THE DIARY OF A PILGRIM TO THE HOLY LAND 1985
MONDAY 4 NOVEMBER
After a 50 mile journey, I arrived at Manchester Airport at 11.10am in good time to check in. I joined the queue and was soon interrogated at great length by an El Al security man. 'Where do you come from?' 'Have you been to Israel before?' 'Where are you staying?' 'Have you a letter to confirm this?' I showed him the letter from the Franciscans at the Casa Nova Hostel. 'Has anyone given you a parcel to take?' 'A parcel could be a bomb.' he said. 'Do you carry a defence weapon?' It was the first of twelve checks - four for tickets, and eight for security - which involved X-rays of baggage, self and a hand-search.
This cross-examination was carried out within earshot of my 'chauffeurs', who were just as astonished as I was at the thoroughness of the interrogation. I said that it was a compliment to be quizzed like that - I must have looked fit enough to climb mountains and rock faces, crawl miles in the desert, swim the roughest sea and jump on moving buses, boats, aeroplanes and trains.
Eventually I boarded the El Al Boeing 707 which took off at 1.30pm. We landed at Brussels where we were accompanied along the runway by an army escort and fire-tender. We stayed at Brussels for one hour, picking up some passengers. During that time, armed soldiers stood with their backs to the plane, guns at the ready for any eventuality. Sitting at the window was a lady from Preston, going to join her husband for a year in Tel Aviv, and an elderly lady who spoke little English. It was only when she asked me to fill in her disembarkation form that I realised she was an Iranian refugee living in Los Angeles, born on New Year's Day 1907. She said her daughter had cancer. What more could we do but sympathise. During the flight we had to fasten our seat belts three times because of turbulence, but it was nothing serious - at least I am alive to write this diary.
We were served a beautiful meal. There was time for a few dozes, a few chats and some reading. The time passed minute by minute, hour by hour. It was the longest flight I had ever undertaken; it was the first time I had sat down for six hours, in years, and so I was totally relaxed and rested when we touched down at Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv at 9.40pm local time (7.40pm G.M.T.) At 9.45pm, for the second time in my life, I stood on the ground made sacred by the feet of Our Lord. For Christians and Jews on the plane, it was a moment of great joy.
I passed quickly through the passport control, and after quite a delay, my 1975 Woolworth case appeared. I carried it quickly through the 'Nothing to declare' exit. It was when I looked for the Jerusalem bus, that the first potential crisis of my DIY pilgrimage developed. The last bus had gone at 10.00pm; it was now 10.20pm. I could travel to Tel Aviv and catch a Jerusalem bus from there. If I took that option, I would be lucky to reach Jerusalem by dawn. Then I spotted a Sherut taxi and, with five others, agreed a fare to Jerusalem. What a relief! The driver made rapid progress on the 35 mile journey.
Jerusalem is well above sea level and we could see its lights for miles. We completed the journey in 40 minutes. It was a wonderful feeling to be inside its walls again. I was second last off the taxi and the driver wanted me to pay an extra $2, but I insisted on the agreed $8. He gave me 3000 shekels in change. That sounds a fortune but it was about $2. Then there was an opportunity for tipping. The driver dropped me off in a very dark area beside a Franciscan Monastery. I wandered around alleyways for ten minutes or so, looking for the Casa Nova (New House) Hostel - a place I had never seen before. Finally, I found it - being directed over the last few twists and turns of those streets by a young couple. When I saw that the building was ominously dark and quiet, I was worried that I might have to spend the night in the open air, but, after much bell-ringing and knocking, a young man swung open the big doors at 11.45pm and showed me to my room.
The first look from the window was important to me as I wondered what sight would greet me then, and every morning. Would I be able to see any of the sacred buildings or would I be facing a inner courtyard or stone wall? I swung open the shutters and gazed into the night. There in the distance, beautifully floodlit in the Middle East darkness, was the Church of the Ascension on the Mount of Olives. I was fortunate to be favoured with such a fine view - especially requested in my letter.
I unpacked and finished my sandwiches and at last, at 1.00am, settled down in an attempt to master one of my problems of 1980 - trying to get a good night's sleep in Jerusalem. Would I sleep? Would I be awakened by the Moslem calling people to prayer in the early hours? Only time would tell!