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With Bedouin guides, I wandered on through most of that vast mountainous labyrinthine solitude of rainless valleys, with their sand-wind burnished rocks and stones, and in some of them, often strangely-scribbled Nabataean cliff inscriptions – the names, the saws, the salutations of ancient wayfarers.
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In Europe he had been a man alone, travelling through a landscape and a cultural environment that were often well-known, but which did not engage his imagination. Here, paradoxically, the strangeness and unfamiliarity of the desert brought him a new sense of fellowship. The man who found human society so hard to deal with felt himself one with a small and select band of travellers, their ‘names, saws, and salutations’ passed down to him over the centuries.
It was a crucial time, bringing together his studies of geology, of language, and of the people of the region. The formation of the landscape, the development of words, the derivation of names and the roots of a popular culture could all be seen more starkly and clearly in this unchanging world than had been the case in Europe.
While Doughty notes occasional Roman remains in Jerash and Amman, and finds echoes of Greek tradition in the Nabataean carvings,
(#litres_trial_promo) he is moving all the time deeper into an unknown world, a culture whose roots were neither Greek nor Roman. But there was one ever-present link. The Bible, which he carried with him both in his pack and in his head, provided him with a constant reference point, a textbook of how the region had been centuries before. There is clear delight in the Travels whenever he manages to relate the ruins or the landscapes he found to the stories of the Old Testament, like the carved stone water-tanks he saw around Hebron and the Dead Sea – where King Uzziah was said to have ‘built towers in the desert and digged many wells’ for his cattle.
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Sometimes, the bland censoriousness of the young man who had left Belgium shows through: he can show the petulance of any traveller disappointed by what he sees, with a bad-tempered and contemptuous belief that the world and the people have degenerated, that the buildings he finds are monuments to a long-past golden age beyond the reach of ‘these squalid Arabs’. There was often a wry contrast between the lush poetic beauty of the ancient verses and the everyday reality of the present. In Hesban, for instance, he came upon the ruins of the biblical city of Heshbon – the same place that the poet of the Song of Solomon had seen before him. There … is a torrent-bed and pits, no more those fish-pools as the eyes of love, cisterns of the doves of Heshbon, but cattle-ponds of noisome standing water.’
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The poetry, evidently, had seeped away over the centuries. Now, his imagination was fired by the links between past and present – the continuity imposed by the lives of the people on ruins which seemed to speak only of mortality.
The thread was often personal, like the carvings of Sinai which seemed to be addressed to him as one of a small band of desert travellers. Or it could be linguistic – he wondered, for instance, whether the ruins of Lejun, ‘a four-square limestone-built walled town’ in the desert, could be all that was left of an outlying Roman military station, with its name a corruption of the Latin legio. But there is, crucially, an introduction for Doughty to the unchanging nature of nomad life, a sense that while buildings may crumble, human life goes on: at the same broken-down walls and arches of Lejun, he saw a small Arab encampment.
Beduin booths were pitched in the waste outside the walls; the sun was setting and the camels wandered in of themselves over the desert, the housewives of the tents milked their small cattle. By the ruins of a city of stone they received me, in the eternity of the poor nomad tents, with a kind hospitality.
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It is the tents, not the stone walls, that achieve immortality. One of the first things he notices later, when he reaches the ruins of Medain Salih, is the way that the stones lining the well, still used by the travelling Arabs, are scored by the ropes of generations of beduin, hauling up their water. ‘Who’, he asks, ‘may look upon the like without emotion?’
His search for ancient remains was almost obsessive: the Arabs, he said impatiently, were ‘too supine and rude’ to work out how many ruins there were, but in two days’ riding near the town of Kerak he claimed to have visited about forty separate sites. There were disappointments, of course – sites with carvings and inscriptions that he was unable to find, and others that he decided were not worth the visit – but it was among these ruins that he began to form his views of the Semitic culture and the Semitic people.
These travels also helped, incidentally, in forming his estimate of the value of oral evidence: some stories, like some sites, were worth more than others. At the Roman site of Jerash, he was told, there was the grave of the Islamic prophet Hud – who, he added tartly, ‘lies buried in more places in Arabia’. There was the now-sanctified Alexander the Great, whose body was to be found – ‘if you will believe them’ – under a heap of stones at Rabbath Moab; and at Kerak he was shown the sepulchre of Noah – ‘who is, notwithstanding buried, at great length, in other places’. Later, as he travelled through Arabia, he was to hear stories of the miracles he was supposed to have performed himself, lifting huge boulders with a single touch of his fingers – ‘and yet at such times I was sleeping, encamped with the Aarab,
(#litres_trial_promo) nearly half a mile distant …’
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But it was not only old wives’ tales about famous graves that aroused Doughty’s scepticism. Travelling around the Holy Land was further undermining the foundations of his belief, which had already been so dangerously chipped away by his scientific studies. Everywhere, he saw the impossibility of accepting much that he had read for years in his Bible.
