Desert Cities and Damascus

Travelling in Syria releases what seems are long-forgotten memories. In a strange way, it is a home-coming, carrying a familiarity which is hard to understand, let alone explain. Victorious and defeated armies all have a place in our history, and have shaped the people we have become. By taking a deep breath and visualising the ruins as pristine cities in their heyday, you can almost smell the dust rising as the armies of the Romans, Mongols, Arabs, Crusaders, Kurds and Turks march inexorably on.

After crossing over from Turkey and a gruelling day at customs, our first stop was the Citadel of St Simon. This huge church was built in veneration of a man who showed his devotion to God by living on top of a pillar for 30 years - and this, after he had moved up the ranks from walling himself up in a cell to being buried up to his chin in the ground.

Mad? Eccentric? Maybe, but Simon knew how to wow a crowd, and the early devotees built one of their finest churches around his pillar. It may have become faded now, some stones might have been dislodged, but the beauty of what once was still lingers.

Our next stop was Aleppo. Often at loggerheads with Damascus over their rival claims as the oldest inhabited places on earth, Aleppo is where markets meet and has two main attractions: the souk and the citadel. For the moment, though, the driving tested Matt's patience as he wove his Land Rover through roads jammed with yellow taxis and fleets of battered American Cruisers. I laughed at Matt's frustration, picturing him standing obstinately in the middle of the busiest roundabout in the city, arms crossed, stopping the traffic and repeating the mantra: "I am not moving until these drivers learn some manners." Ah, the futility of it all.

The legendary souk (or bazaar), by comparison, was a sea of tranquillity. Fat tea-sellers carried great brass urns, beating out a rhythm on their 'chai' bowls, and store owners rode donkeys down the teeming passageways. A babble of Arab voices, raised in greetings and negotiations, filled the corridors, overwhelming the background of birdsong from the budgerigars and parrots kept as pets in these 10 miles of darkened vaults.

Aleppo's citadel is another it enduring monuments, its mighty walls still dominate the city landscape. Destroyed by the Mongol armies in the thirteenth century, it still shines bright as an example of Arab military architecture. Whilst the external parts of the citadel are in a reasonable condition, the inside is overgrown and in ruin. We visited remains of mosques and baths, then sat on the walls and absorbed the panoramic view of Aleppo.

We decided to head for the desert city of Rasefeh next. We filled our jerry cans, topped up the water supply, checked our stocks of food and set off, watched by a bewildered car park attendant.

As we approached Rasefeh, it rose from the rocky plains like a cliff: great blocks of dressed stone capped with battlements, enclosing a 500-yard square of undulating mounds and hollows. Huge basilicas jutted from the encroaching sands, monuments to a Christian soldier martyred by his Roman comrades. The city's greatest find, though, lay hidden beneath the surface: four immense, underground water cisterns. A narrow tunnel led down to their peaceful, dusty floors, beneath echoing spaces shot through with beams of light from the blinding desert outside.

As we drove south, eagles rose flapping from rocky perches to go skimming across the sands. Scrubby plants dotted the desert, providing a skimpy meal for the sparse herds of sheep and goats, and the Bedouin's powerful grey sheepdogs bounced, barking madly, through our dusty trail.

At nightfall, we camped at a dingy police post. The murky rooms evoked a thousand desperate film scenes, but the coppers were the perfect hosts. We drank coffee, smoked an apple-flavoured 'nargilleh' (water pipe), and tried various permutations of the few Arabic words we knew and the few English words they new.

We stopped to siesta at Qasr al-Hayr, an eighth century fort marooned in a stony wilderness, and listened to the kites' cries beneath its eroded brick walls. The Ummayads often harped back to their desert lifestyle, and would come here to escape cosmopolitan Damascus.

Palmyra is another desert city now in ruins. Located next to the only oasis for miles around, it grew rich on the back of the trade that passed through it. It rose magnificently in the distance, seemingly growing taller as we approached.

After spending a tiring day exploring the remains of the market, the miniature theatre and temples, we camped in a private garden across from the ruins. Having had our evening meal and put up the tent, I wanted to confirm I wasn't in a dream. It's a bit like your first bike: you can't actually quite believe you have one - you have to keep peeking to make sure it's still there.

