It’s a shame that so many tourists come to Byblos on a day trip. This is a town that begs for slow, aimless wandering, both during daytime and at night.

It’s an easy mistake to make, though. The historical part of Byblos, and the only one of interest, really, is barely the size of five city blocks. You’re greeted by a souk selling bland clothing, the usual souvenirs, overpriced cafés, and one interesting bookstore specializing in Lebanese literature.

But it’s not the shopping that stirs you, it’s the perfectly resorted stonework of the houses that glow ochre in the Mediterranean light. You can almost picture Romans, Persians, Ottomans, or any of the many civilizations that traipsed though Lebanon haggling for dates. I say almost because the plastic Christmas trees and snowmen the city scattered on the souk destroy any possibility of creative visualization.

The souk ends in a small plaza with an expensive-looking restaurant, an ancient Orthodox church to the right and the main archaeological site to the left. This is where the magic of Byblos converges. From here you can take one of four ways down stony walkways and get happily lost for hours.

We went straight and walked down a grove-covered stairways that leads to the marina. There’s stuff to look at everywhere: a stone chapel no larger than a minivan with a Portuguese name, Nossa Senhora da Penna. Two shops selling fish fossils, stairways leading to rooftops, and locked gates for gardens with vines, lemon trees, and old pottery hanging from the walls.

The marina is quickly being claimed by high-end restaurants and hotels, but retains some crumbling charm, like a Phoenician watchtower that you can climb and enjoy the view for a few minutes before a lazy-eyed fisherman with Popeye forearms hisses at you to come down.

We walked along the water across several elevated seafood restaurants. It was a chilly December afternoon but couples happily downed wine and calamari on the outdoor patios. At the north end is a hotel that succumbed to the fad of combining old stone structures with sleek modern elements like glass balconies and wooden parapets.

It looked grand at any rate, and workers were still tapping the last finishing tiles on the front entrance. The interior was plush enough for movie stars. The concierge, quickly noting our dazzled state and our scrappy backpacker attire, scrambled to intercept us.

“Can I help you,” he said in that vaguely sardonic tone of someone who thinks we’re clearly in the wrong place.

“We were drawn by the decor,” I said in my politest tone. “Is this a hotel or a restaurant or what?”

“Well, both,” the barrel-chested concierge said. “It’s a five-star hotel,” he added, quickly dashing any idea we might harbour of sticking around. “We’re preparing for a special dinner tonight.”

I asked if we could take a quick look around, and he invited us to admire the floor of the dining area. From far it looked like a glass floor with blue lights underneath. But the glass revealed the foundations of a bronze-age settlement, neat lines of unearthed stones in square arrangements. Even the tables were glass so guests could admire their choice of accommodation during dinner.

Further down the dining room was three exquisite sofas and a coffee table with picture books of Lebanon. We couldn’t resist and started leafing through one. Waiters dashed around us setting cutlery and moving chairs.

“You must have misunderstood me,” a voice said above us. It was the concierge. “I said you could look at the floor. But you can’t sit here unless you buy something.”

We looked around and there were no guests that could be potentially repulsed by my Mountain Equipment Coop daypack and four-day stubble. Judging by the state of the room, it was still several hours until the dinner started.

“Sorry, it’s policy,” the concierge said, as though that would soften our expusion.

On the way out, we walked by a manager-looking man, his eyes fixed at his shoes, his lips stretched into a forced smile, the clear mark of a supervisor who just used a minion to do the unpleasant work won’t.

Night fell and the town was perfectly lit. Walkways were deserted and led us to happy places like an old Maronite church, narrow stairways, and tree-covered corridors between restored homes of what must be very rich people. A group of teens babbled in Arabic near a tiny stone mosque where two men stood silently inside.

Else, it was eerily quiet. We were glad that few visitors stay the night, especially during the winter low season. It was like walking through a sleeping Medieval town minus the plague and religious persecution.

We eventually ambled back to the plaza. A few people clustered inside cafes, smoking narguileh and drinking coffee. The Crusades fortress and the Roman columns at the archaeological site was gorgeously lit. The site itself, with is many Phoenician ruins, deep, accessible tombs with huge monolithic sarcophagi, and a heart-stopping view of the Mediterranean sunset from the fortress is worth a travel book on its own.

This was an experience we would repeat the next day, during the early day’s light and at sunset.

And it felt like a whole different town at each time.