The noise was deafening and indescribable.  At first, I heard a hundred lawnmowers, but in the arid climate of Syria, there could surely be no use for so many such tools?  I listened again.  This time, I heard the churning of not so distant cement mixers.  This, at least, was more probable.  Despite Syria's poor financial position, I had certainly seen enough unfinished buildings to warrant their presence.  But then I caught the sound of metal rasping against metal.  A welder? No, at those decibels, there would have to be a whole street of them going about their business.  As I drew closer, a faint creak of wood became audible amongst the cacophony of my imaginary workers.  Slowly, as I approached, a grin spread across my face.  This was my first experience of Hama's famous norias, the mediaeval water wheels that were my reason for visiting this city in the first place.  Seeing them only in pictures, I hadn't imagined the sound they would make in real life, and what a noise that was!

The purpose of the norias was to transfer water from the river to the stone aqueducts that crossed the city.  My guidebook reported that there were seventeen left in total, and these days, they only turned in spring and summer.  Modern technology had found more efficient and, I hoped, more tranquil means of irrigating the surrounding Orontes valley.  But certainly not more atmospheric?  These lumbering giants stood at various heights, between ten and thirty metres tall, and in spite of the immense racket they made, bestowed a unique charm on the place.  Still grinning, I set off under a sweltering midday sun (Syrian bus schedules do not favour those more used to temperate climes) to find the others. 

A path led through the park, past a recreation of a beehive house, an oval adobe structure once common in the surrounding countryside though this had been constructed in neat red brick, and another waterwheel, and I picked my way across broken paving slabs and snoozing stray dogs. Thwarted by one of many locked gates, I left the park and wandered along the main road until I came across a small mosque.  At the side of a cobbled bridge, in front of the mosque, were the next three wooden cogs.  Three small boys dive bombed each other whilst another, older lad signalled for me to come down and join him. 

I ducked under a stone arch and followed an unevenly paved alley past some houses and souvenir shops.  A centuries-old wooden room jutted out at first floor level across the path.  This street was all that remained of Hama's old town.  The remainder was razed to the ground during the unrest of 1982, when a group of insurgents known as the Brotherhood, committed to overthrowing the government, took control of the city.  The ensuing battle by government forces to regain control and end the uprising left many locals dead and the old town in ruins.  Alone in the alley, it was almost impossible to imagine the terrible events of that year, so calm was the scene.  (I would say quiet, but those norias just would not shut up.)  What a terrible waste, I thought.

At the end of the alley, past the artists' workshops, were another two norias.  Vibrant pink roses bloomed in stark contrast to the honey-coloured stone walls and the weathered, damp wood of the water wheels.  Sunlight tickled the trails of water falling onto the aqueduct.  An antique shop, going by the bizarre name of Oriental Batman, was empty of customers, its rusting wares propped against the walls in the hope of attracting some passing trade.  It had been some time since anyone looked at the wrought iron grilles, and considerably longer at the grubby rugs hanging on the walls, if the amount of dust on them was anything to go by. 

Still following the river, I found myself back where I started, yet considerably hotter and more sweaty.  I consulted my map to find I had walked just a tiny distance, largely down shady alleyways, and if I was to reach the largest of the wheels, I had a more exposed walk ahead of me.  It seemed a short cut past the main mosque might shave off a few minutes and I set off.

Alas, the short cut turned out to be up a steep incline and, though the passing shops were an interesting distraction, there could be no getting away from the fact that the strong sun was having an effect.  I stopped for a cool drink in at the base of an air conditioned mall.  Suitably refreshed, I continued on my way.  Before long, the street took me downhill, past the earthen mound on top of which the citadel used to perch.  A familiar creaking became audible and I had reached the largest of the norias, Al-Mohammediya.  At thirty metres, it was huge, though lacked the charm of the alley group.  I didn't linger long.  The sun threatened to melt me and I still had to find the final four norias.  Actually, I'd lost count by then, but I decided I must have seen most of them.

Common sense prevailed and I hailed a cab to take me on the two kilometre ride.  The four norias straddle a weir, watched over by a restaurant of the same name.  Young boys played in the river, climbing up a few rungs of the wheels before pushing each other off and splashing each other to uninhibited squeals of delight.  The public path next to the restaurant was gated and padlocked.  A gaudy canopy and thick cables for floodlit dining at the restaurant tainted the view from its terrace.  In any case, they had no beer and I wandered off down the street.  The next cafe, the Albshreyat, was more welcoming, both in terms of its decor, which allowed for unhindered views of the waterwheels, and its owner, who waived the charge for a drink given that I was his only customer, and a very hot one at that.  What a shame that his rivals had all the customers when he seemed the more deserving.  I wanted to linger, but I had a bus to catch.  Time to drag myself away from those noisy norias and head back to the relative peace of bustling Damascus.