He liked to use the Bible as a historical guide, and he was not afraid to test its assertions against science and logic. His own slow progress across the desert set him thinking about the exodus of the Jews from Egypt – two and a half million people, six million camels and seven million cattle. When he asked whether even the whole of Sinai, the worst pasture in the world, could have kept them alive, it was no more than the sort of question that scientists had already started asking of the Scriptures – but Doughty’s presence there in the desert lent it a new point and strength. On all sides, his religion was under attack.
He saw, too, the frequent gulf between faith and human kindness, and the way that religious fanaticism could actually shrivel up ordinary, decent humanity. The man whose faith had already been shaken by his studies in libraries and laboratories was now seeing it put under further strain by his own experience in the world.
There was little enough emotional support from the Greek Christians who lived among the Arabs – a ‘lickdish peasant priest’ at Kerak and his congregation, for instance, among whom Doughty found no evidence of sanctity or a Christian life. ‘To the stronger Muslims I would sooner resort, who are of frank mind and, more than the other, fortified with the Arabian virtues,’ he commented.
(#litres_trial_promo) It was a telling condemnation from a man who was later to be criticized for his unbending attitude towards the faith of his Muslim hosts.
But he had no illusions about the generosity and humanity of the devout Muslims either. Later, when he set off with the Hadj, he would see a dying beggar by the wayside, ignored by the passing pilgrims, but then picked up and helped by one of Doughty’s own servants, ‘a valiant outlaw, no holy-tongue man, but of human deeds’.
(#litres_trial_promo) In another bitter moment, he exploded: ‘Religion is a promise of good things to come, to poor folk, and many among them are half-destitute persons. Oh what contempt in religions of the human reason!’
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In both comments he was speaking specifically about Islam, ‘the dreadful-faced harpy of their religion’ – but his choice of words is significant. It was not only Islam, but religion as a whole, that seemed to have failed.
His quarrel, in fact, was with neither Islam nor Christianity, but with the rigidity of both; his respect, then as always, for the relation between the individual and God. The Hadj might be, as he suggested, a cruel deception practised on the guileless pilgrims; perhaps there was nothing but contempt due to the more ostentatiously devout among them and their ‘loathsome washings’. But their patience, their determination, their religious stamina, could only impress him. ‘There are very few who faint: the Semitic nature, weak and quick metal, is also of a wonderful temper and longsuffering in God,’ he wrote.
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For the first time in his travels his interests started to encompass the welfare and the day-to-day life of the people among whom he was living. Where before he showed no interest in the politics of the countries through which he was travelling, he now noticed indignantly the debilitating effect of the incompetence, inefficiency and corruption of the tottering Ottoman empire. ‘The name of the Sultan’s government is a band of robbers,’ he wrote.
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At least some of the barren land, he suggested, could be reclaimed for crops, much as the Arabs ploughed the soil around their villages to eke out a scanty living. Towns and villages, deserted for centuries, might easily be reoccupied: in the ruined city of Umm Jemal he walked through narrow streets and courts choked with giant weeds, his sandals soft on the basalt slabs underfoot. The stone-built houses still had their roofs and walls intact; only the people were missing. ‘The “old desolate places” are not heaps and ruins, but carcases which might return to be inhabited under a better government: perhaps thus outlying, they were forsaken in the Mohammedan decay of Syria, for the fear of the Beduins,’ he wrote, with a touching faith in the power of strong government.
(#litres_trial_promo) It was, he said, only the lack of such strength and determination that stood in the way: the impoverished Ottoman empire was unable even to pay the wages of its soldiers, or to repair the roads and bridges which were falling into ruin.
The European powers, of course, were only too anxious to make what profit they could from the Ottoman empire. For several decades would-be entrepreneurs had cast a greedy eye on the underdeveloped Ottoman wastes: the historian Sir Edward Creasy was only one voice among many when he predicted, ‘With improved internal government, European capital will be poured into Turkey, and will enrich the land where it is employed … the busy hum of European industry will increase and find innumerable echoes …’
(#litres_trial_promo) That was the optimistic prediction of the 1850s; what had happened in fact was that heavy borrowing and spending in European markets had bankrupted the empire by the mid 1870s.
