Author Archives: Rachel Farmer-Reay

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About Rachel Farmer-Reay

Freelance writer and communications professional

When only soup will do

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There are times when only soup will do and yesterday was one of those days, but no matter how many mountain cafes and restaurants we searched in, strangely it was the Argentinians who came to the rescue. As usual, it’s a bit of a tale…

I should have known it would be an odd kind of day, when I found myself abandoned on a deserted beach for half an hour that turned into an hour and a half. Someone else was very busy with vital work involving suits and tailoring and I had pebbles to collect. So as the car pulled away and watches had been synchronized to advise he would be back in about 25 minutes max and my phone had battery, I stepped onto the deserted cliff flanked beach where waves higher than my head were rolling in with a roar. “Don’t go swimming,” he’d shouted as he drove away. The water was a clear turquoise blue, but I wasn’t tempted. There seemed to be no-one at all on the beach which stretched invitingly in both directions. At my back were sandy banks held together with scrub and pampas grass, with not a home or house in sight. Reddy brown sand gave way to coarser granules higher up the beach where a fascinating number of amazing multi-coloured pebbles were scattered. No time to loose! With eyes scanning the ground I hunted for a few more perfect pebbles to add to the growing collection in the house. I was quite content, warmly wrapped in my duvet jacket and a woolly hat against the cool breeze, stooping down to examine another possible heart-shaped pebble. I stood for a moment watching the waves crashing in and looked further down the empty beach towards the cliffs at the far end. It looked like there was something moving in the distance or was that just the light playing on the shade between the rocks? I looked harder and began to see a figure – yes, it was definitely someone walking and now I could make it out properly, I could also see them bending down and searching the beach from side to side.

Question: What is scarier than a deserted beach? A deserted beach with one other stranger on it, walking towards you.

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I reached into my pocket and glanced at the phone, calculating my lift would be back in about 15 minutes. How long does it take to kill someone and bury the body? A little longer possibly…so the ‘dangerous’ stranger was doomed to a life behind bars, once I was dead. I carried on walking anyway, because you never know he might have a dog and all would be well.

Why is it Ok to chat to strangers when they have a dog, but we stay well away if they are alone? I couldn’t see a dog and began to wonder what this person was collecting or searching for on the beach. Just when I had formulated the conversation in my head, about how my ‘martial arts trained husband’ was about to return any minute, I noticed another figure further behind the first one, also searching. At this point I was relieved. A man on a walk with his wife, also picking up pebbles…still I didn’t feel like making conversation and so turned to walk back in the other direction. The pebbles in my pockets were growing heavier and I wondered how many extra stone I was carrying. One particular pebble, a small incredibly smooth egg shaped brown stone, was clutched in my hand. Earlier on I had fancied myself as a bit of a ‘crackshot’ – David against Goliath – hurling a stone straight at my would-be assailant’s forehead. The fact that I can’t throw further than I can spit, didn’t deter the plan and I turned the stone over again against my palm. There is something soothing about stroking a smooth stone and feeling it warm against your skin. After turning into a pebble filled sandy corner lined by pampas grasses, when I eventually headed back along the beach, both the other beachcombers were nowhere in sight. Either they had left, or they were waiting in the bushes to attack me and steal all my pebbles. I decided they’d probably gone and after discovering the tailoring was taking longer than anticipated and I had at least another half an hour to kill, I headed towards the cliffs at the far end of the beach. I was so much happier having the whole beach to myself – it was safe to sing.

pebbles

Emptying my pockets into the floor of the car a while later, I felt a whole load lighter as we wound our way towards the mountains. I was quite hungry and a couple of ginger biscuits and a banana, just didn’t hit the spot…what I fancy, I thought to myself, is a nice bowl of soup.

But it was never going to be a day where things went to plan and as we arrived at the sought after winery, we found it closed. The wine-route village didn’t quite have the appeal we were looking for and although a walk on some of the tracks through the mountains was suggested – I could see the sun beginning to drop and could only really think that right now, I’d love a bowl of soup. One mountain café with a roaring fire looked promising, but, “Sorry, no soup today.” We’ll try the village down the road, we thought. It was almost dark when we arrived to the twinkling lights of the small town nestled between the mountains in a steep valley, where the rush of water could be heard at every corner. We wandered up a narrow cobbled hill, with ancient wood-framed houses on either side, after a path by the river proved impassable and we stopped again at another little café where a lady smiled and welcomed us in… “Soup?” we questioned hopefully. She shook her head and suggested coffee. We turned sadly away. No-one seemed to serve soup anymore, but what else would you want on a winter’s night, when you’ve had no lunch?

