There's dispute  about the location of the mount of transfiguration - snow-clad Hermon north of Galilee, or this mountain above the fertile Jezreel Valley. We choose the latter, leaving the coach at the bus station and into the shuttle buses whizzing round the dozen hairpin bends as if we were on India's Western Ghats from Metupallyam to Coonoor. 
 

A pagan temple becomes a Christian shrine, falls into Muslim hands and back to the Christians, with quarrels between east and western traditions, so why not have two? And that's the way it is; land acquired by political influence with the rulers of the day, be they Ottoman or British, and with big money. 

And all to preserve the account of the transfiguration, ending with Peter saying, 'Let's build three places here; one each for Jesus, Moses and Elijah.' He didn't get his way, but he'd probably be pleased with the fact that at least there are two churches here now, one Catholic, the other Orthodox, with chapels for Moses and Elijah.

The story ended with a voice from a cloud: 'My beloved son, ...' The winds sweep up from the valley below and there are wisps of cloud above, but no voice today. Just news that Mrs Clinton has conceded to Donald Trump.  The Americans in our group seem to agree he's no beloved son. We unite in a Taize chant: 'Gloria in excelsis deo,' and it breaks into a three-part round. That satisfies us, while mass is said inside.

The countryside around reminds me of the Karoo, but if we're closer to God in a garden, then better seek him here. At least there's a good assortment of South African plants here: aloes, cacti, sisal, strelizia, cycads. I feel at home.