Travel Biography - Week 50.

About these Trips to Israel.

All the photos here are my own, taken in 1993.

A biography, whether on Travel or anything else, is usually written chronologically. However, my personal history of travel is repeated. Take the Middle East, for example. I visited Israel four times in my life. They were in 1976, 1993, and 1994, and once more in 2000 with my wife Alex, who was 20 weeks pregnant with our first daughter.

Therefore, writing about each trip, one after the other may bring this biography to the point of becoming monotonous. That is the last thing I want to do! But the changes that had taken place in Jerusalem and Israel as a whole over the 17 years between 1976 and 1993 were worth noting. Yet, each of the remaining three trips, including the current 1993 one, was different. Each of these four trips had an emphasis of its own.

However, this week I would like to focus on Jerusalem, where I was based in 1993. Of all the cities, towns, and resorts I have visited, whether at home or overseas, none compared to Jerusalem in spiritual and historical awesomeness. Even its name I find so appealing. Jerusalem means the City of Peace. Ironically, it has both the status of being the centre of prayer for all nations, and the cup of trembling towards any opposition. No other city in the world could claim such powers. Yet, while the big cities I know or have visited, such as New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Paris, Naples, Singapore, Brisbane, Sydney and London, are all next to the coast or on a major river, ancient Salem, with just the Gihon Spring as its water source, was Divinely earmarked to be a Cup of Trembling for the whole of mankind!

Panorama of Jerusalem seen from Mt of Olives.

View from Jaffa Gate. The Citadel is to the right.

Its also the centre of three different faiths - Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Each of the three is distinct, each holding its own theology and its own set of rules. Each has its own perception of who God is, and how one can be saved. Yet, only in Jerusalem Old City does each of the three faiths co-exist in relative peace alongside each other for decades, even centuries past. This became obvious when I saw that the Old City has four quarters - the Jewish Quarter, the Islamic Quarter, the Christian Quarter, and the Armenian Quarter. Throughout the time I stayed in the Old City - about 12 weeks in total - I hadn't seen any interfaith scuffles within its walls.

The Old City is built on a range of hills, with Mt Zion, Mt Ophel, and Temple Mount being three I'm familiar with. One of the oldest settlements in the world, the city of Salem was already present on Mount Ophel around the time of Abraham, around four thousand years ago. When returning from a battle to rescue his nephew Lot, he was met by Melchizedek, the King of Salem. However, by the time of Moses, and right through to David, the walled city was inhabited by the Jebusites, descendants of one of Canaan's sons, Jebus. Canaan himself was the son of Ham and the first of Noah's grandchildren to be born, two years after the Flood.

Except in 1976, when a stayed at a home of a Muslim family, in 1993, 1994 and 2000, I stayed at the same venue, the New Swedish Hostel, Souk David, in the Old City. It was at the ideal location, central to all the essentials, such as a minimarket, a currency exchange, and even a post office. It was just a short walk through the Cardio to the Western or Wailing Wall, along with Jaffa Gate, the ornate Damascus Gate, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and into the Kidron Valley where the ascent to the Mount of Olives begins near the Church of the Nations which is next to the Garden of Gethsemane. Down into the valley is Absolom's Tomb, and across the road, Gihon Spring with the entrance to a 2,700-year-old still-functioning water conduit.

One of the main features is the Temple Mount, a huge near-rectangular platform on the east side of the Old City, which once the Temple of Solomon was sited, followed by the Second Temple, built under the guidance of Zerubabbel, a descendant of King David and ancestor of Joseph, the husband of Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ, and embellished by Herod the Great by 19 BC. After its destruction by the Roman army under General Titus in AD 70, the area remained desolate until the Kokhba revolt in AD 135, when the site was occupied by the Roman temple of Jupiter Capitolinus until the present Dome of the Rock was completed by the Caliph Abd al-Malik in AD 692.

The Dome of the Rock is seen through some porticoes.

Resting on a ledge at the Dome of the Rock.

Both in 1976 and 1993 as well as in 1994, I had not only the privilege to stand outside the beautiful edifice, full of awesome wonder that I was standing in the precise spot where Solomon's Temple once stood with the Ark of the Covenant housed inside, but I was also able to enter the Dome itself - to be faced by a huge natural rock - the summit of the original Zion on which Abraham was willing to offer up his son Isaac.

Witnessing the Two Sabbaths.

It was a Friday morning when, as I was walking towards the Damascus Gate, the narrow street leading to it was thronged with young men, all heading in one direction, that is, towards the gate to exit the Old City. The crowd was dense and I had to pace myself with them, as the crowd moved slowly. With my journalistic instinct aroused, I started to ask a couple of men closest to me what was going on.

One of them explained that it was the Muslim Sabbat, and they were all heading for the Haram al-Sharif, or the Temple Mount, for prayer. I imagined a huge congregation spread out around the Dome, with the nearby El Aqsa Mosque, also on Temple Mount, to be packed full. The Islamic Sabbat was the day of the week the Mount was closed to the public, that is, non-Muslims. Also, unlike the Jewish Sabbath, the souks of the Old City didn't shut for the day, but most of the shops stayed open.