Further down in the village the restaurants looked less inviting, with rows of plastic chairs and big glass windows. The problem was, I was pining for a cosey English pub with a fire. Beside a waterfall around the corner we spotted a promising timber-lined restaurant with red and white checked table clothes and little candles. A blackboard outside said: ‘Homemade soup’. As we creaked open the latch a handful of people were sat eating round a table at the far end. Are you open? we asked. They shook their heads – “We’re closed.” With sinking hearts we headed back into the town and into one of the modern restaurants, where soup was on the menu. After having to sit further from than the fire than we wanted, it took an age for the owner to come and take an order for his special homemade vegetable and beef soup. Only to return a few minutes later to say the soup was finished, but they had some special milk soup, if we fancied that. We didn’t. So, we smiled politely and left, shrugging on our coats and stepping out into the night, where it was raining ever so lightly. Do we really have to have soup? Of course not, let’s just get a beer in a bar with a fire. The problem was, the special Mill restaurant, where we had booked a table and that was famed for its beautiful rainbow trout, wasn’t open until 7.30pm and we had an hour and half to spend somewhere – preferably not sitting in the car. A little bar, more suited to summer visitors with rattan chairs provided us with beers and nuts…but someone was restless and we wandered out into the night again to search the cobbled streets for that perfect old bar with a fire. It was 18.50 and we were looking longingly into the cosiest restaurant with a wood lined ceiling and a fire in one corner. The sign on the door said it didn’t open till 7pm. A man appeared in the doorway and took pity on us – we could have a drink, but no food could be ordered until 7pm. Thank goodness there was room in this inn for two strangers.

As he welcomed us in, I glanced up at a large board with a horse’s head which said ‘Argentina – Cyprus’, and I wondered. The man turned out to be the owner and proceeded to seat us right next to the open fire and tell us about his wonderful wines from Argentina. He was an ex Argentinian army officer married to a Cypriot who he had met while serving with the UN in Cyprus. As he wandered off to pour wine – an Argentinian Malbec, where the grapes are ripened by wind from the hills and the desert – we gave each other a warning glance. We’ll say we’re Dutch right? Don’t mention Maggie Thatcher or the Falklands and definitely don’t say you’re in the army…ssh he’s coming back.

A little later his smiling dark haired wife brought us a menu and we debated about eating here instead of our trout restaurant…knowing steak would be on the menu, but we were a little uncertain about how welcome British guests really were in an Argentinian restaurant. “We’ll say we like Madonna”…I glanced down at the Argentinian icons on the place mats…”don’t you mean Maradonna?” I said. “Him as well!” Looking down at the menu, we noticed soup. It was tempting and it was 7pm. Surely there was time to enjoy a soup starter here, before moving down to the Mill for our main course? After many hours of looking forward to it, our soup arrived, complete with crispy herb croutons and it was all we’d hoped for and more – delicious, warming vegetable soup. But just when we were thinking reluctantly of leaving, the couple re-stoked the fire, drew up their chairs and began to tell us about the restaurant, their other home in Nicosia, their dog Beethoven, who had sadly died after a long illness, the holiday they had enjoyed at a beach we knew well….the conversation flowed, another complimentary glass of wine was placed in front of me as I wasn’t driving, homemade pate and toast was brought out for us to taste and then mouthwatering home made chocolates. Meanwhile, the couple eating a full steak meal on the other side of the restaurant was ignored until they were practically walking out of the door. We felt warm, welcomed and as we headed out into the night, pretty full! We had assured them we would return in the summer to sample the delights of their roof terrace.

A little later, our fresh trout in garlic and lemon sauce was delicious – but the soup – well of course, nothing compares to soup on a cold winter’s evening, especially when you’ve waited all day for it and nothing else will do.

If you can’t beat them – join them

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Cypriot drivers probably don’t study the highway code. In fact I don’t think they know any code, even if it was the ‘rough track code’. They either drive at a snails pace on single track roads, or pull out in front of you without warning. Traffic lights are pretty much decoration and overtaking happens when you feel like it, even if it’s a blind bend or the brow of a hill.

The trouble is this kind of attitude rubs off after a while. We have a set of traffic lights for some road works which are gradually migrating up the road towards us. I’ve sighed and muttered as I’ve watch a series of local drivers totally ignore the red light and drive ahead, only to come face to face with the oncoming traffic whose lights are on green. The cars mount the pavement or pull into people’s drive to try and pass, but all seems normal, no-one is shouting, “didn’t you see the red light?”

