I think perhaps there is an image of the Hebrew month of Elul as somehow a hushed sacred space, the month of solemn soul searching and repentance immediately before Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year and the start of the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe.
We picture people wrapped in tallitot prayer shawls and clad all in pure white. In Israel the season is symbolised by the taper-like white spikes of the sea squill, popping up like memorial candles from the parched end of dry season earth, one of a very few wildflowers to bloom this time of year.
The reality of Elul though is a cacophony of prayers and shofar horn blasts and vast throngs streaming through Jerusalem's Old City in the dead of night as they make their way to the traditional midnight prayer services.
And part of the reason for that lack of reverent quiet is that so many of those throngs are school groups. Not that they are badly behaved (well, there are always a few, but most display exemplary behaviour) but they are children and as much as they are absorbing the sanctity of the holy city, they are also filling it with jubilant life because, well, they are children.
I was among them this Thursday evening, accompanying my older son's class on their trip. As befits the kid who sings in a choir he and his friend got in to the mood on the bus ride by starting up a beautiful a cappella rendition of the Israeli oldie about Sir Moses Montifiore, the 19th century Anglo-Jewish philanthropist who built the first residential neighbourhoods outside the walls of the historic Old City (which at the time was of course just Jerusalem, because there was no New City until Montifiore began building it).
It isn't the first time I've heard them singing this ballad but it gets me in the kishkes every time to hear 21st century Israeli kids singing a tribute to this amazing man who's life was so different to theirs he could have been an alien from Mars. Yet the great works that he did, the revolution he set in motion in Judaism's most sacred city, continue to reverberate well in to our own time. Not only do his cobblestone lanes and his windmill still stand, these children walk these alleys knowing full well who's legacy they are.
But while we would be learning about Montifiore as part of the evening's programme about the pillars of Jewish atonement - charity, prayer and sincere repentance, the overarching theme was of course the Days of Awe, and soon the children launched in to the classic Sefardic hymn Adon Haslihot (Lord of Repentance), the Ashkenazi children singing along heart and soul as though they had been born in to this just as much as their Sefardi classmates. Israel's ingathering of exiles at work.
It's a good thing everyone was in fine spirits because wending our way through Jerusalem's traffic choked streets at rush hour was a time consuming process, and it goes so much faster on a bus full of kids who are happily singing rather than kvetching.
First stop was the Armon Hanatziv Promenade across the valley from the Old City. Shockingly enough it is a very popular place for visiting school groups and there was nowhere to park for schoolbuses crowding the spaces.
So the driver stopped further down the street, right outside a busy little parking bay where we found ourselves getting off the buses straight in to a crowd of wedding guests dressed to the nines in silks, satins and sequins, mouths agape in surprise at the hordes of children in school uniform t-shirts streaming off buses right outside the stunningly chic terrace where the beautiful hupa wedding canopy had been set up directly overlooking Jerusalem's Temple Mount, Judaism's holiest site.
The guests trotted off to their reception and we continued along the promenade to a convenient lookout point where the school rabbi sat everyone down and started teaching about the ancient Temple, pilgrimage to Jerusalem and... Well, around then he was drowned out by a school group one level down from us who were singing a Slihot prayer service.
Undaunted he regained his train of thought, turned up his Madonna headset mike and resumed his enthusiastic explanation of the significance of the view across the valley, the power of prayer and. Then the clarinet and violin fronted klezmer band at the wedding went in to high gear, switching from low key background music to frenetic up tempo Ashkenazi Jewish wedding melodies.
It was great music and it doesn't get more Jewish than a wedding putting the memory of the ancient Jewish Temple front and centre, quite literally, so the rabbi took it in good spirits and rounded everyone back on to the buses for our next place of interest. Maybe he hadn't covered everything he intended to but the view made an impression on the kids.
Approaching Montifiore's famous Jerusalem windmill in Mishkenot Shaananim we noticed people milling about on the terrace adjacent to the windmill, wine glasses in their hands and a stage set up with speakers and instruments ready for a concert.
Of course the music began just as we were gathered in the courtyard below and my son's teacher was launching in to a presentation about Sir Moses and his plans to improve the crowded conditions within the walls of the city by building new spacious neighbourhoods outside the walls.
As she struggled to make herself heard the children became increasingly curious about the performance, quickly picking up on some of the catchier hooks and singing along to songs I'm quite sure they hadn't heard before that night. Musical bunch this class. Jewish folk-rock outfit Nuriel made quite a number of accidental fans tonight without many of them actually knowing that they were listening to Nuriel.
