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barefoot on a camel

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What do you wear for camel riding? This was just one of the questions flying round my head while I packed for a few days in the desert. As it turns out camels aren’t too fussy and there’s no-one in the desert to tell you about a fashion faux pas. Our Bedouin guide kept it simple with a long sleeved taupe ‘dress’, white pyjamas, red and white headscarf and bare feet… we did our best to blend in. After someone had his headdress retied traditionally and shoes had been loaded into the never-ending tapestry camel saddlebags, we hauled ourselves onto our kneeling friends wondering what the next few hours would entail.

I’ve never ridden a camel before, but my son had advised me it could be quite bouncy. Apart from nearly taking a nosedive off ‘Samhan’ – my eight year-old camel – into the sand below as he rose to his feet for the first time, it really wasn’t too uncomfortable. A little flick of the reigns and he was off following the other two camels as they padded out into the desert, leaving the black and white tents of our camp behind. Sitting on a camel as they walk involves a rolling movement as they amble gracefully through the soft sand. So if you’ve ever tried unsuccessfully to walk in a straight line after a little too much to drink, you’d have a pretty good idea of the feeling. Leaning back after a few minutes, I looked around at the surrounding rock formations and distant mountains and thought, This is easy. I can manage this for a few hours, no problem. But that was before our camels decided to change pace…

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We were on our second day in the desert of Jordan’s famous Wadi Rum with http://wadirumjeeptours.com and so far everything was living up to our expectations. The desert is a quiet place and on our jeep tour the previous day there had been plenty of time to stop and climb a perfect red sand dune or sit in the shade of a cliff and listen to the echoes of our calls reverberating off the hillsides. Our young Bedouin guide slid his phone into a side pocket of his robe and told us he could call his friend miles away across the Wadi – if his mobile ran out of signal. Obviously just what those incredible acoustics were designed for! Although it was a hot barren expanse he showed us many places where water was erupting from hidden springs and trees and herbs were springing up offering tasty food supplies in the midst of the desert. Our Arabic only extended to ‘thank you’ and ‘peace be with you’ and he did really well with English, apart from a few amusing mispronunciations.

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One was his instruction for us to look out for a tree with ‘wold’ figs. We puzzled over what he meant as we clambered through a narrow canyon, until a little while later we realized he was referring to ‘wild figs’. There was further excitement as he showed us a plant that could be used to make soup. Picking up a handful of stalks, he said, “Keep these and I will show you how.” Before we got back in the truck, he placed the stalks on a rock and began to bang them hard with a stone for the juices to come out. “Soup…you will see!” He smiled up at us confidently, but I was wondering what kind of soup was going to appear as he rubbed his hands together with the mashed stalks and asked me to pour a little water on them to make ‘soup’. Please don’t ask us to taste this, I thought, looking at his slimy hands, now slightly green and frothy. “Soup, you see?” Suddenly we saw it… “You mean soap – to wash?” He nodded excitedly, yes “soup” he said again. It took a few minutes of repeating to adjust from, but he was chanting, “So Ap… So Ap”, as he got back in the driver’s seat.

Back on the camels it was VERY hot. Salem our guide waved to a line of cliffs up ahead and said we would stop for tea soon. I scoured the shadows beneath for a Costa or Starbucks, or even a shack selling coffee…but nothing. No toilets either – just a lot of bushes and small rocks. Meanwhile, Salem was unwrapping items from his saddlebags – a little black kettle, three tiny glasses which he placed on a rock. He scraped out a small hollow in the sand in front of where he was squatting and dropped some dry stalks of bush on top. In seconds he had flames licking around the stalks and a tiny fire fed with other small sticks began burning. Soon the black kettle was balanced on top. He smiled up at us and said, “You like tea?” Our delicious sweet black tea was ten times more welcome than any cappuccino or latte – and so much more refreshing.