Earlier today I approached the lights and realised they weren’t working – no lights at all. I hesitated but decided to carry on and hope no one was coming. Further on two cars were heading straight for me at a fairly slow speed – “oops”, I thought, as one of them kindly pulled over for me to pass, while the other motioned for me to slow. I was expecting him to wind the window down or ask me to reverse, but no, he simply  pulled across in front of a shop entrance to let me through. The queue at the other end was quite long but they all seemed chilled. So far so good. Returning by the same route later in the dark, there was a red light showing…but I had a suspicion the lights at the other end might still be broken…so I just drove through. A few cars on side roads waited for me to pass and when I reached the other end I glanced back at the lights which were green as a car approached from the other direction. Lucky break. But I didn’t think much about it, except, “what a waste of time those lights are.”

It’s happening. I am becoming a Cypriot driver – with no respect for traffic lights! Whatever next? I won’t be bothering to indicate when I turn off or decide to suddenly come to a halt up on a pavement. Next week I’ll be stopping in the middle of the road to chat to my mates in another truck while a queue of cars waits behind me.

Well, I suppose the best advice is – if you can’t beat them – join them.

even more important than a Sunday roast…

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Apparently Sunday roast dinners for the family are dying out in the UK (Mail 3rd Dec). As upsetting as this is, it also signals something even more disturbing, if it’s true. It could also mean the end of ‘eggy tea’ as we know it!

This has been a long tradition in our household, passed down now to our children, who even since leaving home, send messages to say they are just having ‘eggy tea’ with lots of smilies. ‘Eggy tea’ in case you hadn’t guessed involves soft boiled eggs – that is dippy eggs – and piles of toast. This event is usually enjoyed around the table or on special occasions in the lounge in front of the fire, when the toast tastes even better cooked over the fire with a fork. A pot of tea is also an essential and marmite and honey or jam for extra slices of toast.

Somehow this mini custom helped ease our family more gently into the semi-gloom of Sunday evening – when Monday morning loomed and homework needed to be finished, school bags packed, those forgotten ingredients found for DS lessons, gym kit unearthed from the dirty washing and general prep for the working week.

Sitting down to a Sunday roast meant that ‘eggy tea’ was on the cards and there were long faces if the main meal was put off until the evening, as there were cries of, “what about ‘eggy tea’?”. It didn’t really matter if it was a roast or a casserole just as long as it had vegetables and could be classed as ‘dinner’, to ensure ‘eggy tea’ with toast could follow on – sooner than later.

Even here in Cyprus, I have had that cheery feeling as I prepared Sunday lunch, realising there was an option for ‘eggy tea’ later. Last Sunday I left for church with the roast pork sizzling in the oven, and as I drove back home an hour or so later, I found myself looking forward to ‘eggy tea’ by the fire – a highlight of the weekend.

Unfortunately, last Sunday didn’t go quite as planned as a break in a pipe (I discovered later) left us with no mains water for more than 24 hours.

It may seem no big deal, but having no water in the taps very quickly becomes a nuisance. Buckets had to be filled from the swimming pool to flush the toilets and jugs of water left by the sinks to rinse hands. You never realise how many times you run a tap, until it doesn’t work. Washing up became a nightmare of filling kettles and pouring in the right amount of cool water from the huge container on the table. Every drop was suddenly precious, as there was a limited supply to last us. When the water eventually started flowing – a shower felt like a luxury and filling the washing up bowl with hot water from the tap was also a treat!

Domestic problems always seem to arrive as soon as one particular person disappears on a course or a deployment. Apart from the water being cut off, the next day one of the toilets stopped working properly and immediately after our friendly elf-like plumber left having fixed it…the other toilet broke. I decided it couldn’t be very hard, as Billy the plumber had made light work of the problem in just 10 minutes….an hour or so later, bubbles, rubber pipes and little bits of plastic shaped like butterflies had all been tampered with, but it still wouldn’t flush properly. So I thought I’d look for an answer on google – surely google has all the answers?

It turns out there are too many different types of toilet cisterns to be practically helpful, and a lot of the paraphernalia was under water or upside down, so Billy will have to be summoned again! In the meantime, I’ll leave the lid off the cistern and pour in buckets of water to flush the toilet… why do I feel like I’ve been here before?

Despite all this hassle, I am consoling myself that it will be the weekend soon and in this household Sunday roast and ‘eggy tea’ are staying on the menu.

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expecting the unexpected

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‘Expect the unexpected’ should be part of the advance information handed out to future military spouses. Just as life was beginning to settle down, one phone call was all it took. Now further separation looms with an unplanned deployment on the horizons. The winter nights in Cyprus will be chillier and the bed will feel too big again.

