugly, as we briefly enter the outskirts of Zaarour, a summer destination and private ski resort that has expanded exponentially in the almost 20 years I’ve been in Lebanon. It’s clear that a lot of recent construction has taken place, as last year’s trail has disappeared beneath tarmac and plots have been prepared for the multi-million dollar ‘chalets’ that will soon be built. We pause briefly for a desultory tea at a random roadside shack, as Joseph and Robin figure a new path through what has become a construction site, ahead. 

Because land ownership is still a matter of dispute in most parts of the country, thanks in no small part to the confusion caused by poor record-keeping during the Ottoman occupation of the Levant and exacerbated by the continuous state of instability afterwards, keeping track of the trail and finding detours when it suddenly disappears beneath a road or a house, or is arbitrarily fenced off by landowners, whether legally or not, is one reason the yearly walkthrough takes place. I notice that both guides are busy taking notes and consulting maps.

Eventually a path is found that gets us off the new roads. We drop down towards a large reservoir and emerge at the foot of a narrow trail. It leads uphill through a cleft in the cliff wall and out, onto a limestone plateau.  

Once again, Lebanon does one of its spectacular quick changes. As we leave the fresh bitumen smell and construction clamour of Zaarour behind, we emerge into a landscape of peculiar rock formations, whispering wind and swaying trees. Then, as we turn a corner, we enter a narrow river valley, carpeted in a profusion of wild flowers, where a thin plume of water falls seemingly out of the clouds, to tumble down the wall of rock at the far end. 

It’s pure magic and I half expect to see fairies flitting between the flowers. Walking towards the fall, we clamber across the rocks to the opposite side of the valley and wading shin-deep through daisies, make our way up to the small bowl-like plateau of Al Jawzeh - the Walnuts - that lies above.

There, strewn amongst the flowers, lie the ruins of an old settlement, which appears to have been fortified during the Byzantine period. Massive, carefully hewn blocks are scattered casually all around us, and the remains of walls and outlines of rooms and houses are visible all the way up the low walls of the bowl.

Despite its name, Al Jawzeh is home to only a few trees today. We stretch out on the grass beneath one massive survivor, trunk split open but still growing, grateful for the shade.

The area would once have been thickly forested, as a nearby inscription era attests. It’s one of the Emperor Hadrian’s famous reminders, strewn all over Mount Lebanon, that trees are protected and may under no circumstances be chopped down without permission. However well that injunction may have functioned during his reign, it’s been paid scant attention since. Still, its presence here, as well as the unearthing of artefacts from all over the Mediterranean world and the quality of the stonework suggests not only that the settlement was important but that an old road ran nearby, possibly linking it to the coast and the Beka’a Valley.

Subsequent excavations have revealed that the settlement had its own bathhouse – a relative rarity in such remote areas – as well as two impressive presses, large enough to have produced wine on an industrial scale, so it must have been a fairly important place. 

Quite how long people lived up here isn’t known. Al Jawzeh lies at an altitude of 1400 metres and would have been covered in snow every winter, so it would have been one of the higher altitude settlements of the time. Even today, with modern amenities, Lebanon’s highest village, at least one that is occupied year-round, is only a couple of hundred metres higher. 

It’s possible Al-Jawzeh began life as a sacred site, as the remains of a Phoenician high place have been found nearby, and the far end of the plateau is dominated by a cluster of absolutely gargantuan sarcophagi, large enough to have held a god.

It does seem to have been abandoned some time around the 7th Century, around the time Lebanon was occupied during the Islamic Conquest, but was briefly revived as a mining town in the 12th Century, before being definitively abandoned in the 15th. 

The only regular inhabitants these days are goatherds, who have constructed a makeshift shelter at the far end of the plateau and as we lie beneath the tree, the tinkle of goat bells fills the air as a massive herd joins us on the plateau and the goats begin to munch their way contentedly across the ruins. Little wonder Al Jawzeh’s trees haven’t regrown.

As we munch on snacks of our own, one of the hikers mentions in passing that the site was plundered during the war by one of Lebanon’s more egregious feudal chieftains, Michel el-Murr (Michael the Bitter in English), a surname that perfectly suits its bearer, who carted off statues and columns, which now adorn his garden and living room. 