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Many hours later, after we’d gazed across at craggy mountains marking the border with Saudi Arabia and Jordan’s white desert, eaten our picnic lunch in the narrow shade of a rock face and dozed away the hottest part of the day, I began to feel slightly hypnotized by our wanderings in the desert. Moving by camel there was no sound apart from the swish of the sand around its feet. Intense heat blazed down on my arms and legs and I began to feel as if I’d always been on a camel – running my toes through the soft curly camel hair, that camely farmyard scent and the rough rubbing rhythm of dust filled blankets against my legs were all becoming as familiar as the rattle of a train. It was later in the afternoon that we stopped off at a Bedouin ‘farm’ (tents plus goats and chickens) where, as white tourist, we were relegated to the seats by the goats and enjoyed more cups of sweet black tea, while animated Arabic conversation rattled on between the ladies in black and our guide.

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Time slows in the desert and is only measured by the height of the sun. As the shadows began to lengthen and we were back on the camels, I was roused out of my dream state as Samhan suddenly broke into a trot. We had trotted before – bouncing haphazardly along for a few minutes, thighs rubbing uncomfortably against the rough blankets. This time however, it was much faster and downhill and I hadn’t even asked him to speed up. I was bouncing high off the saddle and was sure it was going to end in a painful fall. Clinging onto the wooden pummel at the end of the saddle I willed my legs to cling on and tugged on the reigns to no avail. Samhan was excited – he was heading somewhere and he wasn’t going to slow down. Luckily just before I completely lost my balance and flew off the camel, he slowed to a walk and I saw the camel ahead had stopped by an opening in the rock. We had arrived at our new camp for the night – there was a pile of blankets and cushions laid out on the ground and a man we didn’t know was mentioning tea. Thank goodness for tea – I don’t think I’d have survived the desert without it.

Jordan is much more than desert, camels and sweet black tea – but the camel ride, the desert and sleeping beneath a canopy of stars is what I will treasure from this first visit.

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A walk on the wild side

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I may not have been living on berries or catching crocodiles to cook over a fire, but I have been doing my own foray into the wilds of Cyprus.

It started with a couple of nights ‘wild camping’ in some sand dunes overlooking the sea. As the track proved impassable without a 4×4 we had to lug water, tent, food and cooking stuff some way up a sandy bank through dunes and then discovered our lack of wooden sand pegs, so scoured the area for rocks large enough to weigh down the sides of the tent. Camp set, I asked the inevitable question….”Do you know where the toilets are?” A line of trees and shrubs was pointed out, but there wasn’t a loo seat in sight.

I’ve never been a scout or a guide, or even done Duke of Edinburgh treks, so the idea of digging a hole for some serious toilet business was fairly alien… but needs must! As I squatted in the bushes I stared up at the hill beyond and noticed a little cave with a meshed off rail just above me – hang on, was that someone with binoculars peering down through the trees? No, probably just a goat or a donkey…

Later, after toasting ourselves on the beach and cooling off in the sea, it was time to put our cooking stove to the test and light the lanterns. After lighting the new gas lantern we admired its glow for a few minutes, only to watch it flicker and fizzle out. Oh dear, we hadn’t checked the bottle or bought a spare, let’s hope we fair better with the stove. Eating outside beneath the stars, enjoying a glass of wine or two ( yes we even took real glasses!) was magical and I forgot all about the trek through the dunes in the heat and the open air toilets.

About 3am in the morning I woke up in a tangle and stumbled from the tent – not even bothering to walk to the ‘toilets’. The sky was dark and there was no moon in sight – all around was shadows and the sand felt cool against my bare feet. Lying back in the tent a few minutes later I heard a rustle and imagined someone snooping around the food bag, possibly attempting to run off with our milk. More rustling. “Did you hear that?” I whispered to the sleeping form beside me. He hadn’t, but he was listening now. We both heard the loud braying of a donkey not far away. I wondered if someone might be out there, or perhaps it was a goat, in which case it would eat all the bags and towels as well as the food. Maybe it was a fox or a wild dog. The rustling started again and I lifted my head to the source, where someone’s feet were rustling against the entrance of the tent! Time to sleep!

