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I disrobed in a circular hall beneath a lofty dome and, swaddled in towels, shuffled to the steam room. Heat lapped my skin, visibility was poor. After sweating like a cheese, a mumbling shadow led me, lamb-like, to the bath room. Spread-eagled on tiles, I was pulled and prodded, pummelled and poked. When His Brawniness returned with what resembled a stringy blonde wig, it augured a decadent finale… or one last lather. "Good?" he croaked. "Marvellous" I squeaked.

Minutes later, sipping tea on a divan, I examined my new scrubbed self. Hammams - Turkish-style bath houses - are an integral part of Aleppo and the 14th-century Hammam al-Nasri, restored in 1985, is one of Syria's most lavish. I felt supple, younger and primed for the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world.

Damascus, the capital, hotly disputes such claims. Aleppo, barely 50km from the Turkish border, scoffs; 'We are men, they are women' runs their sentiment. This city, like Syria itself, is a shuttle through the centuries. Hittites start the show around 2000BC, followed by Assyrians, Persians and Greeks. Rome and Byzantium directed until 637AD when Arabs took centre stage; Hamdanids, Mirdasids, Seljuks, Ayyubids and Mamelukes mixed walk-on parts with leading roles. Ottomans were the stars from 1516, the French aggressive stagehands between the Wars. It was independence, of course, which really brought the house down in 1946.

Emerging from the hamman in bright sunlight, I made straight for the citadel. Aleppo's most obvious landmark sits on a 50-metre mound with a dry, wide moat. One comes for the views and an imposing Mameluke gateway approached by an arched bridge. I twisted and turned past tall plated doors, momentarily pinned to the wall by a shrieking school party.
Stairs led to a restored Throne Room where sniffy guards stood bored beneath a singular coffered ceiling.

From pagan temple to church, mosques to fortress, palace to cafeteria, this citadel has seen it all; ruins and remains scatter its slopes. 'Halab', the city's Arabic name, derives from the word for milk; it's up here, by the Mosque of Abraham, that Abraham reputedly milked his cow - and where I paused for a cup of coffee.

Aleppo's great trading days, when eastern caravans headed west to the Mediterranean and Turkey, are gone forever. Yet it retains some of that old panache and the sights are compactly spread. I gazed down upon the old quarter, a collage of dun roofs, domes and vaults, pencil and square minarets, ugliness and elegance. Hidden from view, its famous covered souks, markets, thread like capillaries for a reputed 30km. Once the city's lifeblood, today they are rivalled only by Cairo's.

I plunged into Souk al-Attarine, an arterial extavaganza of cubbyhole shops and boutiques. Courteous traders offered skins and pelts, robes and carpets. Would 'mister' like figs, dates or a kebab? What about sheeps' heads, laurel soap or twenty styles of plastic bucket? Donkey trains ebbed one way, porters flowed another. You can haggle over gold, frankincense and myrrh; this is a place to stroll at will, for directions as well as monuments to take one's fancy.

Perhaps I seemed adrift for an elderly man enquired of my objective. "The Clock Tower... eventually". "My god!" he exclaimed, "you're most lost" and in a genie's flash I was being ushered along, curious about his catholic English. Ahmad Modalla proved the gentlest of guides, informal and almost paternal. We could meet again by the Great Mosque if I came - good; if not, less good but not bad.

"Bad", he warned, were some seedy hotels by the Ottoman Clock Tower near Bab al-Faraj. A whiff of cheery decadence runs through downtown like a drain. Bulging Amazonians hang out above the street in lurid film posters while real-life peroxide women from the eastern bloc strut like peacocks. As dusk falls their hemlines get higher, their V-lines lower, more revealing, vulgar. From my vantage point - a juice bar - it all seemed fairly tame.

From sin to salvation is just a few minutes walk. The nearby Jdeide Christian quarter - all narrow lanes, arched blind alleys and enigmatic mansions, and beits with elaborate doors - is predominantly Armenian. Many fled from First World War Turkish persecution and today it's a haven for a bewildering array of sects, each with their own churches. All stand within a stone's throw of one another but no one's throwing stones. You can dabble in Gregorian Armenian, Greek Orthodox and Syrian Catholic, not to mention Greek Catholic and Maronite too.

Food for the soul is fine, actual food even better. Sissi House may sound like a camp rendezvous but this charming 17th century Jdeide mansion is a cut glass restaurant. Candle-lit tables fill a deep majestic courtyard and there appear not to be any menus. Maybe I should have worn a tie; perhaps one simply doesn't quaff Syrian reds but this night its waiters wore seventh arrondissement snootiness. Looks may not kill but they can curdle; we skipped dessert.

In need of a congenial beer, we made straight for the Baron Hotel - what's adequate for Ataturk, Roosevelt and Philby is good enough for me. Completed in 1911, it was run by Armenians for colonials. Deep armchairs, French windows and high ceilings once made it feel like the Ministry of Society. Its most famous (and infamous) patrons have died, the paint's peeled and one hopes they keep it going for decay rarely comes more engaging. I lolled in the lounge; guests stared intently through a glass cabinet, intrigued by the copy of Lawrence of Arabia's 1914 bill.

In the world's oldest inhabited city, it seemed obligatory to visit its oldest inhabited house. In amongst the souks lie several 15th and 16th century khans, caravanserais, where merchants unloaded their animals, wheeled, dealed and slept. Elegant arcades girdled courtyards but most remaining today have been roughly adapted to modern needs. Khan al-Nahasin is little different and might pass unnoticed but for the house of Adolphe Poche, the late Belgian consul. I made an appointment.

From 1539, its labyrinthine pedigree has embraced Venetian nobility, a French consul's daughter and her glass-merchant husband from Bohemia. "Poche may seem French but actually it's a Bohemian name" explained Jenny Marrach, the current owner. She showed me some of the eighteen rooms, repositories of Byzantine, Hittite and Palmyrene relics. The very first camera in Syria, a fantastic contraption, lies in an open trunk while stirring, old photographs fill another room. A framed, Venetian flag hangs here, consular Certificates of Appointment there. "And once, in the library, Agatha Christie waltzed with my father" she beamed. Privilege and grace seem to have infused all its occupiers.

I opted for Ahmad Modalla's tour; we met at five by the Great Mosque and hastened to its arcaded courtyard where blind men with sticks sang plaintive hymns. In the main prayer hall we stood before a reliquary said to contain the head of Zachariah, father of John the Baptist. Women, in particular, gripped its window bars feverishly, and within stood bottles of water deposited for a few days as a kind of spiritual alchemy.

He is a sprightly man and we combed the old quarter exhaustively. I learned of Aleppo's famous soaps and scrubbers, kees, spices and cloth. At Bimaristan Argun (a mental hospital built in 1354 by a Mameluke prince) we saw tiny courtyards with cells. "Treatment by water" he explained -all had fountains - and as patients responded to melodious gurglings, they swapped cubicles for rooms.

We finished beneath the citadel at Sultaniyyeh Madrasa, one of the city's finest religious schools. Wispy-bearded men prayed before the mihrab, an extravagance of inlaid, multicoloured stone. "Come!" said Ahmad, entering a side room with flat marble tombstones anchored to the floor. He opened four concealed doors; steps faded into the gloom, yet only one passage makes the citadel. "Which one?" I asked but he simply shrugged theatrically.

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