We are just back from a week in Cyprus, and now the apartment here in Doha is sadly bereft. So much is packed or has been taken away already and there is a hollow echoing feel to it. I have just cooked the last meal (tomorrow we are going out), using up the last of this and the last of that, and taken so many half empty bottles and thrown them down the rubbish chute.

The week in Cyprus flew, and each magical morning I vowed that this one was the best breakfast ever! The table on the balcony was a riot of colour with cherries, peaches, yellow melon and figs, and lording over it all was the honeycomb from the hills around Kantara. Oh it was as though I was Aphrodite, who had just walked ashore and found a paradise of good things. Probably nearer to the truth would be I was more like Pooh Bear, with his clock permanently set at 11, so that it was ALWAYS time for honey!

We lolled by the pool, taking in the Russian invasion, and John’s eyes were spinning in their sockets as the thin android like creatures started their yoga – pigeon poses, and downward facing dogs wearing little more than a flimsy bikini. He later found an abandoned tractor and stood around hopefully; waiting for a babushka, (hah!) but the grannies must have all been left behind. Mr Putin’s plan of taking over Europe is much more subtle!

Sitting on our balcony each day we became like super spies, watching the other residents come and go. We were enthralled with an English lady living with her daughter and granddaughter. She had a walking stick and sarong, and walked back to the apartment several times in the hour. She didn’t go upstairs, but instead went into a ground floor cupboard. John keeps the bike in our cupboard, plus flippers and snorkels and useful things like that, so we couldn’t believe that this poor woman had been relegated to sleep amongst the spiders. So, with a large brandy and coke consumed, and the sun safely gone for another day, I crept down when the coast was clear to see what state their cupboard was in. There was no camp bed and side table; it was just full of cases and boxes, absolutely crammed to the ceiling. We came to the conclusion that she may have had a secret stash of something addictive to keep her going back. It was so enthralling!

Each day we revisited our old haunts that we saw first in winter, in spring, and then in autumn, now we saw them in the full sun-baked glory of summer. The golden sands beach on the Karpaz was beautiful, and we found strange table-like sunshade structures to sit under to eat our beetroot and hummus and what not. We were a little cautious when we saw the warning sign, but thankfully we could relax and just enjoy the day.


Later it was all so biblical as we came across the sheep and donkeys, huddled under an old olive tree.

We visited Famagusta and drank brandy sours, and then Kyrenia where we ate fish by the harbour, and wished we hadn’t ventured anywhere as it was just so hot.

Bellapais was nice and we sat under the Tree of Idleness, and felt very much at home.

On the way back we stopped off to look at the carob trees, and the ground was cracked and dry, almost like a desert. The cicadas were out in full force and we walked down a track and found an abandoned house, so quaint and so perfectly placed, beneath the mighty fortress of Kantara, and looking out at the royal blue Med. We stood and savoured the smells amidst the rough grasses and for a few seconds tried to imagine a life there. Not a tourist settlement in sight.

But best of all was just hanging out near the apartment, walking along the beach as the sun set over the Kyrenia hills,

and sipping beers at the Cyprus Gardens hotel.


On one visit there, sitting in the mid-day sun, I was woken up from my gentle reveries, when I felt something tickle my back. I absently put my hand round to scratch, when I suddenly felt these miniature little hairy legs grab my finger. Aaaaargh. It was a big beetle, and quite alarming!

The final day in the north, we trudged through the fields like a mad dog and an English man, out in the mid-day sun (yet again), to the little village of Iskele. We ate wild prickly pears on the way, and saw strange snails hugging the most arid-like bushes, and finally we sat down with a large gathering of ‘men-folk’ and to eat doner chicken with RELISH. They were the most delicious things, and worth getting sunstroke for.

Whilst in the village we did pay the electric and water bills and it was just such a pleasant experience. The official was just so relaxed, and stamped our receipt, and then brandished a box of chocolates and begged us to have one. How charming. Maybe it is just the custom. I wonder what happens if you don’t pay! NO CHOCOLATES FOR YOU! Ha Ha.

We had a night in Larnaca before flying back to Doha, so we went to fine-dine at the Art Restaurant and met the proprietor, Maria, who fed us food that was just oozing with flavour, and as we drank our wine and felt full of the joys, she remarked how nice it was to see a couple hold hands and have such respect for one another (!). I must remind John of this in the future.

She says there are so many Russian women who are coming and bamboozling the local Cypriot men, marrying and breeding and then complaining. Poor Cyprus, first it was the Venetians, then the Romans, then the Ottomans and then the Brits, and now it seems Russia is taking over.
Maria herself is originally from Famagusta but had to run with her family when the Turks invaded in 1974. She has been back, as they still have north Cyprus friends, and she drives past her house where she lived with her family. It is of course now occupied, but the present people close the shutters when the see a car with Greek number plates. She says the police harass anyone going north of the border and make demands for speeding fines (that don’t exist). It is criminal. It is interesting to hear another point of view from this troubled country. I fear there will never be a coming together of the two sides. Still, she was such a nice person, and the restaurant is so beautiful, with so many paintings and collections of knick-knacks, it must take hours to dust.

Talking of collections, I did love the trip round the museum, where things were just so OLD, and so odd. We found a very quaint man, in the throes of sexual happiness, OR he was just straining on the toilet, we weren’t very sure, but he has a hole in his head. Maybe he was an olden-day watering can, or a fertility symbol… goodness knows. He is 4,000 years old.

I particularly liked a Roman fish made from green glass, and also a poem found on a headstone in a field. Quite sobering and a sad reminder of our own mortality.

So goodbye from me from the Middle East. A new chapter begins, and John will at last be free from stress and deadlines, and we can do all the things we daydream about here.
I read somewhere about some woman’s philosophy, after having been uprooted so many times:

‘Wherever you plant me, there shall I grow’.

Nice.

Adieu.