The Cook tourists, our neighbours, divided into two groups, left before us. One is proceeding to Baalbek by a route we shall not be taking; the other has gone lion hunting, kitted out like our immortal Tartarin. Oh for the deserts of Arabia, where we woke up alone in silent space!

Three hours of disappointing terrain, alongside the work on the future Aleppo railway. In a valley, which ought to be beautiful and secluded, gangs of workmen wearing hats and operating machines are clearing the ground like a legion of maleficent ants.

By taking shortcuts, we climb up the first foothills of the Anti-Lebanon, the whole of which we shall have to cross to reach Baalbek. Here at last, we have returned to the wilderness and to imposing views. On the bare plateaux and in the high ravines, once again we find vast ageless geological lines undisturbed by man and we have the feeling of being alone in an empty place, almost the magic of the desert.

An Arab horseman catches up with us and hangs around, showing off his horse and with the clear desire to communicate with us. He is wearing golden and red headgear and a long black cloak embroidered with gold. He and his beast are magnificent.

Eventually, we strike up an acquaintance by means of a smile exchanged between us when his rearing horse performs a magnificent pirouette. I pay him the compliment he was seeking on his horsemanship. Quite by chance, he understands Turkish, so we are friends. So, we shall travel together in the high stony wilderness as far as his village which is yonder towards Baalbek. Soon, he will share our dinner and our laid-out carpet to rest in the open air. All around us is rougher, more contorted, and at times we again make our way in the great outdoors through this violated Syria.

Our travelling companion tells us he is a Maronite Christian and thus, despite his fine dress, is very poor as a result of religious persecution. Hatred of the Druze and the malice of the great massacres are still fresh in his mind. When he speaks of them, his eyes gleam.