Resuming our walk, we meander past the sarcophagi, several of which are full of winter rain. Apparently, eleven skeletons were found here, though most of the tombs had been emptied at some point in the distant past, and then as we walk down into the Wadi el-Delb, which sits beneath my favourite mountain, Sannine, the clouds close in and the temperature drops.

We can see Baskinta, our destination for the night, beneath us on the far side of the valley but as usual, we have to go down, then up, then down and then up again, before we get there.

The trail hugs the valley wall at the base of sheer cliffs and in places, we’re walking along rock shelves beneath large, dripping overhangs. As the clouds lower, erasing all traces of the mountains above us, we reach the start of the section of today’s walk that Joseph had referred to that morning as ‘a little difficult’.

Here, the valley becomes sheer and the way forward involves clambering along a water channel carved into the cliff face. Long stretches of the channel, which is reassuringly reinforced with concrete include massive concrete water pipes, and it seems that we must balance our way across them, too. And of course, the pipes have replaced the sections of the rock shelf that have either collapsed, or else bridge massive natural gaps. 

This being Lebanon, there are no handholds or rails on the pipes, though they are quite wide, and as we stop at the first section, which bridges a fairly small gap, Joseph explains exactly how to navigate them safely.

I catch a few nervous glances. Had anyone wanted, they could have turned around I suppose, though Zaarour had to be at least ten kilometres behind us. I suddenly understand why all participants in the throughwalk had been required to sign a waiver. 

And so, a few minutes later, on a cold, damp afternoon in mid-April, I find myself walking precariously in single-file along an old concrete water pipe made slippery by fallen leaves and rain, halfway up the cliff opposite Baskinta. The view, at least, is magnificent. If somewhat vertiginous.

The first section crossed, another looms ahead. From here until we reach the pumping station on the hilltop ahead, the trail is part ledge, part pipe. In places, the ledge is so narrow that even when we’re on it, we’re still walking along the pipe. The sections of pipe become longer until eventually, we come to the final, particularly daunting section that stretches across a huge gap in the cliff face, past a waterfall and then rises steeply up a narrow ravine to the pumping station.

I set off across it and have just passed the midway mark when the person in front of me wobbles rather worryingly. A misstep here would be fatal. Abruptly, the full import of what we are doing registers. I barely have time to wonder whether as decisions go, this one isn’t half-baked when I am overcome by an almost transcendental clarity. 

The world becomes perfectly still. Beneath my feet, I can feel the thunder of the waterfall we’ve just passed reverberate gently through the sturdy pipe. Above, the peaks are still hidden in cloud, tendrils of which swirl down through the forest to wrap around us, turning our side of the valley into a chiaroscuro of mist and mountain rather like a Chinese ink painting. 

Baskinta, though, is brightly illuminated, an island of sunlight in an otherwise grey day. From up here, it is a sprawl of red-tiled pyramid roofs darkened by the rain, punctuated by church spires and the occasional, and generally rather unfortunate, new construction. 

In the valley below, a delicate froth of fruit blossom cloud the terraces. Cherry, perhaps, or apple. Maybe both. I can hear the tinkle of goat bells from somewhere and the distant but unmistakable echo of a bus honking its horn on the other side of the valley. Wind rustles through the trees, making lazy swirls in the mist and setting the birds to song. 

In an instant, the universe crowds in. I become aware of everything and everyone, plugged so directly into Life, I swear I can feel the blood flowing through my veins and the snap and crackle of synapses firing. My pupils dilate, my skin tingles, and the air becomes electric. I am immersed in pure, exhilarating bliss. 

I’m not sure how long it lasted but it isn’t until I notice Joseph watching me intently from the other end of the pipeline that I realise I have stopped dead in my tracks, and that I am holding my breath. Exhaling, I flash what I hope is a reassuring smile and give him a thumbs up. Then, after taking a deep breath and a final look around, I resume my balancing act across the abyss.

Mtain to Baskinta   Section 15 of the LMT.  Map/Image © Lebanon Mountain Trail Association

Mtain to Baskinta

Section 15 of the LMT.

Map/Image ©Lebanon Mountain Trail Association