But while Doughty was a fervent patriot and a dedicated nationalist, he was never an imperialist. He had little interest in the growth of empire for its own sake, and none of the exaggerated estimation of many empire-builders of the abilities of his countrymen. He for one saw little prospect of wealth for either side in talk of western settlers taking over the land. There was, he said, no reason to suppose that the first generation of European settlers would be any more successful than the Arabs in tilling the desert, while succeeding generations would be moulded by the environment in which they lived. ‘Were not the sending of such colonists to Syria, as the giving of poor men beds to lie on, in which others had died of the pestilence?’
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As word of his wandering spread, Doughty was becoming something of a legend among the Arabs: a European Christian traveller, with an unaccountable interest in unregarded ruins and old carvings, and an insatiable appetite for anything fellow-travellers, villagers or wanderers on the road could tell him about their life. The Arabs with whom he travelled told him that the region had hardly been seen by Europeans, despite its moderate climate and plentiful water; if he encountered occasional suspicion and hostility, he appears to have been treated much of the time with a sort of amused acceptance. Mohammed Aly, later to be his unpredictable host at Medain Salih, was one of a number of people whom he met during this period; so too was Mohammed Said, the Kurdish pasha who was in charge of the Hadj caravan which Doughty eventually joined. The latter, Doughty boasted, had ‘known me a traveller in the lands beyond Jordan, and took me for a well-affected man that did nothing covertly’.
(#litres_trial_promo) It was to prove a useful, as well as a creditable, reputation.
In Sinai he found a naked country, its rocky mountains camouflaged by neither vegetation nor soil, and the memory stayed with him through his life, to surface in his last years, in the poem Mansoul.
An austere soil is that …
Whose bald, sun-bleached, gaunt untrod mountain rocks
Stand, like some bone-work of a former earth …
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The memory is geological in its scale, and there is also a sense of a lost, disappeared world – a sense that is reinforced by the few mysterious traces of human life.
Doughty was on a lonely track south of Suez, heading for an old Greek Christian monastery, when he saw what seemed to be a strange stone cottage, its doorway blocked up with rocks and brushwood. An ageing Arab camel-driver barred his way. ‘I would have removed some sticks to look in, but the old Beduin cameleer made signs with the hand … that men lay therein, stark upon their backs with closed eyes, and with the other, he stopped his nostrils …’
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His curiosity had taken him to the doorway of a bedu burial chamber, one of dozens of round, stone-built huts he found huddled together in little groups in the most barren and secluded parts of the region.
Later he described them as ‘mosquito huts’, supposedly built by the former inhabitants of Sinai for protection through the night from swarms of insects. In reality, neither he nor the Arabs who were travelling with him had any idea of their original purpose, their age, or who had built them, but they caught his imagination as unchanged remnants of a distant past. ‘They could easily have been in existence for just a few years, or even a few centuries. I have a conjecture they could have been the huts of immigrants who had spread out across the entire Egyptian stretches of desert since the time of Antonius …’
(#litres_trial_promo) As the bones of the landscape were naked to the eye, so too were the rare marks of man – not buried or ruined, not needing reconstruction like the buildings at Ephesus, but simply left behind on a barren landscape, among the
Inhuman silent solitude of sharp dust;
Wind-burnished stones and rocks.
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And the feeling that nothing changed was reflected, too, in the few people who scratched a meagre living in Sinai. They lived along the Red Sea coast as they had done for centuries. Neither the lush imaginations of the Victorian orientalists nor even the poverty he had seen himself in North Africa can have prepared Doughty for this glimpse of timeless Arab hardship. ‘These people had neither clothing nor a roof for protection: in the main they live miserably from the food which they can fish or gather from along the shore. The Arabs rightly put down their dark skin colour to their perpetual hunger and nakedness.’
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Even in the grim hierarchy of suffering that Arab life represented. these nomadic fishermen must have been near the bottom. Later, as he travelled with the bedu tribesmen, Doughty would focus upon the life and the culture that could lie behind hardship; here, no doubt still feeling himself to be the detached European traveller studying a strange and savage people, he saw no further than their grinding poverty.
