On the trail of the lost cedars – Bcharre to Hasroun

The Phoenician tomb and burial chamber from 750 BC

I woke before 6am once again, this time to church bells, and tried to switch off the internal monologue that was still berating me from not doing the extra walk.  I resolved to learn from it and not to be as cautious about my physical abilities in the future.  I read a bit of Khalil Gibran to prepare for the museum visit today and then got up and dressed and began the ritual  ‘putting on of the boots’ one last time.

Shrines are everywhere in the Qaddisha Valley (known as Valley of Saints or Holy Valley)

This involved putting a small Compeed plaster (the best type – trust me) on my little toe to protect my single, tiny blister, slathering a large layer of Vaseline (petroleum jelly) all over my foot and in between my toes, smoothing Bodyglide on my ankles and then (a clever tip from Jo) plunging my sticky hand into my sock, wiping all the Vaseline off inside it and then smoothing the sock over my foot.  Foot inserted in boot, laces tied, I was ready to go once more, refreshed and full of energy with not a trace of the lassitude that infected me yesterday (apart from a residual heaviness in my heart for opportunities lost and that it was our last day of trekking).  Iman and Ehab had risen early, followed the church bells and sat in at the back of mass, soaking in the atmosphere and watching children go into pray before school.

Thanks to all my supporters including Rexona

We arrived at the Khalil Gibran Museum, a pretty former monastery and waited for its 9am opening – it was soon apparent that this was not going to happen.  A quick call revealed that it was still on off-season opening and we could choose to stay or walk on.  No prizes for guessing what I did this time!  I joined the walking group for a fairly steep climb up the hill.  It wasn’t the most interesting of surroundings except for a Phoenician tomb shaped like a Chimnea but the views straight down the valley were ‘awesome’.  I mentioned to Chamoun that I regretted not joining the group yesterday.  He explained that there was a very dangerous bit where you had to cling to the rock and he didn’t want to take anyone whose muscles were tired for safety reasons.  I felt happier now I understood why he didn’t encourage me one way or the other.

Carved dead cedars by artist Roudy Rahmeh

We reached the Cedars, Lebanon’s oldest ski resort, dotted with wooden chalet-style buildings and headed towards the central souvenir stalls – our first retail-therapy all trip.  The group that had stayed to visit the museum arrived on the bus and we compared purchases.  I bought some little cedar boxes with brass fittings which I felt a twinge of guilt about when we entered the cedar reserve where only a clutch of old trees remain (some with lopped branches) due to the almost complete deforestation of the Cedar of Lebanon.  Sarcophagi in ancient Egypt were often made of cedar wood that came from Lebanon shipped via Byblos.  Some of the cedars in the reserve are over 1000 years old.  There is a long-term programme to replant the cedar forests and eco-warrior Chamoun showed us an area the next day where he had planted over 4000 trees.  One dead tree had been carved into striking depictions of Christ – a group of  Christians from Asia were reading out loud from the Bible in Chinese and praying below it.  We soon struck out into open countryside on our route on the opposite side of the valley of Bcharre towards Hasroun.  You could spot the Gulf for Good governors a mile off as they were wearing sequined cowboys hats they’d just bought.  The mountains flanking us on the left, bare and grey with patches of residual snow, seemed tantalisingly close especially as it was another warm day.  Our group had all got on very well including the Red Cross volunteers, Rani and Michel.  Rani told me about his pentathlons which involved swimming, cycling from Byblos to The Cedars, archery and a run up one of the mountains we could see (can’t remember the fifth sport!).  They were like supermen.

A horse-drawn plough in action

We found a shady tree near a stream for lunch and then did our final stretches with Karen, a really invaluable part of the trek; it was so peaceful and zen-like.  Our path took us by fields and orchards and we waved to men at work.  We saw a horse-drawn plough in action, the animal in sleek relief against the mountains and blue sky.  Chamoun flagged down a stripped-bare VW Beetle (we saw quite a few in the town) that appeared on a track and we clambered on for a photo.  There was a holiday spirit and lots of chatting and laughter.  We passed goats crowded in a stable, a lone, black and white cow with a pretty face and neat crops in rich, red soil.  Wild flowers were everywhere.  Farmers diverted the many gushing streams (from the molten snow and springs in the mountains) by making a  temporary mud dam so it poured onto the land.

The snow seemed so close and so tempting to us on the hot lower slopes

I walked on my own for a bit, relishing my surroundings, conscious that these were the last few hours of this amazing trek.

The descent was long and slow taking us into the pretty, old town of Hasroun – shrines at every junction. The views over to Bcharre were fabulous in the late afternoon light; villagers were sitting outside working, a group of men took time out from sorting seed potatoes to greet us. We had walked about 20 km.  We posed for photos with the Gulf for Good sign to the amusement of passersby including a young couple in a Mini with a Union Jack on the roof.  The bus took us round snaking roads looking down on valley after valley of mesmerizing beauty with magnificent rock formations and soon we were parallel to the coast and passing Tripoli and Byblos as the sun set over the sea.   Mustapha and Joseph urged us to stop at a special bakery for kaak (or handbag bread as my friend Sally calls it due to its shape) – it was slightly sweet, salty and absolutely delicious.

