DAMASCUS RAMBLES

Some of the morning was spent hunting for the Historical Museum. Reputed to be off a side street, we combed the side streets in the approximate location, and were directed back to the main street, where it finally appeared. Across an unpreposessing courtyard, through an even less encouraging doorway, but then it all became worthwhile.

Once the house of an ‘Azem who had been prime minister of Syria, it was now kept as an example of how life had once been lived.

This was one of the reception areas. There was marvellous tiling on the floor and walls - it was almost an embarrassment of decoration. Even the ceilings were rich with adornment.

The light was a riot of beadwork, and slight drafts made it move, which was both slightly hypnotic and slightly cooling.

Almost every room had a tinkling fountain, and this beautiful water maze made me realize that my own living room lacked a certain something!Even the iwan opening off the central courtyard was spectacularly tiled, and the cool pool in the centre of the courtyard ensured that, as the sun set, the air would be cooled and welcoming.

From the Historical Museum it was a short walk to the National Museum. Sadly, photography was NOT ALLOWED. Not only was one reminded of this fact at every turn, but guards, often carrying surprisingly heavy arms, were at pains to remind you. This was a pity, because the collection is spectacular and very well displayed. Syria has many sites through while the development of civilization can be traced, going back to the earliest signs of agriculture, and I would have liked to have acquired some images for use in lectures. We tried fruitlessly to buy some postcards, but all the really interesting ones were sold out. We did finally find our way into a display of yet another 'Azem palace, moved here to preserve it. A local joined us, and had no objection to our taking just one picture!

We had now been museuming for nearly seven hours, and were fully sated. We tottered back through the crowded streets, to a delicious dinner at our hotel, and a fight over whether to turn on the air-conditioner - it was very noisy - or to open the windows and get a breath of fresh air - the night was filled with the sound of hooting. Damascus is rather like Paris used to be, where every vehicle announces its movement by blowing its horn. Eventually the air-conditioner won!