A Lonely Pilgramage

We feasted on Lebanese bbq dishes - shwarma and kebabs and the like - one afternoon before taking the long road back to Beirut. It was a long, narrow, pot-hole ridden ride to begin with (a one lane highway snaking around a mountain without a guard rail or street light to protect you. Each turn warranted a loud honk before swerving around it, fingers crossed no farm truck would be ambling your way) and our detour added another hour.

But we came to a mountaintop monastery where bees gorged on lavender and produced the most flowery, rich honey I have ever tasted. The chapel was utterly silent. The walls were caked black with hundreds of years of smoke and incense. The farms and treetops cascaded down from the monastery like a green skirt trailing ruffles into the sea.