The heavy bells hang from vaulted spires. A devoted Maronite bellman works the rough wooden pedals at his feet. Metula isn't far. Kiryat-Shmona also is within sight. And if the sun this warm, dry winter isn't too blinding, one can make out the pale blue outlines of the Mountains of Naftali far on the southern horizon.
Narrow roads glint in valleys flashing spring greenery.
Down there, the convoys pass. The air is full of the sound of bells, a weighty, metallic clang that leaves long echoes in its wake. The Jewish Israeli ear is unaccustomed to this sound. Yet it has its virtues. For example, it cuts through the short, explosive bursts of rifle fire.