The first thing to notice upon my arrival back in Nablus is something that has shaken me to the very core.

They moved the fruit and vegetable market.

I am at a loss as to what to do.

I thought it best, upon this discovery to leave Nablus as soon as possible and clear my head in order to try and cope with this traumatic discover. So, south I headed. The weekend was spent pleasantly amongst Ahmad's extended family. Being foreign my presence was naturally entertaining, and this was the first time I had taken up the family's offer of going to stay with them. It had happened completely by chance, having appeared a day early at Ahmad's house, yet I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Ahmad's mother's side of the family are from Hebron, and live in an 'old' house. Something about a Palestinian family living in an old British mandate building tickles my imagination. At least Britain left something worth having. It's spacious, with a kitchen tacked on at the far end from which we entered. But it is the garden that they were the most keen to show me. I have never known anyone so proud to show me an entire space covered with bright green plastic grass, with raised beds lining the sides in the style of fake tree trunks. The pity is that they used real wood to build the raised flower beds, but they then plastered over it to give it a more authentic 'tree' look. This entails painting and varnishing in a shade of tan a little too orange to be genuine, and drawing in the grain of the wood around fabricated knots. Needless to say it was delightful and inestimably added to by the multi-coloured lights strategically placed around the flower beds. There they lay, stealthy, ever watchful, vigilantes ready to ambush the unsuspecting visitor and drop them unceremoniously at the centre of some bizarre surrealist pleasure-garden disco from the seventies that also evoked memories of those awkward childhood birthday parties where you either stood to the side and refused to dance, secretly resenting your desire to appear cool, or joined in and got complemented by other children's parents for your enthusiasm which was enough to move any self-respecting child to a position of stubborn hatred of patronising adults.

This sense was also present later in the evening when I actually found myself dancing in Sharqi (middle eastern) style in the middle of the room as part of celebrations of little Ghazul's second birthday party. There I was, the uncool kid shaking my hips and trying desperately not to look too idiotic and trying simultaneously to appear not to care how I danced. Those sixteen years or so seemed suddenly not to have passed at all, especially when all the parents around the edge of the room were cheering me on, like a dancing bear in Dickensian novels, admittedly a little less sinister and vindictive, but only just.

The next night I could be found halfway up a steep hill somewhere between Beit Jala and Jerusalem in the back of a car nicknamed Ferrari. Its name was obviously a highly ironic gesture, and if this was not already evident by its rusted and slightly wonky edifice it was proved by its behaviour. Mid-way up aforementioned hill it decided that there was not sufficient fuel for it to make it to the top, and so spluttered half-heartedly and unceremoniously cut out. Refusing to restart at all the driver was compelled to roll backwards off the road and almost into an olive tree which was happily spared the injustice of being nudged by a cantankerous old peugot. Fortunately we were saved by the UN, or rather friends that drove a UN car. It seemed ironic that the UN could help us, but not the countryside we found ourselves stuck in, as this is right near to where the security barrier has, as in so many other places, cut through Palestinian land and olive groves. As it turns out, it is also an area where Palestinians can walk straight from the West Bank into Jerusalem without a permit. Anyone who says that the barrier stopped suicide bombers should talk to any local shepherd.

So we piled into the UN car and headed up the rest of the hill towards our destination which resembled a medium sized livestock barn with a corrugated roof but was actually a restaurant that served expensive beer and maqluba which I wasn't keen on, having already eaten it that day. However before we reached it, one of our group, a Mexican called Manuel, came running towards us grinning, brandishing two large coke bottles full of clear liquid. Somehow, in the middle of nowhere, he had located and obtained fuel. Some would have assumed that Manuel had a divining stick for crude oil and a mini distillery meant for home-brewing in the back of his car. Others with less imagination would assume it had come from fuel for the restaurant generator. Pick whichever one makes you happiest.

Nablus was grey today. Grey and very wet.It reminded me of two years ago when I was here at a similar time and I recall watching the road at Bab ezgak and remarking on how much like a waterfall it was. I had to head into the old city to rehearse at Ali's oud workshop with Ali and Sameh. We are playing in a concert next week, and things have stepped up a notch in expectation and rehearsal time. The workshop is full of ouds and very cold as it is essentially a stone shed with no heating. Apart from the rain, we might as well have been outside. Throughout the afternoon I often gazed out into the little lane and marvelled at the rain's consistency. Always there, never forgotten, occasionally surging in enthusiasm and then, realising that its presence has been noted, retreating into heavy fat drops and thunder.

