Syria is quite an enigma from the outside. Very rarely in the news, either for positive or negative reasons, all you tend to hear about it is what emanates occasionally from the White House - and that's that it's a dangerous, terrorist breeding ground, or that it's a land of religious zealots and extremists. At best, it's said to be profoundly anti-western, pro-Islamic and particularly anti-American. The net result of all this means that there is barely an American tourist to be seen. As so often is the case with such places in the Middle East it seems, the image of the country is tarnished by it's eastern neighbour. Only a 200km expanse of desert separates Aleppo or Damascus from the Iraq border, and this, obviously has hit tourism in the country in the last decade pretty badly.

The first thing you notice when you step off the bus in Aleppo after coming from Turkey is the women. Here, more than anywhere in Syria, the women almost all wear some form of head-dress, and many wear the full-facial burkha. It's quite unnerving to walk past a woman when you can't even see her eyes. The black cloth in front of their faces must make just walking around quite a challenge - they are almost always accompanied by someone, usually their husband or a male relative. As we hiked aimlessly and maplessly to the centre from the bus-stop in the searing heat (all street signs were in Arabic), I in my shorts and vest and Natalia in her summer wear attracted plenty of interested glances and stares. We soon found that people, though often lacking any English or indeed any language but Arabic, were incredibly eager to help lost tourists, and one guy walked us down some sidestreets for five minutes to point us in the right direction for our hotel. We got our bearings from there, and thanked him. His smiled bow and gesture of hands together in praying position, accompanied by "You are welcome sir", dismissed my vague worries of a hostile reception instantly. From that moment on, all we experienced in Syria was kindness and helpfulness.

Our hotel had been crucified by the Lonely Planet. In an unprecedented move, it had advised that no one should consider staying there, due to its lecherous staff, who had a habit of peeping through holes in walls at women in showers. The Springflower hostel has written a strong letter of protest about this on the Lonely Planet Thorn Tree, and I'm not surprised - those sorts of comments are libelous. Fortunately for them, penny-pinching Poles and Russians seemed to pay scant regard to such comments, and seemed to frequent the hostel generously. We were given a room of moderate quality for ten dollars a night, which seemed reasonable. I tried to broach the subject of the Lonely Planet comments with the hostel owner, but he was understandably reluctant to discuss it. I suppose those kind of write-ups can kill businesses, and the power of the Lonely Planet should not be under-estimated. So often, you meet people who have coincidentally stayed in the same hotels in the same towns and eaten at the same restaurants, whilst having the same opinions about things and visiting the same sights - because they both own the same Lonely Planet. Anyway, | am happy to report that we had two lech-free nights at the Springflower, and other than an unwelcome cockroach in the bathroom one night, we were very happy there.

Aleppo is one of the great towns of the Middle East. Actually it's a city, of about four million. It's not very famous for some reason, not since the days of Agatha Christie and her Murder on the Orient Express which terminated here anyway. It seems happy to stay under the tourist radar for the most part, but it's a bit of a hidden gem. The central area contains souqs dating back to medieval times, and this network of high stone walled and ceilinged markets are absolutely great for wandering around, getting lost in and shading from the fierce sun. Some of the fiercest bargaining goes on here also, and you have to stride determinedly through the cool narrow alleyways with their shafts of sunlight from above to not be drawn in by some of the cunning sales banter. Aleppo boasts some world-class cuisine also. It's mezzes (small starters), grilled lamb and chicken meat and deserts are often mouth-watering. You walk into a top-class restaurant, perhaps a courtyard arranged around a central fountain and a terrace above you, sheltered by leafy trees from the glare of the hot Syrian sun, and sit down to a lazy lunch which starts with a few courses of delicious mezze; this is followed by a crisp salad perhaps with bits of fried bread, then some lamb meatballs soaked in cherry sauce and washed down with fiery arak and then a strong Turkish coffee or cold Al-Sharak or Barada beer. You lean back in your chair, replete, and ask for the bill, and find it comes to less than five dollars for two people. That's the eating experience in Aleppo - and the choices for fine eating are extensive. If you're willing to pay a bit more - which is in my opinion totally unnecessary - you would dine like a king. Truly. One place you can go and feel like a king - or at least a very wealthy Collonial-era traveller a la T.E Lawrence, is the Baron Hotel in Aleppo.