The end of our trek - marking our achievements

We sadly bade farewell to Michel and Rani and drove into central Beirut, passing the Hariri mosque lit up at night with its enormous blue dome.  It was a subdued party that assembled for supper in a lack-lustre restaurant.  Several of the group had already rushed off to meet up with friends and the younger crew were planning to make the most of their last night.  It was great to see some Lebanese friends who dropped by to see me.  It is seemingly impossible to order small quantities of food in Lebanon and as the waiters brought dish after dish once more, no one had the appetite to appreciate it.  The exhilaration of completing our physical challenge successfully had abated – we were sad our journey was almost at an end.  If someone had offered me the chance to do it all again right then, I would have jumped at the chance.

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The Valley of Saints

One of the chalets at La Reserve Horsh Ehden

I woke up at about 5am to the light streaming through the uncurtained, windows in the eaves of our log cabin and the dawn chorus.  It was very pleasant to doze under the warm covers and I finally emerged when I heard voices.  It was very nippy – my guess is no-one showered that morning – but soon warmed up as the sun hit the patio.  The brazier was relit for good measure.  Breakfast was a lively affair; the Lebanese men all shared a table and tucked into fried eggs with gusto.  The eggs were served in little terracotta dishes and liberally coated in butter and salt – the guys kept asking for more and more.  On our table it was the appearance of tea bags and hot water that had us excited.  Iman, who had skipped supper to retire early with some painkillers the night before. emerged looking immaculate as usual.  We constantly marvelled how anyone could look that stylish in hiking gear and she earned her nickname ‘the style guru’.  We were all pleased to hear that her knee had recovered enough for the day’s trek, as had Gemma’s.  After lugging our bags down to the bus, filling up our hydration packs and swiping some cherries from the tree on the way, we were soon leaving Ehden and being driven on mountain paths around the most incredible scenery we’d seen to date – and that was saying something.  We were thankful that Charbel was such a good driver due to the hairy hairpin bends.

Entrance to the chapel at the Monastery

The villages looked very prosperous in this area – we even saw some houses that were finished (the lack of completion and the amount of buildings which were concrete shells had intrigued us).  Passing some stations of the cross we followed a small, road that zig-zagged down to the  Deir Mar Antonios Qozhaya monastery.

The Qadisha valley has plunging sides of stone calcified in swirling patterns of ochre, terraces carved out for planting and deep green forests.  Its remoteness meant that it was the perfect place for monasteries and hermits wanting to remove themselves from the world or religious persecution, particularly the Maronites in the 5th Century.  The view from this  monastery built into the cliff would inspire anyone to prayer to its creator.  We visited a cave where the mentally ill were chained to wait for a miracle cure and petitions for prayers were made to the monks.  A food offering was made in return for the holy intercession and the empty pots were stored on the rocks.  The amount of pots indicated that those monks rarely went hungry.  The little chapel built into a cave was peaceful and we wandered off around various parts of the monastery, including a museum with the first printing press in the Middle East.  Some of the party met a monk who took them into the wine cellar; my group conducted a conversation in very bad French with a lady from the little cafe  and had a tour of the very lovely rooms that you can stay in there.

Calcified cliffs in the Qadisha Valley

We started our trek in a village with yet more shrines.  A lady waved from her upstairs terrace covered with vines – she was hard at work on her sewing machine.  The way into the valley was via 400 steps built by many volunteers – Chamoun described how everyone had taken the materials down in sacks.  Many of the group with knee twinges were a bit apprehensive about going down them but imagine the descent prior to the building of the steps; no wonder the valley was cut off.  We stopped on a plateau under a lone olive tree and marvelled at the view; when we continued, Michel ran ahead going helter-skelter down the rocky steps while we continued to plod down carefully.  Even speedy Chamoun thought he was mad.

We were going to visit Father Dario Escobar, a hermit from Columbia who is now in his 70s.  We made a few attempts at questioning Chamoun, “Aren’t hermits supposed to shut themselves away from people?” but the answer was lost in translation.  Intrigued we entered his simple hermitage built into the rock – climbing upstairs through a central courtyard with a lemon tree.  Chamoun didn’t think he was at home and reached in to turn the light on in the chapel, so it gave Karen quite a shock when she went in to see him sitting there in silence, staring ahead, dressed in black with a long, grey beard.  We sat on the balcony and overlooked Father Escobar’s neat little vegetable garden.  He eats one meal a day, is self-sufficient and has no heating in winter according to Chamoun (although we spotted evidence of an electic heater in the second chapel!).

Traditional drinking vessels in the Hawka Hermitage

He showed us how to drink from the traditional terracotta water vessel which was very funny so I hope the noise of our laugher didn’t test the hermits concentration too much .  On leaving we met another group of walkers coming in and tried once again to get an answer to our question, “Chamoun, doesn’t the hermit mind people coming into his house?”  He answered as though this was no problem, “He can’t mind, he has to let them in as it’s an open monastery.”  It revealed as much about the local community as it did about the hermit!