Damascus Gate, seen from outside the Old City.

Friday evening, just before and after sunset, was when the Western Wall and the plaza in front of it became alive with a crowd of happy Orthodox Jews assembling to celebrate the Sabbath. It was very different from a Christian church service with its formal liturgy. It was in 1993 that I first watched such an event, and how I was taken in by the electrifying atmosphere.

With no formal beginning or end as with a church service, instead, as the sun reached the western horizon, groups of Jews began to fill the plaza. Some went straight to the Wall and prayed there. Others sat on chairs arranged neatly in one corner near to where I was standing, like an open-air classroom, and Scriptures were read out and possibly a sermon delivered from the front.

The Western Wall, general view.

The "outdoor classroom" at the Western Wall.

As more and more Orthodox Jews assembled, those who were in the open-air classroom blended in with the rest of the crowd, singing and dancing the Conga, forming long lines, each one standing behind the other and holding on as the lines snaked around the plaza. At the same time, crowds of more older Jews with their distinct black yarmulke covering their heads gathered at the wall in chanting and prayer. All of the men, and I mean every one of them, wore a skullcap or yarmulke, and many, but not all, wore a white shirt and black trousers. Some of the older men even wore ties. The sight was rather extraordinary. It was as if a uniform was mandatory for ushering the Sabbath or just to be at the Wall. In turn, the women were dressed in normal everyday clothing and therefore lacked the distinct uniform crowd appearance of the men.

The whole atmosphere was more of a street party than a solemn religious service. It was a time of rejoicing, a time for thanksgiving, praise and worship. The inner plaza was divided into two sections, the men's section, which was up to two-thirds across the Wall. The remainder was the women's section. 

Orthodox Jews dance the Conga, Western Wall.

I was standing in the outer plaza and leaning on the fence that separated the two spaces, hence enjoying a front-row view. Then, sometime after dark, I made my way to the narrow entrance to the inner plaza where I picked up a black paper yarmulka which was free to collect from a tray located there, and mingled freely.

It wasn't long before I found myself receiving attention from a nearby all-male Jewish family. They kept on gazing at me with a degree of hostility, and I began to feel disturbed by their stare. This was Israel, and particularly at the Western Wall, the situation can become explosive almost immediately, starting a riot. Fortunately, a young man was passing by and he didn't look too bothered about my presence. I stopped him and asked whether I was posing any problem in the gathering. He turned to the troubled family and asked them in their own language if there were any issues. The father spoke to the intercessor, who told me that I was "working" during the start of the Sabbath. When I asked what work I was doing, he pointed to the camera strap that was slung across my shoulder. He then explained that on the Sabbath, to carry a camera - even if not in use and the lens covered up - was considered "working."

I said to all who were there that I was non-Jewish and a visitor from the United Kingdom. After my words were translated, the family looked relieved and wandered off. Once again I was alone. Phew! That was close!

The Citadel, Jerusalem.

Hasmonian Doorway, C. 100 BC, Citadel.

A little later, I took a stroll out of the Old City and into the Jewish New City west of Jaffa Gate. I was taken in by how strict the Sabbath was kept here in Israel. All the streets were deserted, including Ben Yehuda Street, the traffic-free thoroughfare that thronged with life during the rest of the week. All the shops were closed and all public transport ceased operation. All was still, quiet. Nothing moved and the street sidewalks were as deserted from pedestrians as the roads were from vehicles.

And that was how it was until sundown on Saturday. After sundown, traffic began to move, and the sidewalks became busy once again as the shops re-opened for a few hours to come before all shutting down for the night. Indeed, as for Sunday, what was considered a special day for us, to them, it was just another working day.

It was while I was visiting the Citadel Museum at the Tower of David one afternoon that set me thinking: Why is the Dome of the Rock standing right on the spot where the Jewish Temple once stood? Why were the Jews blocked from ever rebuilding their Temple after nearly two millennia? Could this be proof of God's grace? So I asked myself. Supposing, just supposing, that the Jews rebuilt their Temple, say, in the Second Century AD. Would that have ushered in the ideal moment for the Return of Jesus Christ to set up his Kingdom here in Israel? Food for thought. Had all that happened back then, then you and I would never exist, for the culmination of history would have occurred long before our time. However, it would mean that Heaven would have had a much smaller population than it does at present. In other words, the ongoing presence of the Muslim Dome on the site of the Jewish Temple enabled many to be born, and then to turn to God during the last two millennia - and populate Heaven.

This is one prime example of what I wrote last week: That if I listen carefully enough, the land would speak to me. And yet, there was one evening in Jerusalem when something very odd occurred. 

The Mount of Olives with the Church of All Nations.

In the Garden of Gethsemane.

A Troublesome Incident.

I was in the outer plaza in front of the Western Wall one evening when I heard a crowd of youths in the distance chanting England! England! Football fans? What the heck were they doing here? As far as I know, Israel does have a national football team, but they had never succeeded in competing in either the European or World Cup contests. Neither had I heard anything about an international game played here, either. Football was never Israel's forte. So why were these fans here? Christian tourists or pilgrims? I doubt it. I doubt that very much. Chanting like that was no way to show respect for the host country. To this day, I never could figure that one out. Fortunately, the chant came and quickly went, and I never heard it again in Israel or any other land overseas.