It was here in Sinai that his search for the roots of humanity really began. The landscape, the mysterious buildings, even the people themselves, showed little sign of having been changed by the centuries: here for the first time he could see the perspective that his travels would offer of the origins of human life. The search for the distant history of Arabia, he believed, would help to supply an answer to the question which Isaiah had posed in the Bible, and which rang in his mind: ‘What was that old human kindred which inhabited the land so long before the Semitic race? Does not the word of Isaiah come to our hearts concerning them? … “What was the rock whence ye were hewn, and the hole of the pit whence ye were digged?’”
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Most of his notes from Sinai deal with the geology and the structure of the region: to an even greater extent than elsewhere on his travels, this was a land where history could be read in the rocks and stones, and picked up from the occasional ruins of human habitation. But that history was clear, the links between past and present undisguised. Within this bare, forgotten and cruel land could be found not only the ancient soul of Arabia, but also the first clues to the origins of human civilization.
In the spring of 1875 Doughty left Sinai, apparently without much regret, making his way north through the complex system of wadis and granite cliffs towards Aqaba and on through the biblical land of Edom to Damascus. With him were an Egyptian and a bedu guide, fellow-travellers on a journey where every encounter with the tribesmen could mean either mortal danger, or the warmest of welcomes.
The town of Maan,
(#litres_trial_promo) which was their first destination, lay at the edge of a desolate plain, covered with flints and stones, with no shelter from the wind or the beating sun. Here, in a dip in the ground, they waited nervously until nightfall before setting out across the open country to the town. His two companions, more alive to the dangers of the route than Doughty was, warned that any passing group of nomads might now be a threat: their only safety lay in hiding until dusk. It was midnight before they arrived at the town. ‘The place lay all silent in the night. We rode in at the ruinous open gateway and passed the inner gate, likewise open, to the suk: there we found benches of clay and spread our carpets upon them, to lodge in the street.’
(#litres_trial_promo) Doughty’s plan now was to travel on to Petra, the Nabataean city which had been made famous by the young Swiss explorer Johann Ludwig Burckhardt
(#litres_trial_promo) more than sixty years before. This, surely, would be the climax of his painstaking studies of ruined settlements and inscriptions. ‘I had then no other intention than to see Petra. I could speak very little Arabic, not having before studied the history of those countries,’ he wrote later.
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The ancient rock city was only five hours’ ride away, and he set off eagerly, past another ruined site, long stripped of its white marble pavements by the rich traders of Damascus, and on through the outlying cornfields of Maan – fields where the desert met the sown, in Gertrude Bell’s later phrase, and where the farmers had no choice but to offer half their crops to the bedu as a bribe for an untroubled life.
How would the local Arabs react to the arrival of this mysterious red-bearded European, riding a mule and wearing an Ottoman-style red tarboosh, who demanded to see the ancient sites that they still treated with a degree of near-religious respect? At first the tribesmen at the village of Eljy demanded money to let him through to the ruins; then he was treated with suspicion as a possible spy, and finally entertained to a meal of mutton boiled in buttermilk. The meal, as Doughty was to discover later, was significant: once he had been entertained to food and drink by the tribesmen, once he had shared their ‘bread and salt’, he was protected by the laws of hospitality.
The track down to the monuments, he noted with an English country gentleman’s fine sense of bathos, ran though ‘limestone downs and coombs … like the country about Bath’; but from there, among the red sandstone cliffs, he could make out the palatial columns and cornices of the Nabataean city. Burckhardt must have been faced with the same intriguing panorama when he scrambled over the track years before.
At closer quarters it was a world of contradictions: grandiose two-storey facades which fronted nothing but plain, uncarved caves, hacked out of the rock face; a town where the houses had vanished and only the empty tombs in the rock remained.
It was initially courage, resourcefulness and good luck that had brought Burckhardt there; then learning and intelligence that made him realize that the ruins were indeed those of the fabled city of Petra. He had been alerted to their existence in the Wadi Mousa by the casual talk of local people, as he travelled south towards Maan and, disguised as a Muslim traveller from India, he had decided to risk his life by trying to see them for himself. It was much the same decision as Doughty would have taken – except that Burckhardt had his disguise and a story he had concocted about a vow to sacrifice a goat at the nearby Tomb of Aaron to explain his presence. Doughty made no pretences: he simply told the curious, occasionally hostile villagers that he wanted to see the ruins.
Perhaps it was the red tarboosh that persuaded the Arabs to let him through: despite its crumbling power, the Ottoman empire still wielded considerable influence in the region, and the hat may have reinforced Doughty’s own claim to have powerful friends. However vehemently the villagers protested their independence, they would have been unwilling to try to outface the authority of the Dowla, the Ottoman government. But, after a night spent in caves in the rocky face on the outskirts of Petra, there were still other locals to stand in the way: one group of four with a gun grabbed the bridle of Doughty’s mule, and refused to let him through unless they were given money; another goatherd, looking after his flocks with his wife, warned him to keep off the mountain slopes, for fear of attack. Fifty armed men, the Arab warned, would not be enough to protect him against the angry villagers if he tried to climb out of the valley.
