Brave without being a poseur, he understands the dirty war we are watching and thrives on cynicism.

Monday 24 July: To southern Lebanon on a humanitarian convoy. In the middle of a field of tomatoes, I see a London bus.

Seventeen miles south the road is blown up, craters in the middle and narrow tracks on the edge.

The vehicle leans to the right and I lean to the left. So does the driver. North of Khiam, I can see fires in the forests of northern Israel and hear the thump of shells into Lebanon. Great weather. Pity about the war.

Tuesday 25 July: Marjayoun, a Christian town wedged between two slices of Hezbollah territory, was the headquarters of Israel's brutal 'South Lebanese Army' proxy militia, and a lot of ex-SLA men are still here. Locals gather at Rashed's Restaurant (yes, there is a restaurant open in southern Lebanon) and watch the war. Far across the valley is a UN post where four unarmed UN observers are watching the battle at first hand.

Wednesday 26 July: Indian UN soldiers bring what is left of the four observers to the rundown hospital. Yesterday an Israeli aircraft fired a missile directly into their position. They are brought to the hospital in black plastic bags, apparently decapitated.

The schools are full of refugees.

I go to a classroom where 15 Shia families are squatting on the floor. "What are you doing to us?" a man asks me quietly.

Thursday 27 July: I sit with a French friend on a hill, watching aircraft blasting rocks and trees into the air. Israeli artillery is ranged on a house this side of Khiam. The first shell bursts and then a barrage of fire consumes the house. "My God, I hope there was no-one in there, " my friend says. We may never know.

Friday 28 July: At 3am, a huge bombardment starts over Beaufort Castle, the massive Crusader keep to the west. I start back to Beirut when a man shouts that we must detour down a dirt track. "Big rocket on road, " he says. Three hours later we stop in a Christian town where people traditionally despise Hezbollah.

They are all watching Hezbollah's station; one old man says he believes Hezbollah tells the truth.

Saturday, 29 July: Home. I sleep in my own bed, then go through my notes. I find that my handwriting collapsed after the air attack on Thursday. I was so frightened I could hardly write.