About 6 years ago we were in Israel for the summer hols. And we went up, for a couple of nights, to the Golan Heights. Right on the Syrian border. In fact, they used to be the Syrian Golan heights but Israel borrowed them in the 6-day war and haven’t yet returned them. It is very beautiful up there. Mount Hermon, lots of low level hills, miles and miles of forests and lakes and just simply gorgeous. Oh, and hot. It reaches, in August, temperates just beyond ‘so fucking hot I’m never gonna make it’ to ‘gimme water!!! NOWWWW!!!’ Hot.

For our little trek, with our friends with whom we’d journeyed, we were suitably attired. T-shirts just to protect you from the sun and absorb sweat. Shorts because its just too hot for anything else. Hats. And hiking boots because its rough and rugged and up and down and Disneyland it ain’t.

And as you sweat your way round, when you think all is lost (including you and your party), you come across a wonderful mountain lake. There are hundreds there. And they’re cool and clean and (quite literally, I think) heaven sent. And you dive in. Aaaaaahhhhhhhh.

You trek early because it don’t get cooler as the day progresses. And around noon, we crested a hill in the middle of nowhere and came face to face with a family of Charedi. Like those in the picture. And the daddy of the group was dressed just like that. Silly furry hat, long black shiny coat, leather lace-up shoes. And he was pushing a buggy with a kid in it. Behind him was Mrs Charedi carrying a baby in arms. Out for a stroll. Dressed for winter in Omsk while climbing a mountain in Israel in August.

But its a holy place. So they score points for being there. Us more secular types just do it because its beautiful, they do it to get to heaven. Probably more quickly than if they’d stopped and put some trainers on beforehand.

I was reminded of this because on Monday night a group of ‘jewish students from London’, who are of a similar type to those depicted, but younger and hatless, went for a walk. Along the beach at Dover. By the famous ‘white cliffs’ that Vera Lynn sang about. And although these boys, about 14 to 16 years old, were with older supervisors, they managed to miss the 9 signposts, yes, NINE, stating that walking on this beach is very very very VERY dangerous. The beach is narrow, ending right at the cliffs, which are sheer, and the tide comes in very very quickly, leaving the beach submerged. But only for a few hours. Or so. Moses coped with worse when he parted the Red Sea. King Canute was less successful.

The tide came in, the young charedi scampered, in their inappropriate footwear, up the cliffs as well as they could, and phoned for help. Or, phoned for HHHEEEEELLLLLPPPPP!!!!!

All were rescued by the lifeboats and a helicopter. None were hurt. And apparently, none was remotely scared, frightened or even bothered by what had happened. As if incoming tides trapping you against a cliff-face is an everyday event in Stamford Hill.

Maybe praying all day every day does have benefits. Or maybe they should break from prayer just long enough to instruct people to READ THE FUCKING SIGNPOSTS.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx