Tuesday 30th November 1993, 10:00am - 4:30pm

We look out from the window of the coach as we drive from Palmyra to Homs. We appear to be driving through a desert. Here and there we see Bedouin tents and men out with flocks of sheep. The ground looks barren to my inexperienced eyes but the sheep are busy grazing. There must be enough to feed them, at least today. Maybe they move on tomorrow. I wonder what the shepherds are thinking about as they sit overlooking their sheep. I don't think I could cope with the boredom.

Tuesday 30th November 1993, evening

This morning we were in the desert. Now it's raining. We are back on the coach driving through the steady rain towards Aleppo, the home town of our guide. As we reach the outskirts he is noticeably excited to be back and tells us that his four year old son will be waiting for him at home. Tonight is his night off and his colleague will come to take us to dinner and introduce the musicians who will play classical Arabic music for us.  Eventually we arrive at our hotel, we are all tired. The days are long with much travelling and so much to learn; so much information about the early settlements and cities and the current state of archeology in Syria.

Wednesday 1st December 1993, morning

It is a grey, very cold day. I think it may be trying to snow.  Will my main memory of Syria be of the cold? Why didn't I bring gloves? The coach turns a corner and I see it. The citadel of Aleppo is a magnificent place. Perched on a steep-sided hill, heavily fortified and with only one entrance approached by a steeply inclined bridge over its 30m wide - now dry - moat. I forget the cold as our little group makes its way through the first tower gate and across the bridge, up towards the single entry point, the exercise providing some warmth. Half way across our guide stops. He is at pains to explain that the place had been designed for defence. He points to the moat and the steep sloping sides rising up from it. He conjures images of the past. Imagine trying to invade: would we attempt to cross the moat, which until the 1940s was still filled with water, scramble up the smooth stones and scale the citadel walls as arrows, boiling oil and hot lime rained down on us or would we charge over this bridge to storm the entrance?