The Gladstone is a Georgian town house, simple, elegant and airy. It overlooks the River Dee estuary on one side and the High Street lined with multi coloured houses on the other. The tiny port has art and jazz festivals and The Gladstone does a dollop of haggis with breakfast. The Selkirk Arms, a stagger up the road, was reputedly where Robert Burns drank and wrote.

48 High Street, Kirkcudbright, DG6 4JX;
tel: 01557 331734

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It only costs £3 and you can stay from morning until midnight, hang out, talk rubbish with your mates and get really clean.

Our Dave, Nigel and I were sweaty and touristed-out and entered this splendid old hamman, which is located in the souk somewhere between the Omayyad Mosque and the Biblical Street Called Straight (any other directions are meaningless in the convolutions of a bazaar).

The old guy behind the desk takes your money, your wallet and locks them safely away. You're given three towels each and taken to a dry steam room. It's hot- nostrils are incinerated and then it's time for a scrub. It's all very homoerotic and Dave got weirded out by men gleefully lathering up their pals in an empty marble room. But what the hey-ho ... no one's taking pictures (I don't think).

Then you're led to a second large, empty marble room with a cloud of steam descending to about four feet off the floor. All you see are men's torsos - very stark and eerie. Here you swill off your lather (expertly- and rather tenderly I must add - applied by your mates) and get scrubbed by each other.

It's at this point that a baleful Damascus masseur points to one of us at a time and beckons us to his antechamber, where you are laid on the marble floor like a chunk of meat (Halal meat, I should point out) and you are twisted, pummelled and pulled. Then he motions you to lie on your stomach. Our Dave thought he was to enjoy forbidden pleasures at this point- he's old public school and taken with these fantasies- but Big Nigel expressed the view you were not in a strong position to argue with anyone at this point. Anyway, there were no shenanigans, but more pulling, twisting and deep muscle tweaking.

Then it was back to the steam room and a gentler massage and then a cold shower.

That took about 40 minutes and at every confusing turn of events, Damascene bathers or hamman workers were happy to help you along. It was all very matey. They seemed intrigued we were there - confused, European, pale. It was akin to someone slightly exotic coming into your local and you showing him just how to down a pint of Old Skunktongue.

After getting scrubbed clean through, we were jettisoned to a large open mezzanine where all the lads were bundled in towels, hanging out, drinking sweet tea, having a fag, taking pictures with their mobiles and probably talking about ... what else … footy.

Time rolls on, the hours are punctuated by prayers and more tea and the sound of the souk outside.

Women are allowed on Friday nights. The bazaar has some pretty lively restaurants for a good old nosh after bathtime and prices are about £3 or £4 pp for a blow out.

Damascus as a city is laid back. Folks leave you alone- probably because a good chunk of the population probably works for the secret services or the military.

But, really, who knows who anyone is in the hamman when your clothes are on a peg and you're getting all in a lather.

Hamman Nureddin; Between the Omayyad Mosque and the Street Called Straight(near the spice stalls),
Damascus souk

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