Jerusalem

Another early start. We set off still excited from our day in Egypt yesterday seeing the pyramids, etc, and with memories of the squalor still vivid in our minds.

Israel, we soon discovered, is a complete contrast to its neighbour. Chalk and cheese. Night and day. Black and white.

The drive east from Ashdod to Jerusalem revealed an attractive, orderly, very European style countryside. The fields were planted with a variety of healthy green crops interspersed with neatly mown hayfields that glowed gold in the morning light. Everything was well kept and well organised. It was delightful and a feast for eyes grown accustomed to filth, desert and poverty.

Jerusalem is a huge city, dripping with history and stories both tragic and joyous. Our first stop was at a lookout above the city from where we could see all the major historical and religious sites in the city. It was exciting and overwhelming at the same time.

We visited all the churches we should and then headed to the main attraction, the Via Dolorosa.

I remembered well the Stations of the Cross from when I was a child. It was somewhat surreal to be there in the place where the events actually took place.

The antiquity alone of the street is mind boggling, let alone the religious connections. It is narrow, 3 or 4 metres wide at the most, and so dark as to be almost cave like even though it is open above. Endless small shops selling foods, clothing, household items and every manner of things crowd each side and people, both locals and innumerable tourists jostle and push their way through. Adding to the busy congestion are the barrows of fruit and breads of all shapes and sizes that are parked along the sides of the already narrow street.

I can imagine it looked very much the same that day 2000 years ago when Christ walked there, struggling to carry the cross.

It was a hot and uphill walk with uneven cobblestones underfoot and I was pushed this way and that and my way blocked over and over again. By the time I reached the place where Christ fell for the third time I was ready to give up but there was no way back. I had to go on. The guide had disappeared and I could no longer see anyone I recognised - even Alan was out of sight.

I was gasping for breath and thinking that I'd never be able to find my way back to the ship and that I'd have to stay there forever. No miracle occurred, however. I just had to keep going and going.

After what seemed like an eternity I emerged at an opening where I spotted our guide. We had all arrived at the church where the guide said the tomb of Christ had lain.

It may be blasphemous, but I think when my turn comes and I reach the pearly gates, St Peter will say, "Come in, my child. Your penance is done."

By the time I'd recovered from my ordeal, we were on our way to the Wailing Wall. The broad walkway, uphill again, was filled with Jewish people, many orthodox in their peculiar black hats and clothes and with twists of hair falling on either side of their faces, and also some westerners who had come to pray or to just touch the wall. There were some small groups of children - boys and girls separated - on school outings with their teachers.

The area is divided into two; one part is for men to worship and there is a separate section for women.

The ground slopes down towards the wall and along the sides are bookcases filled with what I supposed to be versions of the Torah. As I was only in the women's section I couldn't see what was happening in the men's but I suppose it was the same. The devout would take a book from the shelf and read, intoning prayers as they rocked back and forth. While they prayed others were writing petitions on small pieces of paper and pushing them into cracks in the wall so the wall seemed to be sprouting paper blossoms in a strip that marked the reach of the petitioners.

When the prayer was over or the petition placed, each would back away from the wall and up the slope until a respectful distance was reached and then they would turn and go on their way. It was interesting.

Lunch over, we crossed into the Palestinian quarter to visit Bethlehem. That was awful.

First there was a sort of Checkpoint Charlie to go through. That high concrete wall that divides Palestine and Israel is an eyesore and a disgrace. Our guide told us that Israel had agreed to 98% of the Palestinian demands and they still turned it down. Hence the wall.

Hateful rubbish!

Bethlehem is a scruffy hillside town. Big disappointment!

We were taken to a church with a star inlaid into the floor of a sort of grotto. That was supposedly where Jesus was born. Yeah, right.

I prefer the stories we taught to the Infants at school.

Maybe I'm just too sceptical.

Anyway, some believe it's the exact place, I suppose.

Off to Anzac Cove and Istanbul next.