Yesterday the river of poppies over the altar in church was a poignant reminder as we all reflected on the lives lost in war. Some of the stories were of the horrors and trials from soldiers in the First World War, but the face of a much-loved husband, father and friend who died in Afghanistan a few years ago was etched in the blur of red for me. The cost and sacrifice paid by so many hundreds is vividly portrayed in the river of poppies at the Tower of London.

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A few weeks ago we edged our way round the crammed sides of the moat, gazing at the hundreds of unique flowers gently swaying as rays of sunshine lit up their ceramic petals. With eyes half closed the shimmer really did resemble a river of blood, made up by so many completely unique poppies. Yet each one a life cut short – an individual who never came home to their loved-ones.

Remembrance Day and Remembrance Sunday are special days in the year, especially when you are married to a soldier. The poppy looks back, but also to the future, because none of us know what lies ahead in the line of duty.

I am usually happy with my own company and as a couple we’ve survived a fair bit of separation, but when the ‘enemy’ is a deadly virus rather than the Taliban, I can’t help harbouring doubts about any military ‘training and preparation’ being a full-proof deterrent.

After the Remembrance parade tomorrow, I will unpin my poppy for another year – but this time I’ll be leaving it out by my mirror as a reminder. A reminder that none of us know what lies ahead and what our lives will hold, but also to remember the sacrifices all those in our military continue to make every day – whether flying over the middle east or working in a hospital in West Africa.

rock climbing in flip-flops?

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Rock climbing in flip-flops wasn’t what I had in mind when we planned a trip to Crete, but sometimes it’s good to have surprises…

Last week we went island hopping for a few days – swapping our lovely Cyprus for Cretan village life. The third night was spent on the lower slopes of the island’s highest mountain, where we sat gazing across a vast panorama of hills and sparkling lights, with the sea a dark blue haze in the distance. At our backs there were rock-strewn mountains, while the sound of bleating sheep and the tinkle of goat bells were the only noises to break the silence. It was perfect. Made even more so since we had returned from the village laden with food and wine… some of which was free!

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On an early evening sortie up the canyon next to us, we wanted to see what was around the corner. The corner proved elusive and after a series of hairpin bends, where we spotted broken barriers above the sheer drops below and hard to negotiate rock falls across the road, someone was all for turning back, except there was no safe place to turn. At the top of the canyon, there were fields full of fruit trees, which was surprising in such a desolate landscape. We hunted for gaps in the fences or overhanging branches so we could scavenge some of the tempting green and red apples that were lining the road, but just out of reach. There were none. Slightly deflated we turned around and headed back down the treacherous road. As we started to skirt round a white truck parked by the field loaded up with crates of apples, a man stepped into our path with his hand raised signalling us to stop. A young girl at the back of the truck, smiled and said, “wait please.” We did as we were told and seconds later the man, appeared by the car his hands holding out huge red and green apples. What an unexpected gift! We took them and thanked him and he went off to fetch more… loading us up with a good supply. Munching on the fresh fruit while we negotiated the bends, we felt well rewarded and very grateful for the farmer’s unexpected generosity… but there was more to come.

In the village down the road half an hour later, we went in search of two essential ingredients: pizza and wine. After a few false starts we found a little cafe-come-shop and asked if they had bottles of wine. “Yes of course’” they guided us to the back, where two locals were sat on high stools watching the football on a TV screen above the bar. Bending down the barmaid filled a small glass from a large box with a tap, just in front of the counter. “Oh, we really wanted a bottle though”…we said uncertainly, feeling a bit like secret alcoholics.
“Taste first”, she ordered.
We sipped. It was very pleasant. We nodded our approval and said, “Do you have a bottle?”
An empty plastic water bottle was found behind the counter and this was filled with the red nectar…until we said ‘stop!’ That will be 3 euros.
Wine. Check.
Now for pizza.

Eventually after trying three more small shops, we found one with pizza in the freezer, while we chose tomatoes, cucumber and debated over onions, the lady at the till said, “please,” offering us freshly harvested grapes piled on a plate, that a little group of them were tucking into. They were all sat around the counter – a lady in black with a big smile nodded and a man in a long blue robe and a grey beard was smiling and munching cheese. I took a grape, but she shook her head and handed us each a whole bunch with a napkin.

Tucking into our pizza and wine, followed by grapes and apples under a starry sky, we decided we liked Crete very much and we were touched by the generosity of strangers. The next morning we watched half a dozen eagles soaring just above us, which was an extra treat. The place we were staying translated as ‘the observatory of the eagle.’