After arriving home, I shared this incident with a couple of Christian friends who were devout England fans. They answered that it was okay to chant in a foreign country. I then asked, Had any Jews chanted "ISRAEL! ISRAEL! in London's Trafalgar Square? No? But if they did, how would you have felt?

To this day, no answer ever came.

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Next Week: Israel outside Jerusalem.

Travel Biography - Week 49.

A Day in Tel Aviv.

Having arrived in Tel Aviv into the night, I was glad to lay my head on a bed in a hostel dormitory. I had mixed feelings - one of sorrow that six hours of the holiday were severed due to a delay in the outgoing flight from London Gatwick to Tel Aviv Ben Gurion, and the other the anticipation of what's to come in the next two weeks. And that includes a visit to Silwan, east of Jerusalem, to see whether the Spihu family from 1976 was still around.

After wakening up, showered and dressed, I made my way to the dining room, where I enjoyed a Hebrew breakfast, consisting of some cheese, olives, flatbread, and yoghurt. Interestingly enough, coffee with milk wasn't Kosher, therefore, I had to drink it black. The hostel was affiliated with ILH or Israel Hostels, their equivalent of our Youth Hostels Association, or YHA. However, like on the European Continent, there was no duty.

A comparison - inside Hezekiah's Tunnel, 1976.

Exiting the Tunnel in 1993.

After checking out, I spent some time in Tel Aviv before boarding a bus to Jerusalem.  The weather was warm, and the sun shone. I had my rucksack hanging from my shoulders. This was different from the 1976 visit to Israel when I had a suitcase. It was during the 1980s that I was given an old Army rucksack by one of Tim's housemates. It served well for the years to come. I recall the last full day here in 1976. I spent that day on the beach. However, this time around, I was more interested in staying dry and checking out the city.

As I walked along through a quiet street, I saw ahead an Orthodox Jew struggling to lift a shopping trolley onto the kerb, after crossing the road with it. I approached him, and together, we lifted the trolley onto the sidewalk. He thanked me heartily, and I made off feeling exuberant. Somehow, I feel blessed just to be here in Israel and lending a hand to an Orthodox Jew in distress.

As I walked on, I came across a busy street market which was crowded with people. However, amid the crowd, there was a loud and threatening verbal disagreement between two middle-aged men, and their shouting at each other carried through the rows of stalls. No one else seemed to have been distracted, as if such disputes were pretty common here, a normal everyday occurrence. The altercation finally ended when the two men parted in opposite directions, with one still shouting at the other whilst the distance between the two increased. Indeed, it hardly took any time at all to realise that I was in a foreign country. I am yet to hear of such altercations in a typical English High Street during shopping hours!

On to Jerusalem.

My heart was in Jerusalem, Israel's capital since 1949. So, after a few hours spent in Tel Aviv, I boarded an Egged Bus to Jerusalem Bus Station from the terminal in Tel Aviv. As I sat by the window, I could see what appears to be the early stage of a railway construction project linking Jerusalem to Tel Aviv. After travelling across what the Bible called the Plains of Sharon, we started to ascend a series of hills, on which Jerusalem is built.

The bus Station was located on Jaffa Road. Back in 1993, the street was a normal traffic thoroughfare, but at present, according to Google Maps, the road is now closed to traffic and laid with tram tracks heading towards the Old City. I passed the Ron Hotel (now a hostel) where I spent the first night in Israel in 1976. I looked around. My first task after arriving in Jerusalem New Town was to look for a budget hotel. I then noticed what could be a suitable place to stay as I headed towards the Old City. I made a mental note of the hotel.

At last, I saw the wall of the Old City ahead with the Jaffa Gate in view. I crossed the main road to reach it and walked through. Almost immediately, I have noted some changes over the past 17 years. One of these changes was the modernisation of the souks, the narrow streets with many sections roofed over. They no longer had a central gutter where donkey's excrement was regularly flushed into. Instead, the outline of the central gutter could be seen within the new paving. Where donkeys once pulled truckloads of merchandise to the shops lining the souk, by 1993, narrow tractors, built specifically for the souks, pull the carts along, and the engine noise and pollution from these vehicles had spoiled, if not destroyed, the Middle Eastern spirit of the past centuries, including the 1970s.

Added to this was the change of music that was played out from the radio sets that appeared here and there. Gone was the traditional Arab singing that reverberated through those ancient streets and was still listened to as recently as 1976. Instead, by 1993, a Western-style beat vibrated the air within the souks.

One other feature that had changed was the monetary currency. In 1976, the currency was the Israel Pound, a throwback from the days when Palestine (as it was known then) was under the British Mandate. When the British withdrew their mandate on May 14th, 1948, thus giving rise to the birth of the sovereign State of Israel, the Pound was retained until February 24, 1980. From that day onwards, the Shekel became the permanent currency of Israel.