Yesterday, not content with wild camping we ventured on a canyon walk up a spectacular gorge. Having parked the car in a restaurant car park called The Last Castle, we set off in the blazing heat of early afternoon against my better judgement. Wild living is all very well, I thought, glancing back reluctantly at the inviting chairs surrounding stone tables under a canopy of vines overlooking the sea, where the smell of barbecued meat was wafting towards us. But we were intrepid hikers intent on conquering the gorge. Some time later, after stops to re-tie boots and re-apply sun cream, the towering gorge began to close in on us and the path grew narrower. Menacing black birds were flapping their wings loudly as they flitted between nests in the cliffs high above. Water was splashing gently over the rocks and as we clambered over giant boulders, there were giant tree roots overhanging the path and water drenched moss on the damp stone walls beneath. The cliffs were lined with ridges in amazing curves and shades of sand, pink and even green in places. Around one corner a giant boulder was suspended over our heads bridging the gap between the sides of the narrowing gorge. Munching on an orange and sipping cold water beside a boulder in the dappled shade of some trees clinging to the cliff side, I knew why I like a taste of wilderness. We were all alone in a beautiful place. The only sounds were the gentle gurgle of the stream and the chirp of the birds overhead. I hope heaven is a wild place too.

But an hour or so later, after a hot slog back up the hill, sitting in The Last Castle, with a cool breeze on our faces, a cold beer on the table and the view of the sea spread out in front, I thought heaven might be a mixture of wild and wonderful. Because we all need a little luxury after a walk on the wild side.

 

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Follow that goat

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I think that maps are overrated. For one thing they can be misleading and often give a false sense of security. I’ve had maps which I have followed religiously and yet still found myself miles off route. And this has nothing to do with my map reading, but is entirely due to careless map drawing. So, yesterday on a little trek through the Troodos foothills, I was skeptical about the accuracy of the maps posted at the start of the trail.

After a shaky start when two of our band of three thought the right direction was on the opposite side of the road, we admitted our error and paced off down the tarmac to the correct path a few hundred yards in the other direction. Point of clarification: I didn’t have my glasses with me, so took myself off map reading duty for the day.

Error 1 seemed to occur when we turned right up hill on a promising track that eventually came to a dead end. But we ploughed on. I was convinced the track had just become overgrown and it would magically appear through the steep undergrowth. A lot of sheep tracks later and we were half way up a steep hillside, with no way to go but up and no path in sight. After a rather hairy and what seemed like bramble and rock filled route, we spotted the track we had been seeking half a valley away. Luckily it wasn’t long before we stumbled on our original path which had wound its way up the hillside sensibly. We let out a cheer for paths and thought how good they were. Even when it was hard going, two of us were saying gratefully, “well, at least it’s a path.” We didn’t know what lay ahead!

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A little while later at the top of a lot more hills, lunch was a sumptuous affair and there was even a bench to sit on with a panoramic view and a shack with a window (in case it was raining!). From our viewpoint we heard the tinkle of bells and in the distance what looked like a herd of sheep, running along a grassy ridge parallel to ours. That we decided would be our route back. There was a problem however, because there was no direct path connecting us. The map was consulted and it was decided we would follow a riverbed down a valley which, quite simply, would connect us with the path we were seeking and our ‘shortcut’ back.

The herd of white sheep, who turned out to be a species of giant goat, suddenly appeared ahead of us on the path. Veering off Kamikaze-like into the sheer hillside either side as soon as they spotted us. We wondered later which route they had taken and I thought it was a shame they hadn’t hung around a bit for us to take directions. But I’m afraid goats are like that…very hasty!

We headed off optimistically across some medium height undergrowth following our leader. The goats had made it somehow, so how difficult could it be? Ten minutes later he was beating back the Mediterranean jungle with his feet (where are walking sticks when you need them?). The trees and bushes were getting larger and more dense and there was no path in sight.