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The trip was full of little adventures, mostly on narrow switch back roads without barriers and steep drops below. After a particularly harrowing journey like this that seemed to go on forever, we arrived at the top of some cliffs above a wide sandy beach. There was a way down via a steep sandy bank which turned into a sand dune and took us neatly down to the crashing waves and lots of what turned out to be naked people sunbathing or charging into the water. Ignoring the big-bellied men strutting proudly down the beach swinging their wares, we enjoyed a refreshing swim further along the bay. An alternative way back, was partly up a sandy bank, which then turned into a steep rocky scree slope. A couple had headed up it a few minutes earlier and I was told it would be easy. Bag slung over my shoulder and carrying a straw hat, the hot sand was a doddle, but as we trailed up the rock slope slithering to find a foothold in flip-flops, I was instructed not to look down. Mistake. What looked steep from below looked terrifying from half way up and although someone thought there was a path – there wasn’t. As going up was definitely easier and safer than going down, I carried on putting one foot in front of the other, my arms trailing monkey-like ahead of me to grasp any rock that looked sturdy enough to hold…and eventually I reached the ridge at the top. Thank goodness I was wearing clothes.
Rock climbing in flip-flops. Tick.

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Other Cretan highlights included a rainy gorge walk and a boat trip to a former leper colony. It was a fun week but as we touched down on our own Mediterranean island and drove on the familiar roads back, it felt good to be coming ‘home’.

Barbed wire and barriers

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It was only a rusting wire mesh fence with pop cans threaded through it at random points and I peered over it, slightly puzzled by a suspiciously unimaginative sign at the side of the track, labelled, ‘Pop can fence’.

A few minutes later the relevance of the sign became clear.

Last week we visited the land of barbed wire and barriers that is Nicosia’s ‘green line’. Walking with UN soldiers on patrol down the dividing line between the north and south of the city, we passed Turkish soldiers keeping a watchful eye on members of the Cypriot National Guard across a narrow strip of no-man’s land barely a few yards wide at points.

‘Pop Can Fence’, we discovered was an important sign, marking the area around the last minefield to be cleared along the line. Our UN guide told us it was 99 per cent clear. Hence the fence, the pop cans and the sign – no-one wanted to be testing out for that one per cent chance of a mine.

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The Turkish look out post we had seen beyond the fence and an abandoned one around the corner had been the scene of one of the many spats between Cypriot and Turkish soldiers over the years. A Cypriot national guard soldier had been shot after creeping out and stealing the Turkish flag one night and then waving it at the soldiers in their tower, while he also dropped his trousers to make them really mad. His reward was a fatal bullet, sometime later.

The track we were walking down was lined with tumbled down buildings draped in barbed wire and littered with sandbags. We were following one of the most fought over and highly disputed pieces of land in the world, which runs through the heart of the capital of Cyprus. There was an immense sadness about the road and even the debris, shoes, footballs and rusting cocoa cola signs seemed to say they were tired of all the fighting too – it was so worn out.

Bullet holes and bomb damage on buildings lining the road told their own story of the battles over the years which culminated in the Turkish invasion of 1974. There was Annie’s house – the home of Annie, a Cypriot woman who had refused to leave her house when the invasion happened. She stayed living there – her front door opening out onto the green line and no-man’s land. Every time she wanted to go shopping she had to be escorted by UN soldiers and taken back again. This woman ignored the divide and made no distinction as she handed out cups of tea to soldiers on both sides. When she died a few years ago, both Turkish and Greek Cypriots attended her funeral. Unfortunately, this sign of unity wasn’t the beginning of peace.

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Further down the line, a hole in the wall was pointed out to us by one of the soldiers who explained that it was a machine gun position mounted to deter UN soldiers from using a Cypriot café, which had an entrance onto no-man’s land.

And around another corner there was a line of open tea chests forming a wall. The Cypriots had complained about them being filled with rubble to strengthen the wall on the Turkish side. When the Turkish soldiers were asked to turn them around to show they were empty, they eventually agreed. They then proceeded to turn one box around every month, to the frustration of the other side, so it took over a year for them to comply with the request.

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Towards the end of the patrol we came to what was the Knightsbridge of Nicosia, but where most of the high-end merchandise has largely been ransacked and carried away. There was one large block that has stock remaining and inside we could see dusty display cabinets, ancient leather suitcases and shoes and slippers still in their boxes. It was like stepping back into the 1950s or into a desert museum filed with memorabilia and bottles and posters. Further down the road was a former car showroom, with cars that were once shiny new speed machines and were now coated in inches of dust and grime. Inside you could peel back a layer of plastic covering the leather seats, but their engines had long since seized up. One car formed an unsightly coffin for the parched body of a dead cat, which was draped over the engine. It seemed to sum up the atmosphere – death and decay had been preserved in this place and the evidence is still there, 40 years on.