The rehearsal drew attention from various shabab and friends of Ali. I suppose it must be quite nice to have music floating through the rain to distract you from the dismal grey. Either that or the group of people listening never considered themselves numerous or strong-enough to overpower us and wrench our offending instruments from our unsuspecting hands.

Traditional Arabic music has a completely different resonance than traditional music in the UK. For one thing it is respected as a living tradition by the majority of Palestinians instead of being relegated to the pastime of bearded men in pubs and wailing women with fingers in their ears, eyes tightly closed in an expression that combines ecstasy with a desperate urge to relieve one's bladder. It also incorporates into the repertoire the great singers of the past century - insulting Um Kalthoum, Abd al Wahhab or Farid al Atrash could be worse in some circles than desecrating the name of Yasser Arafat, though I wouldn't recommend that either. The music has longer lines, has no short catchy phrases, but rather more elongated and expressive lines. And then of course there are the different scales. I am ashamed to say I still only know perhaps four and a half of the scores of maqamat, and have no talent in improvising (taqasim) on them either. It takes a lot of listening and immersion in this distinctive style to be able to participate well in it.

I was not unaware of this when I agreed to go and do a recording later that day for the song of one of Ali's friends, however I hoped that they wouldn't expect too much of me. Alas I feel I did not fully live up to expectations. Sure, I managed to memorise the short little melody line, but when they said to me 'improvise!'my style was unshakeably western-folk-panicked-classical musician. Still, I had an interesting time recording and had to stop myself smiling too obviously when they were playing me the songs. In true Arab pop style there were plenty of synthesized drums and 'instruments' and a highly repetitive, never varying drum beat. The voice singing, which turned out to be the guy who wrote it, was actually very good. It was also strangely touching, because he had been inspired to write the song after going to the Music Harvest folk gig at the start of December and seeing how we had mixed traditional Sharqi and British and Irish tunes together. To churn out the old phrase 'music is a universal language' may seem contrived, but that is what he was insisting. He wanted this song to be a song not just for locals, but a universal song that grabbed the attention of the outsideworld too.

Unfortunately what he doesn't realise I fear is that the Arab popular song is quite specific in style to this area of the world. What is more, where singing of peace, harmony and the destruction of walls may be highly pertinent and sound natural in Arabic it sounds contrived if translated for a Western audience. Also, the strongly nationalistic sentiments would jar with many audiences who would liken it to the EDL releasing a single called 'we'd beat those manky Scots and Welsh again if we needed to' and whose video included endless shots of the queen, cream teas and football matches. I wonder if there is any way of hurdling these obstacles. Perhaps music isn't as universal as we think it is.

As if to confirm these musings the guy who owned the studio was all too keen to show me his latest song. Whilst the singing was of a high standard, the video was the thing that impressed me the most. In various historic and countryside locations an inordinate number of different debke groups danced around more or less in time to the music, whose subject was something to do with feeling the point of a Kalashnikov rifle. To emphasise this there was a speak-over part in the middle of the song which consisted of a man giving some sort of motivational speech from one of the mountains overlooking Nablus, brandishing a Kalashnikov. Let's just say I don't think he was advocating an entirely pacifist approach to negotiation and national resistance. Several different singers starred in this piece, one of them being the owner of the studio. They appeared seamlessly amongst the debke dancers, usually dressed in an outfit completely different to the one they were previously sporting. It was like the same singer was morphing in shape and fashion sense as the song progressed.

At one point it also appeared that the cameraman had a fit of epilepsy, or rather the film editor did, as the entire picture flashed like strobes in a disco. This was made odder by the fact that it happened just once for approximately three seconds and never occurred again.

I was asked The next day when I would be available to film for the music video. I cannot decide whether I desperately want it to never be completed, or whether I want it up on youtube as soon as possible. Probably the latter. I'll send the link round, if it ever appears, and in the meanwhile, practise my debke steps.