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Spring in Cyprus means the snakes are just waking up from their long winter sleep. So I did a bit of calling out to let them know we were coming, “Snakes! calling all snakes!” Because we didn’t want to step on their heads or anything. The mention of the ‘snake’ word added the extra adrenalin needed to pick up speed and find the path ahead as quickly as possible. So no matter how many fallen trees trunks had to be clambered over or under, there was no turning back.

The result of all this trekking through undergrowth was that my carefully epilated legs now offered a good base for a game of noughts and crosses with the pattern of scratches left from brambles. Eventually we found a dried up riverbed heading down an overgrown valley which we stumbled our way down. Between the sliding bed of rocks, the bramble strewn hillside and hidden holes and ditches, it was amazing we made it out at all. When we did eventually find a path, someone made a tentative suggestion about going in search of another path on the other side of the valley. But having found our way back no one was keen to return to the ‘jungle’ – let’s not push our luck, miraculously we had survived without twisted limbs or snakebites, despite our best efforts.

Along the track we discussed which route the goats might have taken and we noticed signs of them on the ground with hoof marks and other smellier offerings visible to the discerning tracker. They had definitely passed this way.

Next time I think taking a goat with us could be a lot more useful than a map!

back to school?

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On Friday night I am going ‘back to school’… that doesn’t mean travelling back to Folkestone Technical High School – but I am off to a fancy dress event of that name. However, it does concern me. I have my uniform ready and wonder if I will be transformed back to the slightly wayward 15-year-old that still lurks in my past, once I put it on.

Testing out the outfit it was worrying how easy it was to know exactly how it should all look – something cross between St Trinian’s and Grange Hill – with a fairly short skirt, white shirt with sleeves rolled up, tie loose at the neck, because my top button must be undone. And in that simple sentence I would have already broken three school rules! Don’t get me started with the holes in my fishnet tights or the height of my heels. I also won’t go into the consequences I faced for breaking those very rules at Folkestone Tech.

What is it about school uniforms – no matter what they stipulate, students have a solemn duty to flout them? I remember our terrible school cap. It was brown corduroy. Infact, I still haven’t got over my dislike of brown, since that was mainly the colour I was forced to wear for five years – and that included brown socks, brown skirt, brown jumper/cardigan and would you believe it… brown knickers (yes they did check – it was an all girls school!). The ‘pièce de résistance’ was the hat. The brown corduroy cap, so hated it was reserved for pupils in the first two years (years 7&8 in new money). For the first few months I wore it happily like many of my fellow classmates – well ‘happily’ might not be the right word. Let’s say dutifully. Then the second year came. I was far too cool to be caught wearing my cap on the mile long walk from the bus stop to school. I ducked out of view from prefects, ready to balance it on my head if we saw one passing – or even a teacher who had very unreasonably decided to walk to school. Tired of this pretence I told my friend I was going to ‘lose’ the cap – kind of deliberately. The 13-year-old theory being – if I had no cap, I couldn’t be forced to put it on. In the school car park I spotted a light blue car by a tree and placed the hat strategically underneath one of the wheels. That’s it – sorted. I no longer have a cap and therefore can’t wear it.

The next day I sauntered into school capless. And the reply to the lurking prefects was, “Sorry, I’ve lost my cap.” First lesson was maths with the gentle Mr Honey. This friendly old chap beamed at us as we walked in and after setting us some problems on the board and a truly delightful lesson – as delightful as a maths lesson can be – he called me to his desk at the end, as the rest of the class filtered out on the sound of the bell.

Oh dear, I thought, what trouble am I in now?
“Rachel,” he said, “Have you lost your cap?”
I nodded sadly, “Yes, Mr Honey, I lost it yesterday. Think I must have dropped it on the way to school.”
He beamed and dropped my crumpled cap onto the desk. “I found this by my car – your name label was inside.”

