After a  few jobs in town, took the bus for Jericho (Arikha) and got off at Ein Qelt with a Dutch and a Scottish girl. Was walking happily in completely the wrong direction when picked up by Brits/Ozzies in a taxi. So much for the lone trek. Waded up the wadi to one spring (24 others!)_ between sheer walls, then splashed around happily with fish, frogs, orange dragon flies in the turquoise water. The walk to the Monastey of St George was very, very hot, and despite all my experience I was still going hyper. The path was mostly obvious, but there was little shade, and the monastery invisible until on top of it. I’m sure I was drinking enough (nearly sick) so maybe I should take more breaks?

Once there, they wouldn’t let us in because they were lunching. Nice chat to the folk (quite sorry to leave them behind!) then solo to Jericho. Some cool breeze, but not a lot. Oh, in Wadi Qelt, young looking Bedouin sat me down, fetched me tea. Actually, his wives (2) invited me first! Allajismi has 5 kids and 200 goats, dogs, and donkeys. One son had the same watch as me – can’t be doing badly?

But this was nothing compared to the hospitality in Jericho. Said “Ahalan” to everyone, talked to a few people, only one kid begged for something. Then walking along the road I impaled my earlobe on a low thorny branch, so I went into the first gate, blood oozing between by fingers, and acted pathetic. The old man Khalid sat me down under the vine trellises, sat himself down opposite me and poured water for me to wash. He gave me cool water to drink, then orangeade. My ear was obviously okay (he fetched a torch to examine the inside) yet he cut 3 bunches of his own grapes for me, picking the best ones. I only commented on how beautiful they were. Then 3 cups of tea, from a silver tray, then a plate of plums. His children (very young, although he was 62) sat around us quietly, and he explained he came from Yaffa with his family in ’48, at the age of 17, and with some emotion he said he could not be happy here while his home was really there. Although he was dressed raggedly, the outside of the house looked clean and new, there was a row of pot plants, and the kids were smartly dressed. And they dashed off to watch the TV.

Finally arrived at Hisham’s Palace at 5pm – hot enough to sweat still. Some of the labels seem optimistic considering the rubble, but there is enough to impress: the water pipes and stoves, the different pools, and the fabulous mosaic in the corner bath house. They must have been upset when the earthquake destroyed it all.