It was time to move on again, around the concert with the free wine, passed the replica of Montifiore's coach in a glass case, round the windmill and the bar staff lounging beside it, down rough hewn steep stone steps of Yemin Moshe, named for Sir Moses of course. Which meant that it was of course time for the children to launch once again in to the Ballad of Sir Moses Montifiore. I do believe he must have been shepping nahas from his tomb in Ramsgate, Kent in the south of England, this innovator and philanthropist who died childless at the age of 100 in 1885.
Jerusalem topography means that more often than not you have to schlep all the way down only to climb back up, even higher, and then some. This may well be another Elul metaphor. And so it was that we went up to King David's Tomb on Mount Zion.
Entering the old stone walls we were besieged on all sides by wave after wave of Slihot pilgrims and tourists, most of them either schoolchildren or pensioners. There were a smattering of foreign visitors but most seemed to be local Israelis. Everyone scrambling to keep up with their respective groups, cutting in and out like dance troupes who'd forgotten their steps in the melee of people squeezed between the ancient wells.
Near the walls of the Dormition Abby a young woman was sitting on the ground playing Jewish songs on a harp, the bright purity of the sound quieting the hubub of the bustling street, a wave of sweet melody washing over the masses, soothing like water.
And then in front of us it looked like there really was water, gushing down the end of the cul de sac in front of David's tomb. An unexpected but beautifully done sound and light show projected on the facade, incorporating the ornate arched doorway and windows in a display about the destructiveness of hatred and jealousy and the need for brotherly love and humility to open up the gates of prayer.
Cue the children breaking in to another round of the Adon Haselihot hymn, so harmoniously coordinated that a couple of elderly women from the nearby pensioners' group asked me if they were an organised choir.
The kids were still singing as we entered the building and discovered a live acoustic band in the open courtyard playing, you guessed it, Adon Haselihot, the children turning on a dime to coordinate with the musicians. Mostly drowned out by the loud music a young man was calling out to visitors inviting them to donate to the upkeep of the holy site by buying memorial candles from him. A few women peeled off to the broad stone ledge covered in tea lights and yizkor candles.
Much to our school's delight the band kept playing popular Jewish songs and prayers, the children rooted in place, hypnotised by the vibrant enthusiasm of the ensemble, continuing to sing along as the teachers herded them up the stairs to the (slightly quieter) rooftop on which the school rabbi was delivering his talk about King David and the power of sincere, life changing, repentance.
All around we could see the twinkling lights of the city, save where the towering bulk of the Dormition Abby blocked them. It was refreshingly cool and breezy up on that rooftop, but even a couple of stories up the music from the courtyard reached us and he had to persevere to make himself heard.
Tired from all the walking on uneven stone children and parents alike relaxed on the floor, some focused on the rabbi's sermon, others drifting with the music from downstairs and the faint blasts of shofar horns in the distance. Somewhere in the alleys below someone was drumming on a darbuka and people were singing along call and response style.
Rested from our rooftop interlude with King David we headed through the Zion Gate and down towards our the Kotel plaza. If it had been crowded before it was positively heaving now. The narrow road down from the Armenian Quarter to the Western Wall lies between a stretch of ramparts and the historic Porat Yosef yeshiva. And in that narrow space pedestrians and motorists have to figure out a way to get along, especially as what pavements there are are very narrow and in places the only real option for pedestrians is to walk along the ramparts themselves.
Added fun tonight was a group of adult cyclists racing down this steep road hell for leather, while pedestrians, mostly school children, jumped out of their way in surprise. First time I've seen a bicycle Slihot tour.
I was impressed that in the sea of school parties ours made it together to the same section of the plaza and despite the surrounding noise were able to organise evening prayers and Slihot that everyone in our group could actually hear. The school rabbi, who's grandparents hail from the same Ukrainian Jewish shteitl as DH's grandfather, expertly chanted traditional Middle Eastern melodies for the prayers, taking it in turns with a golden voiced father of a pupil in leading the service. Two other class fathers blew their shofar horns at the appropriate places in the proceedings, the primal cry echoing back to us from other school groups holding their own Slihot in loose groups scattered across the Western Wall plaza.
As we were finishing students from a religious girls' school sat down in a huge circle close to the entrance to the women's side of the Kotel. There were no fathers with them to lead services, all I could see were a bevy of headscarfed female teachers. They held their own Slihot service sitting in their big circle on the hard cobblestones, their combined harmonious voices soaring over the surrounding din, strong and clear and utterly inspiring in the purity of their sound despite the large size of their group.
Boarding the bus home the driver had the radio on. It was playing The Youngbloods "Get Together", (did he realise it featured as a radio public service announcement appealing for interfaith coexistence and tolerance by the National Conference of Christians and Jews?)
Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now
Can't get much more on message for Elul than that.
Or for that matter the days after this week's edge of your seat election results.
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