After a couple of hours we turned our back on the green line, emerging from one of the guarded entrances; we stepped back into the sun soaked streets of Nicosia.

On my future border crossings between north and south of the city, I won’t be able to forget the desolation of the road that lies between and soldiers who continue to walk the borderlands each day – trying to maintain a form of peace that looks like it will be a long time coming.

 

 

 

a life of crime

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I’m feeling a tiny bit guilty about not reporting a crime. The trouble is the perpetrator is so cute.

I have to confess I am living with a ‘cat burglar’ and we have so far been hiding his crimes.

You’d never guess by looking at him that this sweet little almost one-year-old cat, with his butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth, big golden eyes could possibly be up to no good. But the evidence is there as clear as anything just outside our front door.

He started his criminal career with small items, but he’s now progressed and I can see the slippery slope of a life of crime ahead.

At first it was the odd hair bobble left on the arm of a chair, that was surreptitiously picked up in his mouth and taken off to a corner of the room to play with and eventually ended up under the settee. Then he moved on to slightly larger items, like pens or bracelets or necklaces, anything that jangled and has string and tassels.

This wasn’t so bad if the stolen goods were from our own house and we’d usually track them down in a corner of the room or with a pile of hair bobbles under a chair. But the other day we heard a clatter through the window. Looking round we saw him prancing through the room with a string in his mouth and behind him he was dragging a very large paintbrush. It was brand new and smelt of animals – probably the badger hair bristles. The special find was taken away to be stored with all his other stolen goods in a bush by the front door.

Ethical dilemma… do we try and find the owner of the brush? Or do we just let him keep it?

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I’m thinking, keep it…. partly because we don’t know whose brush it is and no-one has reported one missing. And also who would ever think, that new brush they left by the back door could have been picked up and stolen by a cat? But then, they don’t know Simba.

paper boats and bunting

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Today I have ‘wedding withdrawal symptoms’ which sits uncomfortably between my perfectly manicured French nails and the pastel decorated invitation positioned on a ledge above the fireplace. I can hardly believe that just six months ago, after a surprise engagement announcement at New Year, we were discussing dates and venues and now it’s all over.

The wedding day, rather like Mary Poppins, was ‘practically perfect in every way’, which is a little surprising considering…

After flying in from Cyprus in the early hours of Saturday morning, we arrived at our adopted home for the week. This was a spacious, country house, surrounded by the beautiful Nottinghamshire countryside – rolling hills, cornfields and green hedges. Every morning when I woke up it was a delight to roll up the blind and see blue skies (most days) with the garden and fields beyond bathed in that gentle golden morning light.

But less of the mesmerizing view, because there was work to be done, scones to be baked and decorations to be prepared. I had volunteered myself to make 50 scones, which didn’t seem too bad until I realized baking in someone else’s kitchen can be tricky. It also helps to read the recipe properly. After a long hunt for kitchen scales (hard to find when you don’t know what they look like) and even longer working out how to put the mixer together, I had two trays of scones laid out ready for the oven. Glancing down at the recipe on the ipad, I suddenly saw the word ‘sugar’ leap out at me from the page. Sugar indeed! I hadn’t added it…but not too late to put all the carefully cut scones back into the mixer and add the sugar, roll them out again and carefully lay them out on the trays again…several hours later and sort of miraculously scones eventually appeared from the oven. They were a little like ‘Sellafield scones’ – absolutely massive and odd shapes, but hopefully not radioactive. Never mind, I let them cool and put them in the freezer…hoping everyone else baking for the wedding had created scones with less stress.

The next day there were paper boats to decorate, polo mints to thread on strings for lifebuoys, cocktail sticks to fix onto mini flags and a pile of orders of service to be strung together. A talented team, laden with craft skills, made light work of this, while I hovered between assisting with lunch, making coffees and excitedly hugging the bride-to-be in my patchwork dungarees.

The day before the wedding we headed to the reception venue, via the flower people, where bunting needed to be hung, and tables decorated, jam jars and driftwood had to be unpacked and arranged. At lunchtime there was a rough picnic, while everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Amidst cake and tea later that afternoon, there was excitement in the air and everyone was hoping the pile of umbrellas in the corner were just a precaution. Late that night, the delayed arrival of the bride’s elder brother on his motor bike, was the icing on the cake and we were all set for the big day.