ILH Hostel, Tel Aviv.

Entrance to the New Swedish, Jerusalem.

New Swedish Interior. My bed is with a blue towel.

All this goes to show how wonderfully fortunate to have visited the Holy Land in 1976, and then to return 17 years later to see such changes. It was as if I was divinely sent there to absorb the ins and outs of the Holy Land, to learn of its changing culture and to see for myself the truth in the historicity of the Bible, in which Jerusalem, as a city, dominates.

However, some religious and cultural heritages remained. Such were the Islamic calls to prayer sounding from the minarets of mosques in and around the city. Not only do these calls sound through the city souks, but also echo through the Kidron Valley south of the city. One other custom was that a lone backpacker remain the ideal target of Arabic salesmen who persuades the visitor to be escorted around the historic sites for a fee. Since 1976, I have learnt to resist their advance without being rude. As one middle-aged gentleman protested, I have a wife and family to support. We too must eat. Feeling helpless, all I can do was hope all will be well with him. Not that he looked hungry. Rather, he appeared to be well-fed, clothed, and housed.

However, from one shop selling trinkets, including photographic film, the owner emerged and asked if I was looking for a hotel. When I said yes I was, he pointed down the souk and recommended the New Swedish Hostel, just a little further down the street and well within the Old City walls. I arrived at an insignificant doorway between the shops. Over it read New Swedish Hostel.

I entered, and I was faced with a flight of stairs leading up to reception. I was met by a young Arab who replied that a bed in one of the dormitories was available and there was no limit on how long I can stay. Indeed, this was one of many privately-owned hostels that weren't affiliated with any association, one of several I would come across in the years to come. I paid in advance for the entire two weeks, allowing me to check out on the morning of the day I take off for home. It was after I claimed my bed that I began to feel great again.

The dormitory was medieval built with a domed ceiling, giving the place an authentic historic look and a feeling of stepping back into history. Just two or three doors away there was a currency exchange centre. With a book of US Dollar Traveller's Cheques, I made frequent calls to the exchange throughout the holiday. As with other hostels I stayed in, this too had a guest kitchen which doubles up as a lounge. Opposite was the bathroom containing two shower cubicles and other conveniences. Also very convenient was a minimarket close to the exchange. It was here that I did my daily shopping for both breakfast and evening meals, and like all other times, I managed to store my groceries in a locker assigned to me for the whole stay.

Being such a small, compact hostel, there was only one cooking stove, therefore there were times when I had to wait my turn to use the stove. But once I got going, these times, when I cooked and ate my own meals, were also the times for social interactions with other backpackers from around the world, especially South Africa.

Experience has shown that these establishments were shunned by committed Christians. And that was a shame, as this was the right kind of environment to share different points of view, including why we were here in the Holy Land in the first place, and what we were doing here. Also, oddly enough, I can't seem to recall seeing any American backpackers there, either. There were some Europeans, including the Irish, Dutch, Scandinavian, and Austrian. And also from South Africa, and if I remember rightly, a couple of Brazilians too. But none of them confessed to being regular churchgoers. And I feel that through their absence, Christians in general were missing out. At least with me anyway, as an independent rather than part of a tour group, all I had to do was to listen carefully and I felt the land as if talking back to me. And it had a lot to teach me!

A busy Souk.

The same Souk at night - Creepy!

Back to Hezekiah's Tunnel after 17 years. 

One afternoon, I took a stroll to the Kidron Valley. I spoke to a group of young Arab men who were gathered near Gihon Spring and the entrance of Hezekiah's Tunnel. I asked whether they had known the Spihu family who lived around here, then explained that they were hospitable to me some years ago. Yes, one or two of them used to know the family. Abed was still around, selling street trinkets, but his younger brother, Ghanem, studied medicine before migrating to New York. Apparently, the parents had passed away, although this was not confirmed.*

They asked if was interested in a wade through the Tunnel. Despite already having waded through - in both directions - in 1976, I was given a lighted candle and allowed to walk in, straight from the street, as I did before. At that time the Tunnel was free to enter without any fees, but I had to pay for the candle. Now, at present, one has to buy a ticket for admission to the City of David Archaeological Site and Museum which include a walk through the Tunnel. Also, at present, the original Pool of Siloam is in the process of excavation and is earmarked to be refilled with water once the excavation is complete. Indeed, the tourist of tomorrow will visit a far more Biblically authentic site than I could have ever done in the past.

Back in 1993, I approached Gihon Spring and descended the ancient stone steps leading into the conduit. In 1976, the water flowing through was ankle-deep. This time, it reached just above my waist. As I walked in, a drought threatened to blow out the candle. I was wondering whether the air current was blowing through the entire length of the watercourse. Had the candle gone out whilst midway through, I would be stuck in absolute pitch darkness half-submerged in water and surrounded by solid rock in a very claustrophobic environment.

So I turned back to the lads at the Spring and explained the situation. One of them offered to accompany me, also with a lighted candle. I accepted his offer.