The citadel of Aleppo is a one of the oldest and largest fortified medieval castles in the world. It's bang in the centre of the city, and is one of the main tourist draws. It costs about one hundred and fifty Syrian pounds to get in; ten with a student's or teacher's card. (one pound fifty/ten pence respectively). It's a pretty impressive structure, and commands fantastic views of the city. Like most other tourist attractions in Syria, as we would later find out, it is pretty much free of tourists, so you get it to yourself. One other example like this is the Castle of Sal-ad-Din, which we visited on a day trip from Aleppo. A massive castle which dominates the surrounding valley, this place enjoys an awesome setting, and is considered, along with the more famous Crac de Chevaliers, one of the most important of the Crusader Castles in the Middle East. Of the three, Crac gets my seal of approval for best kid's fantasy adventure playground - it's simply awesome, and also commands majestic views of the surrounding plains in central Syria. It's more or less intact, and has a European elegance, brought in part by the French Crusaders who gave it it's name. It's rightly regarded as the most impressive intact medieval structure in the Middle East - and possibly the world. Endless superlatives can be used to describe them and I won't waste words, but these castle fortresses are simply stunning.

Our next stop after Aleppo was Latakkia - a coastal town and a port. We took the train - our only train journey on this trip - and paid 80p for a four hour journey each. The train, in reasonably good nick, wound through some pretty countryside, through the hills of northern Syria. It was on this journey that I learned of Keegan's shock resignation from Newcastle, and I have a video that Natalia made of me looking absolutely gutted - realising that another season had collapsed in an instant - and one which had started so promisingly. The (mis)fortunes of Newcastle United F.C seem to blight every trip I do in September; we are not known for our great starts these days. But this time round, trouble looks terminal. Latakkia was rather underwhelming - a so-so port area and uninteresting downtown area reveal little of interest to the tourist. Still, we found another fantastic restaurant in the evening with a fantastic mellow vibe and delicious mezze again. It's speciality was a fantastic walnut and pomegranate dish which, with a touch of lime juice, tasted divine when spread on hot garlic bread. It's taboulleh (crushed, creamed eggplant with garlic) and onion soup weren't to be sniffed at either. We explored the Syrian coast a bit next day. Our rather odd but friendly Tin-Tin loving hostel owner had recommended a couple of places. The first of these was a huge disappointment - a pay-to-enter beach at a hotel which was strewn with rubbish and had filthy looking sea water; the second, fortunately, a few miles to the north, was much better. Our mini-bus dropped us by the side of the road near a forgotten-looking restaurant; not too promising. We ambled over the adjacent field and along to the cliff top and had a glimpse of a fantastic rocky coastline with virgin white pebbly beaches and craggy cliffs crumbling into the sea, one or two little islands dotting the seascape and seagulls crowing overhead. Again, not a soul was visible. We found an idyllic-looking cove and scrambled down a steep path to the beach below which we had completely to ourselves. Perfection - and not really expected; Syria isn't known for it's beaches. For complete isolation and off-the-beaten-track uniqueness, this place had to be a real find. It also had some of the most colourful and attractive white and grey pebbles I have seen, some of which we stowed in our bags as souvenirs.

Ramadan started around this time. This affects you as a tourist indirectly, in the sense that you are not always able to eat when and where you would like - a lot of restaurants are closed during daylight hours - and also, public transport becomes very difficult or even non-existent after sunset, as everyone goes to madly stuff their faces or quench their thirst. Ramadan is a real test of one's faith, I imagine. I can imagine refraining from eating during the day - it's actually not that difficult if you stuff yourself at night (which they do); but not being able to drink when the temperatures are pushing 40 degrees must be maddening. The result is that people really don't do very much doing the day - and certainly nothing active which would induce a thirst - so you get things even more to yourself. It is quite amazing to watch people come seven pm - shops are left unattended, cab drivers flee their cars, leaving their passengers still in their seats, and people gather in homes and restaurants to feast and guzzle on endless courses of food to sate their hunger. It is said that there are more fights, divorces and murders at this time of year than any other - hardly surprising, really.

We went to Apamya and Palmyra, two stunning Roman sights that are near the top of the 'things not to miss in Syria' list. Apamya has one of the longest and most well-preserved avenues I've seen anywhere. Again, a massive place with huge tourist potential, but not another tourist in sight. Searing heat made it extremely fatiguing to walk round, but it was worth the effort. We had to be given a lift on a motorbike to this one by a kindly melon-seller (who had also kindly invited us into his house for tea earlier). Natalia burnt her leg on the exhaust pipe of his bike and was plagued with problems connected with this for the rest of the trip. Palmyra is the largest and most complete Roman city I've ever been to, along with Efes in Turkey and perhaps Hierapolis. It's in the middle of the Syrian desert, and so one of the hottest places you can imagine sight-seeing. You are advised to start early, even in mid-September; the temperature was in the high 90's by eleven am. One of the funniest sights of the trip was watching a French woman trying to grapple with an errant camel near the theatre there - she spent ten minutes squealing and screaming in French as it's owner battled manfully to get the disobedient creature to heel - before it obstinately sat down in the collapsible-table manner that camels do and refused to budge. Note to self: never be tempted to ride a camel. Still, it would have saved a bit of energy - walking around there was incredibly sapping and my 1.5 litre bottle of water disappeared within half an hour. By 12.30, I was so tired and thirsty after traipsing around the theatre, sacrificial temple of Ba'al and agora that it was all I could do to stumble into a garden-cafe by a pool and slump down for the next hour. A taxi drive to the nearby citadel above Palmyra affords stunning sunset views over the ruins and surrounding desert. It was indeed, an unmissable sight. Shame that the surrounding town, as so often with tourist magnets like this, was so scruffy and uninteresting - and full of annoying touts trying to sell overpriced tat.