On the morning of the wedding, after a stroll to a local lake and a delicious family brunch, the house started filling up with bridesmaids and photographers. Everyone needed, hairdryers, mirrors, ironing boards and cups of tea all at the same time, and just when I thought it was safe to jump in the shower, there was a call that the flower people had arrived. Meanwhile, while I ran around the house in search of nail varnish, there was shouting in the garden, where the recently showered ushers were attempting sweaty acrobatics and summersaults on the trampoline. I now have it on good authority that the clock really does speed up on the day of the wedding…the hours between 11am and 2pm disappeared in a flash and suddenly we were helping the bride into her stunning dress, fixing on the veil and before I knew it, I was watching her walk towards me down the aisle with her father. It was wonderful, perfect, special and all ran smoothly from the paper boats and bunting to the tea, scones and pimms on the lawn.

car wedd

But today, I’ve got the post wedding blues. The planning and preparation is all over and the bride and groom long gone to a secret destination. My Mother-of-the-Bride day is done, so I suppose it’s time to shake out the dungarees and get back to work. It’s not all about the wedding anymore, but that very special time with family and friends has left me pining for ‘home’ and green fields and England.

now for something completely different

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As the Church of England and much of the media world are focused on the vote on women bishops today, I’m turning my attention to a different challenge.

I’ve put myself into training after rashly deciding to enter for the Bay2Bay swim in about 10 days time. It’s an open water swimming event of one nautical mile (1.9km) from one bay to another on the other side of the island. It happens very early in the morning and everyone wears hats, goggles, long legged serious costumes and lots of Vaseline. Last year I watched my son head into the water amidst the crowd, like a waddle of penguins (yes, that is the official group name), they rushed towards the water and soon became a blur of white water heading out to sea. It looked a bit like a mass shark attack – but that wouldn’t be a happy thought. At the time, I thought, I should do that next year – although it did look a slightly scary and a long way round the cliff lined bay to the next.

So, 12 months on I have been training – after finding myself committed late one night in the bar, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. But I’ve always enjoyed swimming and thought I was probably OK at it. That was before I joined a couple of mates at the pool. As I launched into the water attempting my very best breaststroke, I was a little put off to find them passing me on either side, heads bobbing up and down rhythmically at a speed I couldn’t hope to match. ‘Oh dear’, or words to that effect, I thought, maybe I shouldn’t be doing this…it will take me all day.

Back home in a smaller pool I attempted to perfect my breaststroke. Someone was on hand with lots of tips… my knees weren’t coming up tightly enough, I needed to push back with my feet flat against the water… kick harder, pull the water with your hands… I swear I got slower and more uncoordinated. There was even a video of someone doing breaststroke to watch. It didn’t help.

Next session, I tried to kick harder and wider and pull more with my arms. I ended up nearly disjointing my hips. I decided to risk it and try front crawl instead – the stroke most of the swimmers were ploughing up and down the pool with. After three or four strokes I almost drowned, I couldn’t breathe… so it was back to my tortoise-like breaststroke.

Last week I was pleased to be able to complete 50 lengths in 50 minutes – that was progress. My goggles had stopped leaking…someone pointed out I had them on upside down! There was a bit of a set back when we discovered the 64 lengths we had been aiming at had turned into 78… as a nautical mile is longer than an ordinary mile. The real test, we were told, would be trying to swim in the sea.

So on Saturday I set off as early as possible to a nearby bay, to see if I could go the distance in the waves. A line of marker buoys marked the route across – which was 400 metres – I would need to do this four and half times to cover the equivalent distance for the Bay2Bay. This time I had a hat, goggles and my secret weapon ‘natural buoyancy’…

Strangely enough, because I float so easily, swimming in the sea was easier. Apart from swallowing a lot of salt water and the waves pushing me in the wrong direction, I soon got into a rhythm. My spotter from the shore hardly recognized the white cap bobbing up and down as it moved across the bay – Michael Phelps eat your heart out. Although I don’t think his bottom was quite as high out of the water as mine. I did it. But that was just the practice.

The challenge now is to keep up the training and my nerve for the event next week.

In the meantime, I’m hoping and praying the CofE rises to its own challenge and finally agrees to allow women to become bishops. If it does, I’ll be tempted to marker pen a mitre on my swimming cap as a tribute next Friday.

hot spots

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According to Cypriot weather forecasters, last weekend was the start of a heat wave…what’s a heat wave like in Cyprus? Very hot. Almost don’t go outside hot. It’s been about 40 degrees today. I knew it was hot because the bread took less than half an hour to rise in the sun and the terrace is too hot to walk on with bare feet. The ceiling fans are working overtime and the cat is either hiding under our bed or flaked out on the tiled floor… but I’m not complaining. Where I come from, it’s probably raining!