Thanks mum, for sewing name tags in all my clothes! I picked up the cap and smiled sweetly, thinking, next time I will tear out the flipping name tag!

Anyway, tomorrow night there will be no cap – unless I can find a suitable alternative. But I don’t think I can vouch for my behaviour once I slip into a school uniform again.

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colours of spring in March

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Driving across the island this morning – I’ve decided this is Cyprus at its most beautiful.

It was just after 7am, warm and sunny with blue skies. The air was fresh like an English summer morning, with the scent of grass and flowers and the promise of a bright day ahead. The grass was glistening with dew and along the roadside there were bright yellow flowers everywhere. At one bend in the road a perfect picture of yellow flowers in the tall green grass sprinkled with scarlet poppies shouted to be noticed. I wanted to stop and take a photograph but airport check in time was calling and you never know what delays could be ahead, so I didn’t risk it.

This is a Middle Eastern spring and very beautiful it is too. We hardly experienced it last year, as the winter had been little more than a blip of cold snap with very little rain. Then almost without warning February and March had slipped into summer. But today the fields are lush and green, the trees are bristling with new leaves and wild flowers of yellow, red and blue lace the roadside at every turn. I’m worried that while I’m away the sun will burn up these colourful blooms and dry out the grass – returning the fields to parched mustard plains of scrub and dust. Please stay spring-like a little longer, just till I get back.

Cyprus has had one of longest and wettest winters for a long time, with piles of snow in the mountains too. Now just as the rain has done its magic and it looks like brightening up properly – I’m off to the UK.

A few hours in the air and this afternoon England feels a lot more brown, but beautiful in its own way. Here the trees are still bare, the sun is hiding behind some clouds, but there are patches of blue sky visible from the windows of the train. It seems like winter hasn’t hung up its coat yet.

I wonder why colours affect us so much? What is it about a blue sky early in the morning that makes us smile and happy to jump out of bed and start the day? Why are green fields more peaceful and relaxing on the eye than sand or desert? We love blue seas, but grey or brown waters look uninviting. There is no denying I like to live my life in colour and it definitely has an affect on how I feel.

Although England won’t offer as many ‘blue sky’ mornings as Cyprus, there are compensations. The sunsets are often spectacular with amazing cloud formations that are simply heavenly. There’s a soft light across the countryside here that we don’t get abroad – the difference between the gentle strokes of a water colour and the deep vivid shimmer of an oil painting. I was touched by nature’s beauty early this morning now I’m being wowed again from the train as the sun gilds a rippling cloud with gold and pink edges and spills its copper beams across the sky.

It really is true – ‘The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.’

Fact: Whether you’re in Cyprus or the UK.

below: spring flowers and blue sky at Salamis on Sunday

photo salamis

hot and steamy

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Friday was the day. And although it involved a slab of hot stone, some slapping and a lot of scrubbing and bubbles, it had nothing to do with 50 shades of anything.

I enjoyed my first Turkish hamam, in the heart of Nicosia, very much and in case any of you are tempted to try it… here’s a low down on the experience.

The hamam is much earthier than a UK spa day. Think ancient stone, lots of oriental rugs and hangings, wooden cubicles with floaty curtains – there is nothing clinical about it at all – although being given towels and flannel slippers was a reassuring start. My ‘experienced’ friend advised me to strip off to my bikini bottoms and put the tea towel/small table cloth around my top half. Leaving our belongings locked away we wandered past an inviting looking area, with curtained wood-lined booths, Turkish carpets, cushions and little tables with Turkish tea pots on, where a couple of ladies were relaxing. Putting new meaning into the verb – ‘to lounge.’

Down a marble flagged passageway we went into another changing area and shower room and then into the heart of the hamam. This was a steamy room, entirely lined with grey and white marble stone where a massive hexagon (I think) shaped marble platform formed the centrepiece. Up above was a huge white domed ceiling with light coming in from a spattering of star shaped windows in tinted glass of yellow, green, blue, turquoise and white. There were about 5 doorless rooms and alcoves leading off from the slab where I noticed a copper cauldron was also standing ominously. Each of the alcoves had a pair of brass taps with a large brass bowl under them and an ancient jug standing by. There wasn’t a shower in sight…or a mirror thank goodness!

