Tag Archives: Cyprus

cyprus haircut & the abyss

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All it took was a metal coat hanger and a mop in the end, but some problems aren’t solved so easily…
I considered myself a fairly practical person – good at papier-mâché, capable of painting a door or a gate as needed, able to re-wire a plug – but then I got married and suddenly I wasn’t quite so practical. I might be OK with a screw driver, a paint brush and a sewing machine, but wielding an axe or a drill, let alone a saw were all way beyond my kind of practical. That sort of ‘hands-on’, ‘can do’ action can be very useful, but it should also come with a health warning…

The plus side was very evident today after a little mishap with cupboards and holes. The kitchen where we live has a cooker set at an angle in one corner with cupboards build around and across the corner. Strangely the top of these cupboards was not taken right into the corner. This has left a deep well-like hole, that could fit a small person in, reaching from just below ceiling height to the floor. Someone has the habit of placing cans of beer and bottles up on these high cupboard tops, which is easy for them as they don’t need a chair to put things up there. Tidying up a few days ago, I reached up to push an empty domed cake container onto this shelf above the cooker. It was out of my reach but I thought shoving it would be enough. In fact it was too much. The plastic box flew towards the back of the shelf and there was a clatter, followed by a number of thuds, by which time it was out of sight. It had fallen into the abyss between the cupboard, the wall and the cooker. Short of abseiling down the hole, the chances of rescuing the box seemed small. I had visions of climbing onto the thin shelf, falling into the hole headfirst and being stuck in the gap forever… eventually my body would be found, or I’d be eaten by ants! With that in mind, I decided it was a job for the weekend, or something to forget about.

I did mention the flying box and the kitchen abyss in passing to someone, who indicated grumpily that was the last I would see of my cake container. Amazingly, after returning from church he had a change of heart and step ladder in hand, he climbed onto the worktop by the cooker and tried to lower himself into the hole to reach the box. It wasn’t going to be that easy. I rushed around looking for helpful props before he had a change of heart and the box became a distant memory. A mop was handed over, but this couldn’t reach it either. Eventually, an old metal coat hanger was attached to the mop handle and a new hook was sculpted to fish for the box. After a few more failed rescues the hook did its work and the cake box was retrieved – Hallelujah! Let them eat cake!

A practical person can also get carried away though, especially if you give them a saw or worse a pair of garden clippers. Until a week ago we had a lovely set of bushes with bright pink, blue and orange flowers spilling out onto the paved area beside the front door. The flowers had faded and the bushes were in need of trimming back. I left this to the person with the clippers, while I went off to pull up unwanted greenery from the white stone edges. I can’t have been away more than 10 minutes, but when I came back to the bushes…they were no more. Someone had demolished them. Half of them had been reduced to wooden spikes surrounded by dried leaves, the others were on their way out and there was a growing pile of greenery in the middle of the terrace. Asking what was happening in a semi-alarmed voice, I was told the bushes had been in need of a ‘haircut’. I agreed a trim had been needed, but this looked like an army sergeant’s Number 1 and I’m still not sure if the bushes will live to sprout another day. I was forced to stand guard by the bushes for the next half an hour or so to prevent the clippers devouring more of them. The lesson is, be careful about letting a practical person loose with garden clippers. I’d heard of the Cyprus haircut, but this was ridiculous.

cold showers and poison

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My life has been under threat in two different ways over the past week. I was in danger of getting hypothermia and poisoning myself at the same time, but it’s all been for a good cause – in the name of saving money and reducing the household budget.

I’ve had my share of cold showers over the years, but the last few weeks have been stretching it a bit. You see we have solar power to warm the water here and most of the year that means piping hot showers all day. As the seasons change and the hours of sunlight are reduced the water is no longer hot in the morning and hot showers have to be grabbed in the afternoon, but not too late, or that tank on the roof has cooled off again. This is all very well, but what about the odd cloudy day? Of course there is no hot water. We do have an easy solution to the lack of sunshine though. It’s called an immersion heater. Switch it on and in half an hour you have lovely hot water again.

You might be wondering why I’ve been having cold showers. It isn’t because we don’t have an immersion heater, or that it has broken. It’s just that somebody – let’s call him Chicken Licken (CL) – is too stingy to use it and claims the cost of using it will be prohibitive and that ‘the sky will fall in’ when the next electricity bill arrives.

