Take The Train, Hear The Strain

I'm joined by the only other tourist on my hotel today (and maybe the only other one in Lattakia right now). Sebastian is a young, German beekeeper and cuts quite a striking figure. He wears a thick, grey Jalaba and rounded glasses, smokes fine German cheroots, and keeps a pocket watch and a fountain pen in his breast pocket should necessity deem their requirement. I think Sebastian was probably born about 100 years too late.

Last night, we loosely arranged to go to the Qualat and go there we do today. The easier option of taxi to the distant bus station is followed by a micro bus to the nearest town of Al Haffa. There, we negotiate a ride up and down the winding, veering roads towards the castle itself. With all three of us squeezed on the motorbike, it's a bit of a labour ascending, and a bit of an experience descending- closing your eyes offers the only refuge. It doesn't help that our driver is slightly crazed either. He particularly enjoys shouting : "Mr! Mr! Good, Good?!", as we sweep around corners. Downhill is when he is at his most enthusiastic. We get our first view of our destination from a nearby hilltop, separated from it by a very steep ravine, which the three adventurers rapidly descend and then climb. Looking across at the fortress of rock and faded green, you could be forgiven for thinking you weren't in the Middle East, as the wind begins to pick up, bringing the rain clouds ever nearer. It's certainly hard to imagine that 700 odd years ago, a group of religious fanatics swept their away across Europe all the way here in the name of a Christian God, attempting to reclaim the Holy lands. They were ultimately undone by their Nemesis. A man in whose castle I know stand: Saladdin.

The castle itself is nowhere near as well preserved as Krak, but the location is rather spectacular- a must for anyone's Syrian itinerary. There are several large, stout mains towers and an equally eye catching mosque all waiting to be explored. The new arrival of flowers poke through the rocky ground, small blobs of life on an otherwise colourless day. We leave our motorbike rider at the bottom of the walls making our way up the main steps to the entrance hall. Inside it, we take a quick seat next to the custodians and warm our hands by his fire in the gloom. We spend the afternoon individually scrambling around the deserted remnants, occasionally bumping into solely Arabic tourists.

The longer you stay in Arabia, the more you notice the variety of differences and subtleties between its wide ranging populations. The people I pass now are very darkly, and conservatively dressed men, and my guess of Saudi Arabia/ Gulf States proves correct.

We meet up with our driver once we've finished our self guided tour and "enjoy" more of the same adrenalin filled fun on the way back to the nearby town. An uneventful microbus journey sees us back in the city. It's been a real whistle stop tour of Lattakia from the moment I arrived. I contemplate it all as I stand on the station platform awaiting my 15.40 train back to Aleppo. The train pulls out bang on time. We make our way through an agricultural greenscape I haven't yet experienced in this country- all ploughed fields and orchards and olive groves. It all turns into a very pleasant journey once the winner of "Syria's loudest kid competition" takes a breather and catches some sleep. He was up against some pretty stiff competition to hold on to that title, let me tell you, and that was just in our train carriage this evening. Light turns to dark, and the peaceful lands disappear from view.

pull up in the friendly city of Aleppo once more in the early hours of evening, where a very helpful passenger (also a railways engineer) directs me towards the bustling centre. As we walk, he informs me just how much better the train is than the coach service. Although not disappointed with the latter, I must confess to him being quite correct. I should have used it more often than I have done. First class for £1!

Arriving in the Spring Flower hostel of days gone by, I know I have come full circle in this country. The first face I see as I stagger up the steep narrow steps is Korean Richard. It's music to my ears as he says he is just cooking a huge bowl of a Korean noodle dish, and I should join him. Food and a beer and bed follows.