Our last stop in Syria - and arguably the best and most interesting - was the capital, Damascus. All roads, as they say, eventually lead to it, and Moses is said to have looked down on the city from the surrounding hills and refused to enter, insisting that he only wanted to see heaven once - when he died. While I wouldn't go so far as to say that Damascus is heavenly in its beauty, it is definitely one of the great cities of the Middle East - more important than Aleppo, more historic than Beirut or Amman and more serene than Jerusalem - it might just be my favourite city on the trip, taking everything into account. Our first stop in the city on arriving late in the evening and checking into a cheap but decent hotel close to the old city was an ice cream shop called 'Bakdash'. This place had been given such a glowing write-up, and I'd heard so much about it from other travellers, that I had to head there to sample the legendary creamy vanilla ice that is made on the premises and has been for over a hundred and twenty years. Located just inside the city walls, on the main drag in the souq, the place was packed as we walked in and were pointed to a queue to buy a token for a cone. Priced at reasonable 50 syrian pounds each - 50p - we purchased and sat down on a long crowded table to enjoy our pistachio-topped delights. It was indeed worth the reputation it had, but it reminded me a lot of another famous ice cream I used to eat as a kid, made along the road in Seaton Delaval near Whitley Bay. It had a faint flavour of almond or rice pudding and was very creamy. Utterly delicious. I went back for another.

Damascus old city, as we discovered the next day, is a veritable warren of streets leading in every direction; its fabled fields and orchards may have been replaced by urban sprawl, but there is still plenty of magic in the air. The old city is filled with bazaars and blind alleys, minarets, mosques and fountain courtyards. Street vendors with their packed carts jam the narrow alleys and smoke fills the air from kebab or corn on the cob vendors. Old men sit lazily outside coffee houses and smoke their nargileh, playing backgammon and sipping endless cups of sweet tea; others sit and talk politics animatedly. The coffee houses, which often double as art galleries, are great places to sit and people-watch. Time seems to have stopped in these old streets, and like Fez in Morocco, it's an ancient, organic city which functions now as it has done since medieval times. Life goes on, nothing changes. The muezzin calls rise mellifluously above the city five times a day and the pious go to pray in their masses. The rhythm of the city revolves around these times when people pause from their work and put down their prayer mats. We purchased a huge bag of cashews and pistachios and munched on them as we got lost gladly in the labyrinthine streets and alleys, taking countless pictures of the street life and higgledy-piggledy buildings that were propped up with old beams and leaning at precarious angles. Damascus is the old city; outside of it, like Jerusalem, there is the vast majority of the population, and the suburbs stretch for miles. But the old city is the beating heart and soul, and contains everything that is essential to Syrian life. The main mosque, the Umayyad Mosque, is the focal point of the centre perhaps. It is huge and impressive and contains a fine minaret and central courtyard. But the main point and greatest joy of a trip to Damascus is just wandering aimlessly around it and getting lost; immersing yourself in its smells, sounds, sights and tastes. (and there are some awful stenches, jarring sounds, ugly sights and unusual tastes, so you should take an open mind too). We got quite into a Syrian soap opera that was playing for entire time in the country (and later, Lebanon and Jordan) - it appeared to be on, usually on large wide screen TV's, in all the restaurants we went to, often on repeat or omnibus editions, every day. Although of course we didn't understand a word, it became oddly compelling for some reason. It's portrait of upper-middle class society and its aspirations were fascinating. One other thing you can't help noticing whilst travelling in Syria is the ubiquitous sight of the country's leader - Bashar al-Assad - on signs, billboards and posters everywhere, in all public and many private buildings, hotels restaurants - and the apparently high esteem he appears to be held in. When I questioned a hotel owner about this in Hama, he laughed that I thought it normal people in the west put pictures of David Beckham on their walls. He had a point.

Two weeks after we left Damascus, we heard there had been a bomb there. It is such a shame that tourists will continue to be put off visiting Syria because of its perceived danger and security threat - but we couldn't have felt safer wandering around its old streets, and I'd have no qualms about going back - if I didn't have an Israeli stamp in my passport, which will prevent me from doing so until 2016.
We headed in a taxi to Beirut in Lebanon about two weeks after we entered Syria - one day before our visas expired - extremely happy and quite enlightened by a lovely, welcoming, relaxing country.