Now that I have your attention (admit it, you were looking for the pictures!), it all started with an overnight trip to climb Masada at sunset.

A short drive out of Jerusalem down to the Dead Sea in the Great Rift Valley, and the scenery changed from alpine to the barren, scrubby Judean desert. We stopped for a short hike at beautiful Ein Gedi; a genuine desert oasis with a hot-and-cold waterfall where two water sources meet, and rock hyrax jump out of your path as you walk. We were on our way to climb Masada at dawn.

Masada is a huge rocky plateau dotted with temples, palaces and fortifications, most famously from the time of the Jewish Revolt. Herod the Great had fortified Masada in 35BCE before it was taken over by Jewish extremist rebels around 60CE. A siege of these ‘Sicarii’ by Roman troops (whose camps can still be seen looking down from the rock) ended when, in typically audacious Roman fashion, they used massive manpower to build a gigantic ramp all the way from the valley floor to the top of the rock, up which to run their chariots.

The Sicarii – according to 1st Century Jewish historian Josephus – committed mass suicide as the chariots rolled towards them.

The ‘snake path’ up Masada is a loose and tricky path that remains open all night (unlike the cable car), and a popular trip is to start up it in the dark to view the spectacular, Grand Canyon-like red sunrise from the top of the rock. My two friends and I hunkered down in bivvy bags at the base the night before, banishing thoughts of scorpions, and fell asleep to the sound of bats feeding overhead.

After the hazardous climb, we soaked up the sunset and scrambled round the ruins till it was too hot to stay exposed in the desert. We rumbled down in the cable car and made straight for the sea.

We were floating in the slick, silent mineral bath with the usual pasty Russians and Northern Europeans caked in dead sea mud, when a large black coach pulled up. Out leapt over thirty young Italian priests, all in full black cassocks.

From the water, we watched in amazement as they eagerly stripped off their black robes, flung them onto the rocks, and waded into the water in nothing but their white underwear!

Back on the beach, we couldn’t contain our giggles, as thirty young Fathers emerged from the sea in their now transparent white pants and, apparently unaware, pulled their cassocks back on and disappeared as quickly as they had arrived.

That's got to be at least 100 'Hail Marys'!