With me leading, we both went in. Further in, the drought suddenly stopped. Then I realised that I had passed the junction with Warren's Shaft, a well dug by the Canaanites hundreds of years before King Hezekiah's day, and the shaft used by King David's army to enter the fortified city of Salem, then defended by the Jebusites.

As we wade further in, the ceiling got lower until my chin wasn't far above the surface. My companion started to panic (to my surprise) and I had to reassure him. The two candles were carefully kept above the water during this section, and my head was turned to an angle in the tight space between the water and the solid rock ceiling.

Eventually, the ceiling rose to a far more comfortable height and stayed that way until the exit at the Pool of Siloam. However, just before the exit and in clear view of the daylight, the floor sunk, creating a sump. It was here that I swam out, fully clothed, with jubilance, knowing that it would not take long for the warm Middle East sunshine to dry me out.

After some photos, I made my way, dripping wet, back to the hostel in the Old City.

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*To read about my 1976 experience in Israel, go back to Weeks 5-8 of this Biography.

Next Week: First-hand experience of Jewish life and why the Dome of the Rock is a necessity.

Travel Biography - Week 48.

To Recap - From 1976 to 1993.

The photos here are from the Recap.

Before I continue with this Biography, I would like to briefly recap the places I visited since I alighted from the aeroplane at Gatwick Airport in 1978, after the flight home from New York.

That homeward flight brought an end to the long-haul era that characterised that decade. Starting with Israel in 1976, I then backpacked both Canada and the USA a year later in 1977, and then around the USA again in 1978. The film camera I took with me on the first American trip suffered shutter failure. Therefore, soon after arriving in the Canadian city of Toronto, I bought an inexpensive Instamatic 110 for convenience.

At the Star of Bethlehem, 1976.

At Calgary, Canada, 1977.

In 1978, I took this camera with me when my second journey around the States included a visit to the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River in Arizona. This became one of my life's greatest travelling moments when I was unexpectedly offered a bed at Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the Inner Gorge, close to the River itself, which unfortunately, couldn't be seen from the Village perched on the South Rim.

But having hiked to the Ranch and spent the night there, I took several photos of the River and its surroundings around five in the morning, at dawn before the sun rose. However, I was very disappointed with the results after the film was developed after arriving home. Those of the river were underexposed, thus, without a filter, turning the cliffs and buttes in the frame from the various reddish hues seen by the eye to a featureless black.

At the Grand Canyon, 1978.

The disappointment I felt made me determined to repeat the hike into the Canyon someday in the future. But with the loss of my full-time job as a machinist at the British Aircraft Corporation Works in Surrey, I knew that my dream to finish the photographic task in the Arizonian desert had to be suspended, at least for some years.

The 1980s ushered me into self-employment, which I held down for the next 35 years until retirement in 2015 (then aged 63) due to declining health. It was during this period that a tighter, more restricting budget also limited my travels to Europe, including Italy and as far south as Sicily, and then just within the United Kingdom. However, up to and including 1985, I have always travelled overseas on my own, as this suited me. Then, between 1986 to 1992, I found myself sharing the experience with first a group of close friends - Tim Kingcott, Gareth Philips, Keith White, and Paul Hunt. These consisted of one-week holidays spent riding a bicycle around Holland, Belgium, and Germany. Also, it was Tim who introduced me to hostelling during the Spring of 1985, a move that would have an effect on future travel.

Lake Como, 1981.

The Active Crater of Mt Etna, 1982.

Bikes in Belgium, 1987

A further tightening of the budget kept me within the United Kingdom, and in my home country, I enjoyed the experience of riding a bicycle with Gareth from John O'Groats to Lands End in 1990. A year later in 1991, I took my first solo holiday since 1985, when I cycled from Weymouth to Dover, then hopped over to France for the day before boarding a train for home. Then, in 1992, Gareth and I left our bikes locked away at home and boarded a National Express coach for a two-week hiking holiday in the Lake District in Cumbria.

Then, in October 1992, after a bust-up with a window cleaning customer and a personal friend as well, and while I was feeling very low and defeated, I had what might have been a supernatural vision whilst up on the ladder. In my mind's eye, I saw myself standing on the Mount of Olives, east of Jerusalem, looking over the city and praying over it. From that moment, everything changed. I knew that in the following year, I would once again walk along the sacred ground seventeen years after my first visit in 1976.

Just to pause to say that the suspension of my friendship with my customer was temporary. Within a couple of years after that incident, I was cycling through a residential street nearby when we saw each other while he was on foot. It was he who greeted me cheerfully, like a long-lost friend, and in a way, I was. We chatted along for quite a while. After that, we made commitments to remain in touch, including visiting each other's homes fairly frequently - although I never cleaned his windows again. 

Gareth repairs a puncture, End-to-End, 1990.

The Lead up to Take Off, 1993.

I recall my 1976 trip to Israel, how I stayed at the home of an Arab family and how I became familiar with the Middle Eastern way of life, which was so different from the West. But back then, I knew nothing about backpacker hostels. By 1993, I was already familiar with them. Indeed, I was wondering if such facilities existed in the Middle East, particularly in Israel, and how easy or difficult it might be to access them.

