JEDDAH: A dry wind carries the first sign: a curl of frankincense smoke, sharp and sweet, drifting over the desert flats. It seeps through windows, clings to clothes, lingers on skin. Najran once sat at the center of the incense trade, and the scent still clings to its streets like a memory too deep to wash away.
In Najran’s Old City, sun-drenched alleys wind between mud-brick towers etched with delicate patterns. The buildings lean into one another like elders sharing secrets, their thick walls cool to the touch, smelling faintly of clay and ash.
At the edge of town lies Al-Ukhdood — ancient ruins unfolding in silence, trenches cut through centuries, and soot-darkened stones bearing the scars of fire. There’s no ticket booth, no crowd, just wind brushing across fractured stone. This is where an infamous massacre once unfolded, a horror alluded to in the Qur’an. Now, goats graze nearby, and a boy scrolls through his phone against a wall that has seen empires rise and fall. Here, history doesn’t sleep, it hums softly beneath your feet.
Further into town, the Thursday Market erupts like a drumbeat. The solemnity of the past gives way to present-day vibrance. Silver jambiya daggers flash from stalls, sticky dates glisten under the sun, and fabric bolts in electric blues and deep saffron flutter in the breeze. A vendor hands you a tiny ceramic cup filled with qishr (ginger coffee), fiery and fragrant. Its scent coils in your nose, the first sip stings your tongue, and a strange warmth begins to gather in your chest — a jolt from another time.
Al-Aan Palace in Najran. (Getty Images)
Past the market, Al-Aan Palace rises above the palm groves. Its mud towers glow gold in the late light like a dream from another age. Climbing its narrow staircase, your breath shortens. At the rooftop, it stops altogether. Below, date farms stretch like green lace. Beyond, the Tuwaiq Escarpment flames red in the sinking sun. There is awe, and there is quiet.
The road south of Najran curves, shimmering, into the desert. Follow it to Bir Hima, and you’ll find 7,000-year-old carvings on basalt boulders — hunters, animals, stories too old for language — and drink thick tea under the sun, sweet and dense as syrup, and imagine those long-ago artists tracing their lives into stone.
To explore Wadi Najran, you can rent a bicycle. At first it rolls smoothly through scrub and stone, but then the asphalt ends and sand takes over. The wadi unfolds — vast, veined cliffs shimmer in the light. A shepherd leads his goats past, his voice rising briefly on the wind. The heat is heavy, the bike grows cumbersome, but the land invites you not to conquer it, only to notice.
Prehistoric petroglyphs and inscriptions of Bir Hima. (Getty Images)
Evening comes with a slow hush. The air smells of dust and dry leaves. In the distance, the sky purples, gold slips behind the horizon. Najran lingers not just in your memory, but in your senses. The sting of ginger, the hush of carved stone, the smoke of incense soaked into your shirt. This is not a city you visit. It’s one you carry.
And as night folds in, Najran reveals another layer. The souk’s date stalls, clay homes, and impromptu chai shops reveal not just trade but trust. You’re offered water without price, tea without expectation. A stranger gestures toward his car and home — unstaged, authentic hospitality. In one such home, beneath a full moon and garden perfumed by local incense, a conversation turns to life’s simplicity, peace, and the lies we often believe until we travel. There are no tours or tickets for this part of Najran.
Spend a few days. Let the place press gently into you. Wander the alleys, share the tea, smell the smoke, and listen. You’ll understand why Najran is not simply visited — it’s remembered.
