Fish in Byblos

A slightly later start today gave me time for a very brisk walk along the seafront promenade before we set off. It was 10am and already very hot. People not wearing very many clothes - jogging, power walking, shadow boxing - passed to and fro in front of buildings which perfectly encapsulated recent history: high rise flats, some empty and bomb blasted with ragged windows and rusting balconies next to crisp, contemporary towers with lush plant life tumbling from the balconies. Interspersed here and there were bustling building sites.

Men (and it was only men; I saw no women) basked like rotund seals on the rocks by the sea or stood solemnly fishing off the sides of the small harbours hosting glitzy weekend boats. There was a very tempting tidal pool with quite a few heads bobbing in its swell, and the unpleasant fumes from the swerving, screeching traffic were muted by a refreshing sea breeze. I turned my face to the wind and walked as fast as I could.

We were off to Byblos this morning, just down the coast from Beirut. The differentiation of Beirut from the towns surrounding it is challenging because there are no stretches which are uninhabited and so clearly marking the end of one location and the beginning of another.

Byblos is legendary, with a restaurant in St Tropez named in its honour. Birthplace of both the alphabet and money (what a combination!), by the 1960’s it was every bit as glamorous and frequented by international jet setters as places like Cannes, Monaco or indeed St Trop. Then the war came along and ruined everything.

Well, not quite everything. It remains an incredibly pretty and very alluring little place. The sky is darkening with ominous looking storm clouds when we arrive but it is warm and the wind whipping through the narrow alleys carries Arabic prayer from the Meuzzin out across the small bay. There are lime and pomegranate trees, the fruit of the latter red and ripe, and the gardens are crammed with hibiscus, bougainvillea and highly scented roses.

We walk down to the tiny harbour, past Pepe’s – legendary hangout of anyone remotely famous or important who has ever visited Byblos, the walls lined with their pictures. We are on our way to Jbeil, one of the oldest cities on the planet, founded about 8,000 years ago. To be slightly more precise, we are off to the ruins. It hasn’t been a city for some time now.

There is, for me, nothing to compare to the atmosphere of sites like this. The residual miasma of lives lived and died, for century upon century, centuries and centuries ago, is palpable. Did a woman of my age look out to where the rain is starting to fall on Beirut in the distance, with lightening forking over the sea, and wonder at how strange life is? Are our lives so different now or have only some details changed?

We walk back to the car up an alley crammed mainly with tourist tat. It is often very attractive, glittery tat with the oriental flavour bestowing an element of grandeur. There are also shops selling spices – Sumak, rose petals, camomile,  lavender and various roots I don’t recognize. Their mingled scent rises with the wind that is becoming increasingly urgent.

We reach the car just as the storm breaks and the rain comes down in sheets. Sami steers his family truck through the narrow streets, never missing an opportunity to take a split second gap in the traffic. It is very intuitive, this Lebanese driving method. He assures us that accidents hardly ever happen here as everyone concentrates so hard.

I don’t dispute that there is an impressive level of concentration going on but it seems to take the form of a maniacal obsession with playing an intricate traffic roulette that involves proving, at least 20 times a minute, that one can cheat death or at least serious disfigurement. No doubt the impressive Lebanese optimism is at the heart of it all.

The restaurant is not far, down an incredibly narrow street right on the coast. Today has been decreed the day of fish and we descend in a glass lift to a large room right over the water. To the left of the entrance is a glistening arrangement of fish evidently so fresh that I'm surprised they are no longer moving.

Sami orders and we drink more Rose (I have decided I can never have enough of this wine. We have to stock it next summer) while we watch the storm meet the sea.  Waves of food start beaching on our table. There is mezze (very good again) but the highlights of this meal are slivers of raw Spanish Mackerel (nothing at all like the Mackerel I am used to – much more delicate); octopus and parsley and long tentacle things that Sami also attributes to the octopus but none of us can work out quite how or where. They are very good though – kind of like octopus sausages.

There are real seafood sausages too which are delicious beyond belief. I cannot get to the root of exactly which fish they feature but it is something mixed with pine nuts and scented with Sumak. I need to learn how to make these.

The Kibbeh are also delicious – a kind of falafel shell encasing caramelised onion and baby shrimp. Fruit arrives for dessert (thankfully, although a lot of eating has been done, not quite so much that a whole new location is called for) and something else completely lovely: Nammoura is semolina which is boiled with sugar (I am sure I could do a version with honey) and rosewater and then baked. It has the hugely attractive grainy texture of polenta with the slightly nutty flavour of a wheat based grain and the aromatics of the rosewater.

It rains and stops and rains again. We have a long drive ahead of us after lunch, back to the Bekaa. Sami is going to take us via Harrisa where the Musar winery is. Musar is of course the wine that still is most identified with Lebanon. Not 10 days before I left for this trip I had a conversation with a young man in the shop who would not even begin to countenance the idea that there was in fact better wine being made in Lebanon today.

There is, but Musar undoubtedly blazed a brave trail, managing to hang on grimly all through the worst of the war, never letting the bombs entirely disrupt a vintage. Mind you, being here, I have an idea that the hanging on was probably slightly less grim than I had previously imagined. I am not at all suggesting that it was an easy time, but having witnessed the Lebanese lust for life there seems no way that the 15 war years were spent in unadulterated purgatory. I imagine that these indomitable people managed the odd fiesta in spite of it.

Seeing the winery (we merely drive past the large and very traditional building) is not quite as impressive as the winding, often slightly perilous climb up the slopes of Mount Lebanon. The houses here are gorgeous. Older, they are often slightly shabby but elegantly beautiful none the less, crammed on narrow streets on top of and right next to each other, all staring out to sea.

We arrive after dark at the eco lodge in the mountains where we will be staying. Based on traditional Lebanese hostelries the rooms have bare concrete floors and thick whitewashed walls with thin bedding rolls on the floor. If done properly, at least 4 to a room may be accommodated, with everyone sharing body warmth, but we are too old and too English (even me) to countenance such a thing. The place is basic but the air is clear and clean and the people who run it are very charming, even if communication in the absence of Sami is tricky given the total lack of shared language.

We eat simply and quickly – mezze featuring a lot of cheese made by a local monastery. This is washed down with a glass of Massaya Arak which both Sami and Ramzi have assured us is in fact the perfect accompaniment to Mezze as it goes with everything. I suppose this is true as it simply steamrollers over anything it doesn't precisely go with, but it works a treat with most of it.   It is also really good. The bracing combination of alcohol and aniseed seems precisely right in the clear, cold mountain air. We retire early and for some reason, despite feeling really very tired, I simply cannot sleep. The cicada’s and the friendly, festive noise of the Friday night drinking and board game party are partly to blame, but for whatever reason, sleep eludes me almost completely.