It's worth noting that my cycling friend Gareth has been to Israel either in the late 1980s or even in 1991. But he went as part of a Christian escorted tour group. I wanted to travel independently, as I have always done since I boarded a train to Italy in 1973.

I checked for any hostels in Israel, especially in or around Jerusalem. There were several. So, having gotten their addresses, I wrote, asking whether they would accommodate me after I arrive from the UK. I received no response from any of them. It looked as if I would be bed-hunting after arrival. That was not unusual.

But why was I concerned? Wasn't off-the-street bed hunting normal for me? Maybe, after hearing about Middle East conflicts and unrest, I felt apprehensive. Should I have taken an escorted tour like Gareth had? No. I could never keep behind an escort, even though I would have stayed in luxury hotels and shielded from any potential dangers. Facing up to the realities of a foreign country - any country really - and learning to cope is what travel is all about.

However, I was curious whether the Spihu family was still around in 1993. What had become of Ghanem and Abed? And their parents who opened their door to Eastern hospitality back in 1976? I was keen to return to Silwan to see how this Arab residential district is getting on. And would I have access to Hezekiah's Tunnel at the Spring of Gihon? Memories, memories...

At the Pinnacles, Swanage, 1991.

The Journey Begins - with a Hitch.

The day came for me to make my way to Gatwick Airport. I felt excited yet apprehensive as I approached the check-in desk. I was flying with Monarch, a charter airline that specialises in flights from the UK to Middle-Eastern destinations. Sadly, the airline collapsed and ceased operating in October 2017. For all passengers to Tel Aviv, I was directed to the check-in desk that was separate from the main check-in. It was after I had checked in and mingled among some Orthodox Jews, that I overheard the conversation between two staff members that our plane was grounded due to a technical fault, and there could be a six-hour wait.

I felt my heart drop. Stuck in the airport lounge for six hours, watching other passengers arrive and then leave for their departure gates while all that time, looking at the word Delayed next to our flight number on the overhead departures board.

I must admit to my restless pacing around the airport lounge. In turn, there was a group of Orthodox Jews resting at one of the rows of seats, all of them looking unperturbed. Presently, some of them had fallen asleep. This was to be my first flight since alighting at the same airport way back in 1978 after a transatlantic flight from New York. After waiting for 15 years for another opportunity to take to the air, all I felt was frustration, along with a fear that later that day I could find myself turning the key in my own front door lock after being sent home by the airport and told to remain in contact. All this while I was thinking that all who knew me were imagining my flight already halfway towards Tel Aviv.

On the summit of Scafell Pike, 1992.

But I wasn't told to go back home. Instead, I was told to wait in the lounge. By enquiring further to a member of our flight staff, I was told that a tube carrying lubrication oil to one of the components had ruptured, and a new one is to replace it. It looked to be a simple repair job. But why a six-hour delay for what looks like a twenty-minute job? Her answer to that was that all spare parts were stored at Heathrow, and this had to be collected and brought back to Gatwick. Not to mention tons of paperwork. Such as my state of mind when feeling panicky. I need someone to talk to me. 

I slumped on an empty seat. Why couldn't I be like this group of Orthodox Jews? Some were fast asleep, the rest reading or looking relaxed as if their faith in God had covered all their anxieties and fears. This has set a thinking pattern. Why wasn't I like them? Am I that immature? Yet, I knew what I would have done if I saw someone really panicked or showed signs of distress. I would have approached to give him comfort and strength and to encourage him to relax, for all will be well in the end. We'll be on board our flight soon. This kind of encouragement or edifying, I partially learned whilst a Hospital Radio presenter in the early eighties. Having face-to-face contact with patients confined to their ward beds and showing some positivity worked wonders on their recovery, hence fulfilling the real purpose of hospital radio.

It was evening when we were at last called to the boarding gate. We should have taken off at lunchtime. But I felt relieved as I sat in the centre aisle of the plane. Yet the feeling of frustration began to build as the plane remained unmoved for apparent ages. Due to late boarding, the captain missed his take-off slot, and another had to be arranged. Hence the wait.

Only when the plane soared into the air that at last, the holiday proper had begun.

Stock Photo.

Four hours after take-off from London Gatwick, the bright street lights of Tel Aviv suddenly appeared from the pitch darkness that hung over the Eastern Mediterranean. The city was only a few hundred metres below us, indicating imminent landing at Ben Gurion Airport. It was night, and I wondered whether there was any suitable accommodation to spend the rest of the night before making my way to Jerusalem the following day. 

There was no problem, no cause for any delay when I passed through passport control and had an Israeli visa stamped inside. After collecting my rucksack, I made my way to the hotel booking desk at another part of the airport arrivals terminal. To my surprise, it was manned, and someone in front was assigned a room in a city hotel. Then it was my turn.

I asked him whether there were any hostels in Tel Aviv, and his reply was there were, and he can arrange a bed for me at an ILH hostel in Tel Aviv (equivalent to YHA). I jumped at the opportunity. In next to no time, a bed was reserved for me at a particular hostel, the name I told the taxi driver to take me there.

