Damascus, Palmyra, Aleppo, Byblos, Beirut Baalbek and Back.

There was a certain festival air to Damascus yesterday as the banners that have adorned roadsides and sprawled between lampposts for some weeks now realise their ultimate purpose. It was voting day, and not just in France. Young children were doling out lists of candidates in the streets around our house, beneath the bunting and the banners and the strings of fairy lights that have mingled into one great celebration of Easter and a series of election campaigns. Whilst Hilary Clinton and Barek Ombosa are battling it out for the first American Presidential candidates to breach the billion dollar campaign pots, and Sarko and Sego have dominated international news in their race to the French primacy, the more modest preparations for the more modest Majlis Al-Shaab (or Parliamentary) elections in Syria have made their presence known on buses, above highways, and on all available wall-space in the country’s Capital. It is often difficult to work out from the banners and the posters erected around the city what exactly many of these people are standing for as campaign budgets are dedicated to a combination of cheesy one-size-fits-all portraits or enormous painted cloth banners bearing names and perhaps a few slogans about health or industry. Its difficult to say what people are expecting to vote for although it is clear, as in the case of Aleppo in the North, that the election of a forward looking mayor or a liberal majlis can have wonderful effects on the region.

Aleppo is, to my eyes, a far less complicated and more progressive place than Damascus. Its old town is being lovingly restored and its selection of old city restaurants in their Ottoman Courtyards are simultaneously more atmospheric and better tasting than almost any in the old city in Damascus. The souk is also better organised and the citadel more impressive. When Tash and I arrived on a damp and dusky Tuesday evening last week, we were surprised to find most of the hotels we had picked out were full, mid-week, and off-season. We ended up in the grand sounding Baron Hotel, a one-time host to Agatha Christie and T E Lawrence no less. It was certainly clean although the recent ‘refurbishment’ had sadly been lost on all but the door handles and bathroom mirror. Fortunately, we had a hat stand and having spent the night before in the rather ambitiously named 'Ommayad Palace' in Palmyra, a squashy mattress and some hot running water were enough to satisfy our greatest needs and .

Where Palmyra had been stunning in the warm honeyed sun of the desert sunset, a once oasis town and now rambling testament to pre-Christian engineering and niche tourist market, Aleppo was modern and urbane. It reminded me of Durham in England with long cobbled streets around a main square, with a large Mosque the off-centre focus of the town. It was cleaner and tidier and more progressive than Damascus, used to tourists and generally multilingual. The food was delicious, the wine usual Syrian fare and the welcome warmer than most. We stopped for lunch at a foul (pronounced fool) restaurant recommended by the venerable Lonely Planet as the best in town. Mixed results with foul have left me suspicious of dish thats main ingredients are yoghurt, oil and beans however the Aleppan effort was quite delicious and we ploughed our way through two large bowls with little effort.

After a brief stop at the ever impressive (though extensively 'restored') Krak Des Chevaliers and an impressive lunch of Mezze and barbecued Chicken in the restaurant high in the battlements (the menu was carefully explained to us as "Do you want Chicken?") we continued on to Byblos in on the Lebanese coast.

Halfway between the northern port of Tripoli and the capital of Beirut this sleepy little fishing town, watched over by a proud crusader castle and serenaded by the crashing of the Mediteranean, has also undergone a major restoration in the last few years. Its pretty little souk now extends into a series of cobbled alleyways and restuarants that open out into the modern town. We stayed in a funny little 'Motel' called Abi Chemou that amounted mostly to a private apartment above a closed restaurant that was rented as and when required by passing tourists, of which there are currently very few. We had the place - that is Motel and most of the town - to ourselves and after an evening of wandering and eating and a morning in the ancient ruins around the castle we headed off to Beirut for the final leg of our journey and a spot of relaxation at the end of the week.

The centre of town was rather better populated than it has been for most of this year and with a warm sun on our faces, a round of mezze and a slow wander through the cobbled downtown area we were ready for a coffee and a nargile (sheesha pipe) watching the sun drop down behind the pigeon rocks, just off the coast of West Beirut. Once again the Lonely Planet won out and The Bay Rock cafe served us a delicious sunset and a very relaxing mixture of apple scented smoke, turkish coffee and ice cream.

A large bowl of risotto to fill the gaps left by the hardships of a days sightseeing in the delightful but deserted Forno Romano by the Corniche was enough to bring out the sleep in us and a night on the tiles was put on hold until the next night.

On Friday we launched a surprise visit on my aunt, mostly because of my disorganisation and partly through fear of spending an entire day being fed, calling her at eleven to visit her at three. We went for coffee and, inevitably, we ate Kibbeh Bil Laban (think meat balls and yoghurt) which was delicious and made choosing somewhere to eat that night a rather moot point. Perfect. Aunty Victoria lives in a beautiful Ottoman House overlooking the valley of the Chouf Mountains, surrounded by vegetables grown for the kitchen, and stunning views it is a side of Lebanon that is so very different and yet equally delightful to the hedonistic nightlife that bubbles along through the week before kicking off on a Friday night.

It was in pursuit of this very thing that we ended up in Gemayzeh that evening wandering amongst the crowds and sampling the picks of the 'Hedonists Guide to Beirut'. Gemayzeh is an Ottoman/French Mandate era district just off the central Martyr's Square and the majority of restaurants and bars are set in atmospheric little ground floor cellars. The Dragonfly is a cocktail bar in just such a setting. Dark-ish, colonial and cool with a slowly wirring, fan a couple of tables and a long bar staffed by a man the Hedonist's Guide describes as a 'genius' called Aboud who greets you a with a warm smile and a strong measure. It doesn't have a menu but we could't order anything they couldn't make and the waiters have the sociable Lebanese manner of service that makes you feel like you've just bought the bar and don't ever want to leave.

But move we did and on for some food in a place, we think, was called The Glass House. Traditional Lebanese faire is the name of this place. Two Aoudists sit strumming away into a huge sound system while one pounds out classics from the country in a booming Lebanese-Leonard Cohen voice, that has the waiters dancing between tables and whole parties of people dancing around their chairs. Needless to say Tash and I were the youngest people in the room by about twenty years, but a table in the corner made for exceptional people watching as suits and ties circled dancing bellies, arms gyrating in the air and fingers clicking in time with the music. Most were obviously settling in for the night but after a rather fizzy plate of Moutabel (an creamy aubergine dip) - apparently fizzy and dairy are not a good combination - it was time for both of us to head home and leave the finger clickers to wend their merry, sober way through to dawn.

Next day, checked out of our hotel (The Mayflower that boasts the eclectic mix of Graham Green, Kim Philby and William Hill as among its previous guests - what grand company we keep in our accomodation tastes...) and headed for the ancient city of Baalbek (once Heliopolis).

The ruins in Baalbek are amongst the most impressive I have seen since arriving in Damascus seven months ago. A huge complex of three shrines, built over three centuries, never completed and converted from temple, to fortress, to palace in its active lifetime it boasts the tallest Roman columbs in the world, at twenty two metres high, and the largest building blocks anywhere in the world as well. It is also high up a mountain with stunning views, fresh air and plenty of green. It was magic the first time we visited it in the autumn and in the beat of spring as beautiful as ever. Sometimes though it is a blessing not to be surrounded by tourists, and whilst it is not good for the Lebanese economy it is sights like Baalbek that would be ruined by hoards of visitors and flag waving tour guides showing them through the ruins and swarming through your photos. An hour or so later, having avoided the Hezbollah t-shirt toting peddlars outside we were back in the taxi and on the way to Damascus, for Tash to catch her flight home in the evening. Thus ended our grand tour.