We lounged around on the large warm slab for a while and a man in a tea towel, wisely made an exit. Some little time later, just when we wondered if they had forgotten us, a fairly large woman in another tablecloth came in all smiles, remembering my friend from previous visits. She pulled off her tea towel, and was now dressed just in large black lacy pants and a bra. It’s Ok we’re all girls here!

I was to go first apparently and she told me to lay on the edge of the slab face down.. seconds later the little table cloth had been whisked away and I was left in just my pants. Tea-towel man please don’t return…

Although I couldn’t see what was happening (I discovered later by watching my friend’s session), I could feel the sensation of jarfuls of hot water being poured on to me. I was then scrubbed quite hard all over with a rough flannel, which was interesting. It felt a bit like my skin was being sandpapered off and when I sat up for my arms to be scrubbed, I could see all the dead skin that had indeed been literally scraped away. It was all soon washed off with plenty of jugs of very hot water. But apart form the vigorous scrubbing, there was also some slapping. Part way through my bottom was slapped quite hard, not just for fun, but simply as a ‘Turkish sign’ for me to turn over. Ok so that’s a new one – please don’t anyone else use that as an excuse for smacking someone’s bottom.

The last part of the session was by far the best. The huge cauldron at the other end of the slab revealed its purpose. It contained what looked like cotton pillowcases that were cooking inside it, in a soapy hot mixture. These were then taken out and shaken so that they filled with air and somehow out of these cotton balloons a mountain of bubbles was squeezed and draped across my body. I felt like I had dived into a tropical cloud and it was ten times nicer than any bubble bath I’ve ever had. This went on for a few minutes, delivering a delicious soft sensation on my newly scraped skin, until I was head to toe in bubbles. Then the massage started – head to toe again. It was quite different having a partially clothed lady with plenty of padding moving me about to massage different areas of my body and lean her weight into my back with her arms. I don’t remember being that intimate with a total stranger before. She was all smiles and very friendly – saying a few words in her limited English (which is 100 times better than my Turkish).

After it was all over, I felt like a new woman! My skin was tingling and my muscles relaxed and even the soles of my feet felt soft. After a shower, there was an opportunity for lounging on the floor with the Turkish cushions – like all Turkish ‘ladies who lunch’ would do.

It’s a shame the hamam isn’t a little nearer because it’s the sort of treatment that would work well every Friday afternoon to set me up for the weekend… Please let Thorney Island have one of these by September!

Visiting death

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I live just across the road from death. For the past 18 months – day or night – I have gazed across at the view from our house, where apart from a few palm trees and a scattering of houses, the Cypriot Greek Orthodox cemetery is the main feature. Last night when I looked over in that direction, before letting myself in through the front door, there were pinpricks of light speckled across the patch of land where the cemetery lies. The dozens of tiny candles or lanterns positioned on graves made an ethereal sight. I have seen this before, but with a pale white full moon, peeping out from behind the clouds, it was even more eerie and a little mysterious. I’ve been wondering about how the candles spring to light as soon as darkness falls or perhaps they are always lit and only visible in the darkness?

This question on my mind, I resolved to go and investigate, sensitively – but not at night. I decided to wander across and take a look when the sky was blue and the sun is shining, which in theory should make it much more commonplace.

So the other day I overcame my reservations and took an afternoon stroll to the cemetery. Beyond the white washed walls, black and white marble and dozens of flowers of every colour adorned the graves. Unlike an English graveyard, it seemed to be a place of regular activity. Newly placed flowers, mainly silk, lay on each grave and massively ornate headstones, many with roofs overhead, like mini shrines formed a place of tribute for loved ones. Photographs were in abundance too. As a foreign stranger it was interesting to see the faces of the dead, some young, some old, some with wives and some with children buried alongside them. There were recent dates and some that dated back from the island’s troubled past in the 60s and 70s. There were young soldiers too, pictured in uniforms with proud inscriptions.