It was late into the night by the time I arrived and checked in. The hostel wasn't full, yet I was assigned a bed in one of the dormitories with all the other beds taken. I climbed into bed, feeling sorry that a small portion of the planned holiday was severed, but the rest was still ahead - all full two weeks of it.

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Next Week: On to Jerusalem.

Travel Biography - Week 47.

Arrival at the Lake District National Park.

With the 1991 bicycle ride of over 380 miles completed, there remains one more "staycation" before setting off overseas again: for two weeks in the Lake District National Park. This was inspired by our first visit to the park in 1990 when we, Gareth Philips and I, cycled through the park as part of our John O'Groats to Lands End bicycle ride.

Gareth and I wanted to return to the Lake District, and we had an opportunity to visit in 1992. But this time, our bicycles remain safely locked away at home whilst we did some trail hiking. 

I believe that Gareth had been to the Lakes before, that is, before 1990. That same year saw me passing through the park for the first time in my life. I was immediately impressed with the contrast between the mountains and the lakes. These, along with the streams feeding small-scale waterfalls that make the sound of rushing waters such a delight, especially whilst out on a picnic. The National Park is unique in having some English superlatives all within a few miles of each other. Examples of these are England's largest body of freshwater, Lake Windermere; England's highest pond from sea level, Red Tarn at Helvellyn; England's highest mountain, Scafell Pike; and England's largest National Park after Scotland's Cairngorms National Park, the largest in the UK. Therefore, it shouldn't be too surprising that my wish to include the Lake District National Park in this Biography.

Before I go any further, I would like to say that I visited the Park once again in 1999, just before I married Alex, where I hiked and went hostelling between Ambleside, on the northern end of Lake Windermere, to Keswick, just north of Lake Derwentwater. It was whilst I was on a hill overlooking Lake Bassenthwaite that the whole area darkened to twilight during mid-afternoon. I stood among others with me, looking through special glasses at a partial solar eclipse. However, that was 1999, thus, I'm jumping ahead here. Instead, I prefer to stick to 1992 when Gareth shared the experience with me.

It was quite unusual for us to take the National Express coach from London Victoria Bus Station rather than the train out of London Euston, but the ride was not only a pleasant experience but the journey was much cheaper on the road than on the rail tracks, hence, compatible with our budgets. But it took considerably longer and it was evening by the time we arrived at Windermere Hostel.

At the Lake District with Gareth.

Lake Derwentwater.

This trip was a hiking holiday. That means that on some days we walked from hostel to hostel. Other times, we completed circuit walks, starting and ending at the same hostel. Hence, on one of the days, we set off from YHA Helvellyn to reach the summit of Mt Helvellyn. This included a precarious balancing act on Striding Edge, from which we had a superb view of the Red Tarn, the highest lake in the park, and the whole of England, at 718 metres above sea level. 

The summit of the mountain was marked by a triangulation point, around 950 metres high. It was whilst we were here that the weather took a turn for the worse, with rain driven by a strong gale-force wind. Fortunately, we were both prepared and wore appropriate clothing to suit that kind of weather, but in turn, there wasn't much to see from the summit. The atmospheric conditions obscured what would have been glorious views.

The Throne of England.

Then our attempt to ascend what we affectionately called the Throne of England, Scafell Pike, at 964 metres, England's highest mountain. On our first attempt, we made our way from YHA Longthwaite Hostel towards the mountain (a fairly long trek) but I was feeling discouraged for two reasons. First, the inclement weather was hiding much of the mountain in low clouds. Secondly, We didn't pack enough food in our rucksacks, and I was anticipating the feeling of hunger during the trip, with no shop on the summit to restock. And so, It was I who asked to return back to the hostel if he agreed to try again the next day.

The fog lifts from Scafell Pike.

On the Throne of England.

The next day, we made a second attempt to hike our way up the mountain. Although the summit of the Pike was still in the clouds, I felt through instinct that all will be fine. We walked along with heavier rucksacks on our backs. This time, we made sure we were adequately supplied.

As we ascended, the trail cut into the side of the mountain, with a wall of rock on one side and a sheer drop on the other, very much like one of the trails leading into the Grand Canyon. However, the summit was still bathed in clouds but with the clear visibility of the trail in front of us, we pressed on. Eventually, we arrived at a flat level under thick fog. Another hiker, looking distressed, approached us moaning that he had climbed this mountain already several times and on each occasion, the summit was wrapped in clouds. He told us that he never got to see the views the peak offered.

Gareth thought that we had arrived at the summit. But through the fog, I was able to just make out a wall of rock ahead. I insisted that we need to press on. I was right. There was a significant length to ascend before we reached the summit proper, which was marked by a large cairn.