Jenny volunteered to join me, and together we walked down the column-adorned main street. There were no guards, no heavy police presence, no gate to jump over. We had the place gifted to us. As we moved through the shadows, we slipped into an ancient world of horses, chariots and camels. This was something grand, epic, romantic and moving. And hold on...it could very well be a dream.

To the west, a gentle valley was studded with the unearthly towers of the necropolis: multi-storey burial chambers and underground crypts, which seemed to hang from the sky: nightly sentinels, looking over their keep as they have done for 1000 years. Behind us, a small silhouette against a light grey sky was the castle of Fukhr ud-Din ibn Ma'ani.

We spent two days in Palmyra, before heading off to the Krak de Chavalier: a castle dating back to the crusades, but so well preserved that it was used by the French until the middle of this century.

We arrived in the early evening. The weather was closing in and soon mist rolled over us, hiding the view. Up on a hilltop, we felt that any minute a gust of wind would throw us into the oblivion below. All night the wind tugged at the tent, like demons wanting to be let in. But the morning bought with it clear weather and hordes of school children: we joined the melee and entered the fort

Inside the mighty fortifications, the echoing chapel and Gothic hall huddled by the arsenal's squat vaults. Around them lay a maze of kitchens, barracks, stables and turrets, cluttered with medieval ovens and storage bins. It was vast, highly atmospheric, and best explored with a powerful torch, a decent map and the greatest of care.

Damascus had been our ultimate destination in Syria and now, with a handful of days left, we set off. We decided to get there in the morning: which meant camping for the night along the way. It is surprising how short a sunset lasts: it's over in a matter of minutes, yet it hangs in the memory forever.

We headed off the main road to find some secluded spot for the night. There was a sense of urgency now, as soon we would lose the daylight: sunset was fast approaching. But, as sometimes happens in life, our unexpected detour drew us into another world -- as night fell, we stumbled on some Bedouin. The family invited us in for a meal of goat's cheese and vegetables, and we sat with them the whole evening, conversing with nods, nudges and drawings. They couldn't speak any English, and Matt knew only how to count to ten in Arabic.

We camped by the family's tent, and enjoyed breakfast with them. Then, as we dismantled our tent and carried out our daily vehicle checks, the Bedouin loaded their truck and folded up their own travelling home. They too were moving on, migrating with their sheep and goats to pastures new.

It was near our journey's end - we had only a few days left. Apart from sight-seeing, we had another objective in Damascus: to get visas for Jordon. Matt and I had no problem, though Jenny complained at the high cost of visas for US citizens.

Damascus's main mosque, built in 705AD, is said to be the best Ummayad mosque ever built - indeed, it is still a jewel of Islamic architecture. Built during the infancy of Islamic design, it used Byzantine craftsmen whose mosaics depicted animals and trees, reflecting the designs in the splendid mosaic of Aya Sophia in Istanbul. I found peace here, and spent a long time considering its history and its place in the Islamic world.

Next to the mosque is the tomb of Saladin. It's a small, humble reminder of a great man, a hero to the Muslim world. Ironically, it was a donation from a German citizen that allowed the tomb to be refurbished even to this level.

The Sayyida Zeinab (the prophet's granddaughter) tomb in Damascus has a distinct Persian feel to it. I paid a visit, and sat amongst the sea of people queuing to pay their respects.

This is what I mean about Syria: here, each pillar, tomb, mosque, has a place in Islamic history. Here I was, for the first time in my life, feeling and touching the very foundation of my history.

There was only one more place to visit: the ancient town of Borsa, another significant site for pilgrimage. The Prophet visited Borsa on his many journeys, and often spoke here to the Christian monk Boharia. Prime attractions include a well-preserved classical Greco-Roman amphitheatre, a medieval Arab citadel, and the Umayyad Mosque of Omar.

Syria had been an experience - and two weeks was not enough - but, given that I had got my visa by default in Iran and was travelling on to Jordan, I was grateful for even this glimpse.