A (not quite significant) birthday morning. I wake up to a three layered cuddle from the men in my life, culminating with enthusiastic dwarf kisses all over my face. Rashimi has a double sticky handed face holding technique which means you can't escape them. 'Happy Birfday, Mummy!'
The day unfolds in the blue-skied sunny way that we never tire of. With Gran Gran and Grandfather in tow, we explore the first world war cemetery which is as moving as they come when you think of quite how many men have died over the centuries defending and attacking this sacred patch: including all these British in 1917. The whole of it stirs you as you gaze out towards this 'golden goblet full of scorpions' as Jerusalem has been described:
Here are the serene lines of it when it was first constructed in 1917:
And within these lines, glimpses of individual stories:
But for the dwarves, and their watermelon football, the expanse of green and the cool smooth steps have a more care free allure:
For the evening our friend Bassem and his nephew give us a free ride to a restaurant and back. Majda's: one of Ottolenghi's favourite haunts when he's in the country, is a little organic garden and restaurant serving exquisite concoctions of home grown delights with an exciting wine list. We sit laughing and chatting beneath a vine, with rugs around our shoulders as it's chilly at that hour on the little hill outside Jerusalem.
The weekend evolves naturally. We take a trip to Palestine's only brewery producing the golden and delicious Taybeh,
which tastes somehow nicer when you understand the constraints within which the little family business runs. With hardline Islam encroaching on the one hand, and Israeli bureaucracy on the other, it's a wonder the small factory runs at all. As we look over the hills from their patch, we see they are flanked by settlements. 'This is just something we get used to, and it doesn't stop us from wanting to keep growing,' says the wife of the owner.
The dwarves scamper up and down metal steps inspecting the tanks in the hops infused hangar.
On the way back we stop at a little restaurant with one of the best views over the hills towards the Jordan valley, accompanied by the melodious chimes from St George's orthodox church, and eat a traditional Palestinian lunch of hummus and Masakhan: chicken with onions and za'atar. Then the dwarves commandeer sweets and ice cream out of the waitress after they reluctantly run off together to request in Arabic: 'Fi helwaiaat?' My point is that if you know what you want in life, you need to learn to ask for it yourself.
Sunday, and Rashimi comes out with a line that I need to preserve forever: 'Gwan Gwan's gone to the mothque!' She and Grandfather set off to explore the Dome of the Rock and are delighted by it. It's not every day that Gran Gran visits a mosque.
J, the dwarves and I stick to the Anglican options in our area and attend our first service at St George's which feels extraordinarily familiar considering how far from home we are. Rashimi and the Lozenge are offered toys and games by a friendly lady, and they remain silent as they suck the lollies we brought.
Unfortunately the display of gentility is short lived as Rashimi spills water all over his shorts and we find him peeling off both his shorts and pants in the aisle. We settle for keeping the bright red pair of pants on, and he prances about in a bright red t-shirt to match, behind the Very Reverend Hosam, the Dean as he leaves the building, like a little red devil in the wake of holiness. All that's missing are the horns.
I explain the scene to St Grace when we return...but she isn't having her little pet compared to a devil. 'Noooo,' she laughs shaking her head vehemently and sweeps him up into her arms.
The day unfolds in the blue-skied sunny way that we never tire of. With Gran Gran and Grandfather in tow, we explore the first world war cemetery which is as moving as they come when you think of quite how many men have died over the centuries defending and attacking this sacred patch: including all these British in 1917. The whole of it stirs you as you gaze out towards this 'golden goblet full of scorpions' as Jerusalem has been described:
Here are the serene lines of it when it was first constructed in 1917:
And within these lines, glimpses of individual stories:
But for the dwarves, and their watermelon football, the expanse of green and the cool smooth steps have a more care free allure:
For the evening our friend Bassem and his nephew give us a free ride to a restaurant and back. Majda's: one of Ottolenghi's favourite haunts when he's in the country, is a little organic garden and restaurant serving exquisite concoctions of home grown delights with an exciting wine list. We sit laughing and chatting beneath a vine, with rugs around our shoulders as it's chilly at that hour on the little hill outside Jerusalem.
The weekend evolves naturally. We take a trip to Palestine's only brewery producing the golden and delicious Taybeh,
which tastes somehow nicer when you understand the constraints within which the little family business runs. With hardline Islam encroaching on the one hand, and Israeli bureaucracy on the other, it's a wonder the small factory runs at all. As we look over the hills from their patch, we see they are flanked by settlements. 'This is just something we get used to, and it doesn't stop us from wanting to keep growing,' says the wife of the owner.
The dwarves scamper up and down metal steps inspecting the tanks in the hops infused hangar.
On the way back we stop at a little restaurant with one of the best views over the hills towards the Jordan valley, accompanied by the melodious chimes from St George's orthodox church, and eat a traditional Palestinian lunch of hummus and Masakhan: chicken with onions and za'atar. Then the dwarves commandeer sweets and ice cream out of the waitress after they reluctantly run off together to request in Arabic: 'Fi helwaiaat?' My point is that if you know what you want in life, you need to learn to ask for it yourself.
Sunday, and Rashimi comes out with a line that I need to preserve forever: 'Gwan Gwan's gone to the mothque!' She and Grandfather set off to explore the Dome of the Rock and are delighted by it. It's not every day that Gran Gran visits a mosque.
J, the dwarves and I stick to the Anglican options in our area and attend our first service at St George's which feels extraordinarily familiar considering how far from home we are. Rashimi and the Lozenge are offered toys and games by a friendly lady, and they remain silent as they suck the lollies we brought.
Unfortunately the display of gentility is short lived as Rashimi spills water all over his shorts and we find him peeling off both his shorts and pants in the aisle. We settle for keeping the bright red pair of pants on, and he prances about in a bright red t-shirt to match, behind the Very Reverend Hosam, the Dean as he leaves the building, like a little red devil in the wake of holiness. All that's missing are the horns.
I explain the scene to St Grace when we return...but she isn't having her little pet compared to a devil. 'Noooo,' she laughs shaking her head vehemently and sweeps him up into her arms.
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