We weren't alone. There were several other hikers already on the summit before we arrived. However, it was soon after we arrived at the summit cairn that there was a drastic change in the weather - for the better! The fog started to lift, looking like huge plumes of steam rising from the valleys around us. Presently, the view of Styhead Tarn became visible, about a mile and a half north of where we were standing, nestling in Borrowdale Valley and overlooked by the Great Gable. However, to our south, Scafell rises, and it looked to our eyes that this peak was higher than the one we were on. However, after we descended to Lingmell Crag, by looking back up the mountain, we could see that the peak we were on, Scafell Pike, was the higher of the two. We stayed on the summit of Scafell Pike for a considerable time, admiring the views and having a picnic whilst sitting with our backs leaning on the cairn. Indeed, this was the Throne of England.

Lingmell Crag provided a wonderful view of a major body of water, Lake Wastwater. By then the sky was clear of all clouds and fog, the sun was shining, and the general panorama of the Lake District was at its best. I felt sorry for the hiker who gave up shortly before we had arrived at the summit and was beginning his descent. If only he stayed at the summit for a little longer.

Lake Wastwater as seen from Lingmell Crag

Lake Windermere.

Other Areas in the Lake District.

Along with mountain hiking - not mountaineering or mountain climbing by the way, as that is totally different - we walked through gentler terrain. Lake Grasmere was one example, that boasted two YHA hostels nearby, YHA Butharlyp How and YHA Thorney How. We managed to stay at each one at different times throughout the holiday. The lake itself was shallow enough to see the floor less than a metre below, yet it was an excellent venue for boating. One afternoon, Gareth and I hired a rowing boat for an hour.

Another site that was worth exploring was Lake Thirlmere, a ribbon lake that was once a natural body of water before it was turned into a reservoir to supply fresh water to Manchester. To the west of Thirlmere, we found a trail that took us up Armboth Fell, a hill covered in purple heather, to the beautiful Lake Derwentwater on the other side. This natural lake, just south of the town of Keswick, is rounder than most of the other ribbon lakes in the District, which makes the whole park resemble the spokes of a wheel when seen from the air. Also, Lake Derwentwater has an island that rises and sinks slightly, the last remaining evidence of volcanic activity in the UK.

Lake Ullswater is another lake  I was impressed with, as it was surrounded by higher mountains. The road that runs alongside this lake heads south over the Kirkstone Pass towards Lake Windermere, the largest body of water in England, eleven miles long and one mile at its widest, it's also the lowest lake in the National Park, just under 40 metres above sea level. It is also heavily commercialised, unlike most other lakes, with cruisers plying its length and a home for various water sports, including rowing and water skiing.

Wantendlath Tarn.

Red Tarn, the highest lake in England.

However, it was our accent to England's highest mountain that impressed me. There are two higher mountains here in the British Isles. Ben Nevis, at 1,344 metres, is not only Scotland's highest mountain but is also the highest in the whole of the United Kingdom. Then there is Mt Snowdon, the highest mountain in Wales at a height of 1,085 metres. I guess this makes the UK so ironic in a geographical sense. England might have the largest land area, but its crowning glory is the lowest of the three. There is no English mountain higher than a thousand metres in height. Yet, Wales, which has a considerably lower land area than either England or Scotland, can boast a mountain higher than a thousand metres.

And all that has impressed my friend Gareth Philips.

Dramatic contrast: A stream and Great Gable mountain.

It was 1992, and somewhere in the Lake District, Gareth proposed a very challenging idea. That was to ascend all three mountains - Ben Nevis, Mt Snowdon, and Scafell Pike - within 24 hours. Would I rise to his challenge? Indeed, I would! After we had returned home, his proposal was put to Tim Kingcott and Keith White. Like me, Tim accepted the challenge while Keith volunteered to provide the transport necessary to meet the challenge.

And so it was agreed. 1993 was to be the year of the greatest physical and mental challenge we could ever face.

I returned to work, as Gareth returned to the bank he worked for. My window cleaning business trundled on, making enough to eat, drink, clothing, keep a roof above me, and stay warm. It was the phase of my life when little was put away towards savings.

I had a customer who was a close friend. I also cleaned his windows every month as I do with all other customers. One October morning, before starting the day's work, I had coffee at his home, as I usually do, and have done for some time. However, a wordy disagreement arose between us, and then not only had he terminated our window cleaning contract, but our friendship was paused for a couple of years, and I was seen as an object of disdain. I sauntered off to the next street feeling very down, defeated, and busted, where the rest of the day's work was to commence.

That morning, I was feeling very low. It was while I was up on the ladder that I had to pause, an incredible feeling came over me. In my mind, I saw clearly the city of Jerusalem from the summit of the Mount of Olives. With the vision came a request for me to go to Jerusalem, stand on the Mt of Olives, and pray over the city. I was given a week to stay there. I had less than a year to save up for the trip.

I prayed there and then, asking if I could have two weeks in Israel instead of just one. I felt that the request was granted. I felt excited. Once again, I would walk in the Holy Land after 17 years since my last visit there in 1976. Forget the Three-Mountain challenge. I'm going for better things!

From that morning onwards everything changed. Each week for the next ten months, I was able to put away £20 without any tightening of the weekly budget. The sum of money saved up by August 1993 paid for the whole trip nicely, with ample spending money.

And the start of a new era in my life.

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Next Week: A problem at the Airport tests my character.