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Fortunately the hotel I was headed for appeared as if by magic before I went completely mad. Anybody who was anyone and passing through Syria since 1900 stayed at the Hotel Baron. The Royalty of Europe, heads of state, titled nobility, authors, aviators, archaeologists, all stayed here as did some quite ordinary travellers like Evans (my bicycle) and me. It is a fine building with about a hundred rooms arranged on three floors. Arabic-Baronial would describe the style I think. When it was first built it was outside the city walls and guests could shoot ducks from their bedroom windows. Now busy roads hem it in on all four sides, and its solid magnificence is somewhat threadbare. Even so I didn't know if I could afford to stay there, but having put it to the young man at the desk that I was a bicycle traveller just arrived from England anxious to sleep where Lawrence of Arabia had rested his head, he was so taken with my enterprise that he offered me special terms, as long as I did not mind doing without a private bath. He was the grandson of the man who had built the Baron and an ex-cyclist. As a very young man, he said, he had wondered what it would be like to cycle to England - the idea was as imbued with romance for him as riding through the Middle East was for me. He had decided that it was not possible to get to England because there were so many mountains in the way. He was most impressed with Evans, and carried him up the wide imposing staircase to m bedroom. You can always tell the quality of an hotel by the attitude they adopt towards bicycles. I was invited to lunch with his parents and that was the beginning of three memorable days in Aleppo listening to the anecdotes of Krikor Maxmoulian, who as a boy had been around when Lawrence of Arabia was a young scholar working on his thesis on Crusader castles. He was, I gathered, a rather arrogant young man. Both Krikor and his wife Sally were very kind to me while I was there inviting me to meals and generally making me welcome. I was invited to sign the special guest book which contained such names as Agatha Christie, Freya Stark, Lindbergh, and of course, Lawrence - exalted company indeed. Aleppo is the most attractive city in Syria which is not saying very much. What charm the Syrian cities undoubtedly possess is serious jeopardized by the awful traffic and the massive rebuilding which is taking place everywhere, as though an enormous amount of foreign aid had suddenly poured into the country. Traffic ruins even the souks of Aleppo, which would otherwise have no equal anywhere. There are about ten miles of them, all under their ancient heavy roofs, which shelter them from the burning heat. They sell every conceivable commodity, and around their perimeters are the Khans, like miniature fortresses. where the foreign merchants used once to secure themselves and their goods at night, with the camels stable in the enclosed courtyards. Hardly a camel remains in Syria; it is an unending stream of cars and vans which pin people to the walls of passageways only just wide enough for them to force a way through. I found it impossible to admire the exotic spices, perfumes and jewellery under these conditions. From 'Riding to Jerusalem', a Mountain House paperback