In the valley-bottom, though, they found the long, deep cleft through the rocks known as the Siq, a natural passage-way through groves of wild olives to the carvings – and at the end of it, the Khasneh, the so-called Treasure House of the Pharaoh, the most perfect of the monuments. It was no disappointment: its ‘sculptured columns and cornices are pure lines of a crystalline beauty without blemish, whereupon the golden sun looks from above, and Nature has painted that sand-rock ruddy with iron-rust’.
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Ignoring the villagers’ warnings, they climbed out of the valley to the cold mountainside, and found a place to stay for the night in a bedu encampment, where they were entertained with music and singing (enough, said Doughty ungratefully, to ‘move our yawning or laughter’) before spending another day at the monuments. Leaving his mule at the Treasure House, Doughty set off with another local guide to explore the carvings and inscriptions until, as the sun set, the anxious young Arab urged him to leave. It was not clear whether he was more afraid of the marauding bedu or of the angry spirits of Petra. His plan was to spend the night back at his own village, where Doughty had been entertained three nights before – but when the villagers there heard the sound of the mule’s hoofs on the rocky track, they poured out of their houses to drive them away. No unbeliever should enter the place, they shouted – and the man who had tried to bring him was reviled as ‘Abu Nasrany’, father of Christians. They were forced back up into the hills, back to the bedu encampment they had left earlier.
Doughty did not seem to care what happened to his guide. For him, the attack by the villagers was little more than an exciting interlude, an introduction to the unpredictable hostility of the tribesmen. But the visit to Petra had given a fresh dimension to his travels. While the mosquito huts of Sinai spoke of a primitive people struggling to survive, these grandiose carvings – reduced now to ‘night-stalls of the nomads’ flocks and blackened with the herdsmen’s fires’
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During the long nights on the mountainside above Petra the villagers had let slip details of just such another civilization. There were, they said, similar sites further south down the Hadj road, on the way to Mecca. It was the first mention Doughty had heard of a second Petra – and it had come to him in much the same casual way as had Burckhardt’s initial information about the first one. At first the villagers were unwilling to talk about the sites, particularly to a curious European Christian, but they assumed that Doughty had arrived from the south, and must already know about them.
There were several separate sites, known as Medain Salih – the cities of Salih, a Muslim prophet, who was said to have destroyed them and their inhabitants because of their wickedness. Each one was hewn from the solid rock like Petra. Doughty’s immediate thought was that he might be the first European to document those remains.
And in Maan there was more to be learned: a secretary named Mahmud – ‘a literate person who had been there oftentimes’ – told him about the inscriptions and the carved birds on the massive stone facades. ‘With those words, Mahmud was the father of my painful travels in Arabia,’ he noted later.
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The cities were well within the reach of a determined traveller – some ten days’ travel, according to the people whom Doughty asked. He wanted to set off south at once to see whether the stories he had heard were accurate – attracted, initially at least, by the possibility that the ruined cities might be connected with the stories of the Old Testament. ‘I mused at that time it would be some wonder of Moses’ Beduish nation [of] Midian,’ he wrote some years later. ‘For those inscriptions which might yield fruit to our Biblical studies, I thought it not too much to adventure my life.’
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Other stories of the Arabian hinterland that may well have been intended to warn him off simply increased his fascination – stories of a cruel and powerful prince, who ruled over his desert kingdom as both tyrant and lawgiver. ‘All the next land of wilderness was ruled by one Ibn Rashid, a mighty prince of Beduin blood, who lorded it over the tribes … I thought I had as lief see his Beduin court, and visit some new David or Robin Hood, as come threading these months past all the horrid mountain mass of Sinai,’ he said later.
(#litres_trial_promo) Here, surely, there would be more to fire his imagination than he had found in Europe.
But his first attempts to join the pilgrimage that might start his journey there were rebuffed: the Ottoman governor of Maan, well aware that he might be held responsible if anything were to happen to this headstrong European in the harsh country of the desert bedu, forbade townsmen and travellers alike to help him find a way down the Pilgrim Road.
The only way of reaching Medain Salih, the governor said, would be to accompany the Hadj caravan from Damascus – a suggestion which was clearly a way of fobbing off this importunate Christian.
