The thing about the Golan Heights is given away a bit by the name. They’re high. And, hilly. Ok, mountainous, but they don’t tell you that til you get there. So we picked a Golan Height and went there. Turned off the road onto a track. Bumped along very precariously for a couple of kilometres because they don’t have any miles here. Got out and started walking along a marked trail. But it wasn’t a path. It was rocks. Big ones, going up very steeply then down even more steeply. Taking us to a stream. Which was beautiful. We followed that (more rock climbing) then went up to view a waterfall. At which point we should have turned back. But we didn’t. We went on. And on. And on. Because climbing up and down rocks in 36 degrees (they don’t have Farenheits here either) is actually quite fun. Strenuous fun but fun. And after about an hour of intense sweating, we saw ‘a sign’ (Lord!) which said: ‘car park- that way’, towards more rocks. We felt immense relief. Until we saw the path. Upwards, unbelievably steep and about 300 metres (yards, same fucking thing) long. It was the hardest, hottest, sweatiest hike I’ve ever done. And the sense of achievement as we made it to the car park was just…

Just ruined by the fact that it was in fact the wrong car park. It had cars in it, but not ours. Which was about a kilometre away back along the track.

We did so many steps and burned (literally) so many calories that it almost made up for last night’s dinner entirely and possibly some of breakfast too.

I have been reading the Times most days here. But its dull. What I’ve learned is: Donald Trump is dangerous fuck-wit, which is not really news at all, and that Boris is still, has always been and will always be, a total tosser. There ends the news.

Happy Hiking Saturday

A xxxx