I’ve now found a place in the house where it’s slightly less hot and as it’s a year and a month since we moved out here, I thought it was time to blog about some of my favourite spots – discovered over the past 12 months. So in no particular order, here goes…

1:
Karpaz Peninsular – more particularly, Burhan’s Golden Sand beach
I woke up here yesterday morning and I wasn’t dreaming. Stepping out onto the wooden balcony, the only thing dividing my view of the golden sands, turquoise sea and cloudless blue sky was a small herd of wild donkeys grazing amongst tufts of dried grass in the sand dunes. A few hours later, climbing a sand dune at one end of the deserted sweeping bay, we laughed as a stray dog skipped round a gorse bush in an attempt to catch a lizard. Hopping down the dune as the sand was too hot to walk on, we were so relieved to plunge into the crystal water at the bottom. Our very own natural swimming pool. This is the kind of place I used to dream about and now it’s only a 2 hour drive away from home.

2:
Troodos Mountains – the view from the kitchen window
On our first stay here, having arrived in the dark, I padded into the kitchen first thing in the morning and reached to push open the shutters. The view through the window was mesmerizing. All I could see was wall to wall pine trees, some with huge trunks, others more slender, but all silhouetted against a vivid blue sky. The cabin was built on a slope so the window was almost at ground level and the floor of pine needles and cones looked like an inviting brown bed. It felt like the forest was part of the house and the aroma of pine and fresh mountain air was intoxicating. This view always reminds me of Narnia and even when there’s no snow, it’s a magical place, with adventure in the air.

3:
Famagusta’s old city – Monk’s Inn
This is one of our favourite haunts. And you never know who you’ll meet. This fascinating stone building in the heart of the old city is full of surprises. Its huge dark wooden shutters fold back to reveal a lovely bar, with elegant stone arches and an imaginative cocktail menu that is best read by liberal minded drinkers. A couple of gay Belgian archeologist were among just a few of the characters we’ve come across. They were amazed at the ancient remains all around and did a lot of flirting with one of us, especially when they realised he wore uniform. Outside directors chairs spill out onto the pavement and the whole side street is cordoned off after 6pm, when the South African-born owner wheels out plant pots to the middle of the road to stop cars interrupting the party. Here we always enjoy a bottle of the local beer – EFES – served in chilled glasses. It can’t be beaten.

4:
Nicosia – a cafe off Ledra Street
I love just sitting watching the world go by at this small cafe in the back streets of the capital. Usually bustling with local Cypriot students, the cafe’s traditional wicker and wood painted chairs, have a lovely Greek feel. The atmosphere is relaxed, no-one urges you to take a seat. An ancient Greek Orthodox Church lies opposite and a series of benches line the square outside. Last time we ordered our usual medium frappes and the friendly waiter, who eventually appeared at our table, bought us a backgammon set. A little while later, a girl from the nearby table and the waiter were giving advice on setting up and game tactics. People were engaged at various stages of play on tables all around, some smoking, others sipping at the tiny cups of coffee, smiling and laughing, then sighing. One man removed his glasses and polished them, never taking his gaze off the board. Cypriot life slows down here and it’s a joy to return again and again to this hidden gem.

5:
Potomos – the fish restaurant
Imagine Mama Mia, but a bit flatter. This little restaurant nestles at the end of a tatty river estuary lined with fishing boats in various states of disrepair. Bumping down the rough stone track by car, there are glimpses of the snaking river and boats tied up to jetties, which look like they are about to collapse into the water. Made from what appears to be a jumble of recycled bits of timber, the roughly made piers are decorated with old plastic canisters, tangled ropes and uneven planks of assorted wood. Towards the end of the track the glistening Mediterranean comes into view. Parking outside the restaurant we weave our way across the sand between white painted trunks of trees, around to the restaurant where the blue and white checked tablecloths complete the Greek look. At our favourite table beside the water, we gaze out to sea across the small mound of rocks and the mini lighthouse marking the entrance to the estuary. There is a smile of welcome from the waiter, “hello again, how are you?” Waves crunch rhythmically onto the shore and the white sand at our feet is punctuated with boulders and stone troughs full of pink geraniums. A glass of cold white wine is essential.

If this list of favourites makes you think I’m always eating or drinking – you’d probably be right!