The governor’s caution was understandable: from his point of view, it was the worst possible time to have a European Christian who claimed the highest political connections setting out on such a dangerous and unpredictable venture. Within the past few months tension had been growing throughout the Ottomans’ Balkan possessions, and both the Russian Tsar and the western powers were making threatening noises about the need to protect the Sultan’s non-Muslim subjects from the excesses of their masters.
In Constantinople Sultan Abdul Aziz was clinging to power by anxiously playing off Russians against Europeans. Allowing Doughty to wander through the wilder corners of the empire would risk demonstrating how feeble was the Sultan’s grasp on the extremities of his dominions – and if he were to come to harm, it might provoke an anti-Ottoman cause célèbre in the West. Any provincial governor who caused such a diplomatic disaster merely to oblige an eccentric traveller with a penchant for ancient inscriptions would surely attract the unwelcome attentions of the Sultan’s stranglers.
So Doughty spent twenty frustrating days in Maan, becoming well known in the streets and coffee houses, as he tried to glean more information about the monuments of Medain Salih. He also took to wandering through the flint beds just outside the tumbledown clay wall around the town, where he found traces of still earlier inhabitants than those of Petra. Lying near the surface, to his astonishment, were seven flint tools, chipped to a sharp edge. It was a tribute to Doughty’s own powers of observation, sharpened at the archaeological site of Hoxne all those years before, that he recognized them. They were another imaginative link with people from centuries before. ‘We must suppose them of rational, that is an human labour. But what was that old human kindred which inhabited the land so long before the Semitic race?’
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They were, indeed, from long before the Semitic race, some of them dating back to Lower Palaeolithic times, hundreds of thousands of years before the appearance of modern man. Forty years later Doughty presented the axes, amongst other trophies, to Oxford University’s Ashmolean Museum – and along with them, incidentally, his own clumsy effort to copy the craftsmen of prehistory.
Today they shine dully in shades of green, brown, and grey, still fitting snugly into the palm of the hand, still sharp along the chipped edges, but each one now carrying a precise little note, in Doughty’s schoolmasterly hand, to say where it was found.
‘They were certainly a significant find – they wouldn’t have seen many pieces like this in Britain in 1915,’ says Alison Roberts, the collections manager in the museum’s Department of Antiquities. ‘Not much was known about the Palaeolithic era in Syria or the Near East at that time, and most European archaeologists would have been as excited as Doughty himself to see them. The writing on them is interesting too – it shows Doughty was a very careful, conscientious collector. A lot of people weren’t, in those days.’
When he found them, though, Doughty’s attention was fixed on Medain Salih. Everything he heard simply whetted his appetite more keenly: the cities lay close together near the pilgrim trail, about halfway between Maan and Medina, their rock chambers like those he had already seen at Petra, but bigger – and every doorway had an inscription and the figure of a falcon or an eagle, wings outspread, carved over it. However close the links with Petra, he believed there was every chance that he might find the remains of a previously unknown desert civilization.
He used all his powers of persuasion with the governor. Although the journey would be difficult and dangerous, he argued, it would not take him into the area of the two Holy Cities which were forbidden to non-Muslims on pain of death. But it was useless: the governor had clearly decided not to take the responsibility of allowing him to make the journey. He would have to travel north to Damascus and try to find more powerful backing.
So, after failing to get permission in Maan, he set off for Damascus. Eager as he was, he does not seem to have hurried on his journey.
(#litres_trial_promo) He spent several months wandering through the countryside, adding to his collection of inscriptions and stories of the region’s biblical past. It was hard travelling, often with nothing more than a night under the stars in the shelter of a few rocks at the end of the day – but it took Doughty deep into the history of the ancient land. He found a chain of old watch-towers and fortresses stretching a hundred miles or so into the desert, each one with its own story – one was ‘a kasr of the old Yehud’, a castle of the ancient Jews; another was reported to be a palace, and a third, scattered with broken columns, and with a massive marble stairway leading from the deserted entrance hall, now no more than the den of some wild beast.
There were silent piles of stones still standing where they had been painstakingly gathered in long-abandoned fields; entire towns and villages, ruined and deserted, which seemed to date back hundreds of years.
The ruins … are built without mortar, with the uncanny natural blocks of flintstone and limestone. There are even, in several of the remains of the regular buildings, foundation walls, vaults, and round arches made of square carved stones which on appearance might have been made by Roman hands – column pieces, marble fragments, etc …