The mystery of the lights soon became clear as I looked more carefully at the dozens of little oil lamps placed on each grave and in between them, I could see many were alight, with flickering yellow flames only just visible in the sunshine. There was a strong smell of paraffin and wax, a bit like the inside of the chapels and churches we’ve visited on the island. It seemed amazing that all these graves had people who came to tend them regularly, replacing flowers, planting flowers and bushes and replenishing the oils. Far from being a place that is rarely visited, the cemetery is quite often a hive of activity with dozens of cars lining the road and along the banks, as families and friends gather. And this isn’t just for funerals, there are also many memorial days for those who have died when special celebrations of their lives are held on six month and annual anniversaries. It’s clear the dead are very much alive in the hearts of Cypriots and they aren’t afraid to remember them.

Death visits us all in different ways. For me, it was almost 33 years ago this month that it visited our home when my mother died suddenly, while I was at university. Walking around the cemetery last week, I thought about her own grave, now also shared by my father. It is a village graveyard with a view across a rolling field where we used to go sledging as children. I like its simplicity and its rural outlook. But I also like the idea of the lanterns on the graves here and that someone goes there regularly to keep the oil topped up so the dead are never forgotten. For me, the idea of lights burning despite the darkness of a graveyard signals our hope of a life to come.

It’s a long time since I’ve visited the graveyard in Kent – but perhaps it’s time to go back and light a lantern there?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘floody hell’ and mad pets

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Dear Agony Aunt – my cat loves cleaning, should I be worried?

We have a cat we call Simba. He arrived uninvited over a year ago and seems to have employed us as his hotel staff. We provide simple B&B – food and water and a warm bed for the night – he pays us… nothing. But today he did stand by me in a mini crisis.

Many of our visiting guests have found his strange ways amusing – one describing him as ‘more dog than cat’ and others have been surprised, almost choking on their drinks, when he pokes his head through a flap in the top of the gazebo, which he illegally uses as a hammock in the summer.

Last night he excelled himself by waking me up in the early hours. I ignored him at first, but eventually gave in by about 6am. Padding in to put the kettle on and cat food out, I realised my feet were wet. There was a flood in the kitchen and it might have been what all the crying was about. Hearing the wind outside I assumed water had blown in under the back door and so I spent some time laying out newspapers to soak it up. Strangely, when I looked outside the terrace wasn’t very wet at all, but I carried on with the newspapers, still half asleep, thinking the wind must have dried up the rain!

I didn’t think cats were supposed to like water – but Simba seems to break all the rules. In fact he loves to sit or lie in it and get his tail wet. Rather than drink out of his water bowl sedately, he climbs into an old bucket partly filled with rainwater to drink, or dips his paws into the swimming pool. His favourite games are flicking the water from the water hose or sitting on the laundry basket to push open the doors of the shower when it’s running. If you are in the shower it’s an annoying game. Oh, and another watery pastime is trying to catch the mop when anyone is cleaning the floor.

Back to the flood. The more newspaper went down, the more water appeared. Eventually I thought, I’ll have to get the mop out. Opening the cupboard door I was greeted by a mini tsunami, as water was pouring from the boiler into an empty cat litter tray and flowing over onto the floor. So not rain after all. Before I could get the mop out, Simba was in the cupboard, paddling in the water, shaking his paws and then swiping anything that moved. There were quite of a lot of soaked objects to be removed and as I went to pick up a drenched half empty bag of cat litter, it split, spewing the contents into the floor. Unlike the more expensive brands, it’s main ingredient turns out to be mud. There was now a lovely slippery mud bath in the entrance to the cupboard. Never fear, Simba was there skidding around in the brown gunge and as fast as I tried to scoop it up with a cloth, he was catching the cloth in his claws and spaying the mud even further. At 6.30am I was struggling to see the funny side of this, being slightly concerned about the boiler and the amount of water everywhere. Words like ‘floody hell’ or worse were being muttered frequently. Still, on my morning of mopping I was never alone and at least there was someone else to laugh at. My feline helper was always by my side, trying to catch the mop, trying his hand/paw with a cloth or simply running in and out across the wet floor, back legs skidding out behind him – a soft landing guaranteed on his enormous fluffy tale.