Walking along a path, although narrow and winding, was a completely different trekking experience and although, as always, we bowled along at a swift pace it meant you could really take in the magnificent surroundings.  It was the hottest day so far and the less-demanding terrain was welcome.  The dynamics of the group order changed – Chamoun chatted to people at the back, there were different leaders.  Unable to stop taking pictures I became distanced from the front-runners but ahead of the rest, meaning I had some solitary walking time.  Finding my own pace, keeping my own thoughts and absorbing the dramatic view gave me such a warm feeling of contentment.

Altar and frescoes in the Monastery of Our Lady of Qannoubine

We passed more shrines and visited the Santa Maria Sanctuary and the Monastery of Our Lady of Qannoubine where we stopped to eat our packed lunch.  What luxury – benches to sit on and a loo!  The churches were each beautiful in a simple, homespun way with peeling frescoes on the walls, their jewelled colours still bright.  I was glad of the rest, I couldn’t find my usual “umph”, maybe it was because of the heat.  I couldn’t face eating much lunch but enjoyed listening to everyone’s chatter especially when Karen phoned her 6-year-old daughter to wish her happy birthday.

Back to the path and the view – this was a place I could imagine coming back to with my family.  Looking out at the cliffs across the gorge revealed many caves – Chamoun said there were about 800 in total.  He had found a secret cave on one of his journeys crisscrossing the trail where he discovered the bones of a forgotten hermit which he gave to a museum.

It was nice to catch up for a chat with a few people as it was something I hadn’t been able to do when tackling the slopes on earlier days.  I then felt I had to push myself a bit more and caught up with the dynamic duo of Karen and Susie and became their shadow once again.  We came to a waterfall and Chamoun told us to look up – hundreds of metres up the cliffs was a hole in the rock through which you could see a white cascade – a glimpse of its source.

The source of the waterfall glimpsed through a window in the cliffs

We reached a small cafe by a stream near where the bus was parked.  We had a choice to either get on the bus or to tackle the hardest challenge of the trip – by all accounts a near vertical scaling of the cliffs up to the village.  It had not been a really, demanding day’s hiking but from early morning I felt I had no reserves of energy.  Maybe it was lack of sleep, the heat, misplacing my dried fruit rations (great portable fuel) or not eating lunch.  I wanted so much to join the “up” group but felt I just didn’t have it in me.  I told Karen that I was thinking of going on the bus.  “Of course you can do it Sally” she said and gave me a dried apricot.  I took superfluous things out of my backpack and got ready.  Then there was a potential change of plan meaning no one would go – relief in a way.  Then we were back onto the original plan.  I just didn’t know what to do – I was not confident in my energy levels and didn’t want to let the group down.  Rani was advising strongly that it was a really tough climb and under no circumstances to do it.  This swayed Jo.  I was so torn.  I put my backpack on and it felt like a stone.  I asked Chamoun “do you think I can do it?” he was non-committal.  I made the decision to stay and felt stupid as I turned away to wipe the tears that had sprung to my eyes.

It was a jolly band on the coach and they were handing out delicious manouche from a little hut where it was freshly made.  I regretted my decision already and looked back – the group had gone.  “We’re the losers on the bus” joked Michelle – I tried to laugh but my spirits fell a little further.

View across to Bcharre

The road up in the bus was narrow and I once again blessed Charbel’s fantastic driving abilities.  We could see the route that the other group would take – it looked impossible.  Charbel laughed, “I have taken over 200 groups to this place, not one has ever taken that route.  Crazy.”  As we climbed higher we could see the group reaching the monastery.  We could see across to our hotel in Bcharre, pretty red roofed houses and a church clinging to the mountainside and got out of the bus to take pictures.  What views were the others seeing? I was so despondent – my own stupid fault.

Bcharre had an instant charm – a bit haphazard but radiating life.  We unloaded the bags and then went out to explore finding the Kangaroo supermarket for supplies.  I love exploring food shops in other countries so had a good snoop round.  We soon found out that lots of people have emigrated from Bcharre to Australia so there is a strong familial link – Sandra was soon comparing notes with the friendly, lady owner.

Sitting outdoors next to the rose beds and, of course a shrine, sipping some cold drinks with the sun lowering over the valley casting a pink light, we were astonished as the intrepid group came into view.

A sign in Bcharre

My heart sank like a stone and Jo exclaimed “they only took 1 hour 20 minutes.”  In England we have one word for how I felt – “gutted”!

We went to a restaurant by a waterfall for our evening meal (the hotel didn’t serve food outside the ski season) and all sat at one long table.  The usual feast arrived and the realisation that only one more day’s trekking remained had an effect on everyone.  ‘What happens on tour, stays on tour’ suffice to say there was quite a lot of exuberant merry-making led from the front by the male Lebanese contingent.  I was sad that another day had ended but glad that my bed was so supremely comfortable as I sank into it.

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