By the time an electrician, two plumbers and a boiler technician (significant Cypriot labour forces) had arrived, the two of us had attempted to hang wet materials outside or upstairs and most of the mud had been cleaned away, bar a few paw prints here and there.

Come to think of it, Simba isn’t the only eccentric pet we’ve had… I once had a cat that turned a bit mad when I moved him to live in a flat in the East End of London from rural Kent. He used the back of our toilet as a urinal and had a habit of smacking people that he didn’t like. An ex-boyfriend, who will remain anonymous, was sitting on the carpet one evening by the slightly ajar lounge door, having just made an uncharitable remark about the absent cat. A second later a black and white paw shot round the edge of the door and dealt him a punishing swipe. Our first dog, a golden retriever, was a canine Houdini. He used to escape through the cat flap to go begging scraps at the local abattoir. Our second dog, Copper …where do I start? Because that requires a whole new post!

strange encounters with trees and fruit

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I’ve been branching out with ‘strange encounters’ this month. Driving along the road today I saw what looked like a huge tree coming towards me at speed. I thought I was seeing things, but I wasn’t. It was an olive tree, compete with roots, being driven through the town in someone’s car. It was at least 4 times the height of the car and twice as wide and very bushy with leaves. But no one seemed to think much of it – just normal Sunday lunchtime traffic – as someone moves their olive tree to another location.

Other strange sightings have been caused by the winter winds. We’re having a lull from the storms at the moment, but it was a different story a week ago with driving rain and gale force winds. Broken windmills, crumpled roofs and fences are all around. But during the build up to the storms driving became a bit hairy. Negotiating the potholes on a notoriously dangerous road that runs along the buffer zone at this end of the island takes a bit of concentration. The other day a new hazard appeared up ahead as I saw what looked like a small tree blowing across the road, followed by another. I didn’t fancy being hit by one, so in addition to looking ahead for craters in the tarmac, I now had to keep half an eye on the fields either side for wayward bushes and tress. I’ve never really thought of tumbleweed as a real thing, but here it’s larger than life. Spiky leafless bushes seem to uproot themselves and blow around fields, across roads and into driveways. They can be as large as a small person and not something you want flying around randomly. Having safely avoided hitting any moving objects that day, I arrived back to find a massive bush of tumbleweed blocking the entrance to the drive. I felt like I was being followed.

On a recent trip to our local airport for another farewell, neither of us was in a hurry to say goodbye so we headed for the airport café. It’s a fairly swanky affair with comfy settees, bright coloured chairs and a partial view of the runway. As we sat down a waitress came to clear up the dishes left on the table leaving the menu and a very large lemon sitting in front of us. I looked up to see if it had dropped out of a tree…can’t think why. I also looked across at the other tables to see if they were new minimalist table decorations – but ours was the only lemon. I picked it up and smelt it. It was fresh and lemony and very large. I glanced around to see if someone was going to come running towards us dragging their suitcases and saying, “My lemon, I forgot my lemon!” But they didn’t. So I dropped the lovely lemon in my ample handbag for later…putting that well-known adage into practice – Don’t look a lemon gift horse in the mouth.

Leaving the airport tearfully a little while later, I opened my bag to hunt for tissues and found the lemon – my Cypriot consolation gift – all ready to join its friends, Gin and Tonic back at the house. I knew there was a very good reason why I love lemons so much.

A giant grapefruit and a normal lemon

A giant grapefruit and a normal lemon

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.

beach day

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.