I’ve been patient about this for a while, humouring CL and doing my best to understand his ‘electricity bill’ phobia. However, this week it reached tipping point and after two or three days of shiver-inducing cold showers in the morning, I ran upstairs and flicked the switch, much to his distress, but we both enjoyed a hot shower for a few minutes. Although, there was sighing and nashing of teeth about the cost..

The problem is immersion heaters are not the only factor that may make ‘the sky fall in’…it seems paying for vegetables now comes into that category.

CL recently had a little windfall when two sacks of potatoes literally fell off the back of a lorry in front of him. Not wanting to waste them, they were bundled into the back of the car and brought home. Now Cyprus potatoes are the best and we’ve been enjoying them for months. They make amazing chips and are also delicious mashed or roasted. These didn’t look like the ones we’d been buying from the shops, they were smaller and there was a lack of red mud. But they were free and there were lots of them and more importantly, we weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I promptly peeled a few for that evening’s meal.  Later on the bags were stored in the shed and I continued cooking them for a few days.

The threat of rain meant the sacks were back in the kitchen within a week, and that was when we noticed some of the potatoes were sprouting roots. On closer examination the wording on the sacks seemed to indicate they were from Holland. Pausing, potato peeler in hand, I said.. “I hope they’re the edible kind of potatoes and not  just for planting… perhaps it doesn’t matter – aren’t all potatoes edible?”  A small portion of the smooth skinned spuds were bubbling away in a pot ready to be roasted later. “I wonder….” said CL and went off to google the name on the bags and the company where they were from. Munching on them later, we decided they tasted OK and hoped for the best.

The next day an email appeared from Holland, advising us that these were in fact ‘seed potatoes’ for planting and had been treated with various chemicals, so best not to eat them…oops! Bit late for that. CL reluctantly agreed to pass the sacks onto a friend with a bit of land who could use them for planting, rather than cooking and I went off to buy…yes purchase and pay for that is…a bag of Cyprus potatoes that would not poison us.

So, after a slow poisoning incident and too many cold showers, I am counting myself lucky to be alive!

The electricity bill hasn’t arrived yet, so not sure if the sky will fall in when it drops into our letter box. But we have now figured out how to use the gas boiler, which is a sheer delight. I can turn on the tap day or night and out pours hot water! Life is full of luxuries, like hot showers and poison-free potatoes.

ghost town with attitude

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I don’t want to spread alarm, but yesterday I came face to face with part of the island’s underground army…
After a pleasant stroll along the cliff tops, we decided to take a peek at what would normally be a very busy tourist beach, lined with expensive hotels. Driving down through the network of shops and apartments towards the sea front, we began to feel like we were heading into a Wild West ghost town. What had been buzzing cafes and restaurants, now had their curtains drawn and instead of an array of tourist shops selling anything from buckets, spades and blow up rings to shell jewellery and ‘hand-made’ Cyprus pottery, the windows were plastered with paper and the stalls outside had disappeared. The pavements were empty as well and every house and apartment in all shapes and sizes appeared to have its shutters down or blinds pulled. The streets were dusty, there were no other cars and the sky was slightly overcast, while remnants of newspaper and packaging blew across the road. The atmosphere was eerie. And then we spotted them…

First there was one, slinking slowly across the road in front of us, then another sat watchfully on a wall, its eyes following the car as we passed. A glance to the left and two more were heading down a side road…the streets were filled with cats. As we turned a corner, one particularly huge ginger beast, that looked more like a lion than a cat, crossed the road and strode menacingly towards a raised area outside an empty shop. The cats appeared completely at home and had now become the main residents of the area. They owned this place and no-one could challenge them – at least that’s how it felt. Instead of the mangy underfed specimens we had seen in the summer scuttling between restaurant tables for food, these cats were large and well fed, confidently patrolling their home territory.

As we drew into the empty car park, surrounded by buildings, a wide path between two hotels was all that separated us from the beach. But before reaching to open the car doors we both hesitated and glanced around. They were here too and not just one…there was a tortoiseshell sentry sat boldly upright at the top of the path and his bright green eyes were watching us. In the top corner of the car park another pair, a ginger and a white and tabby cat, were pacing. It certainly felt like an organised group patrolling their area. We decided to take our chances and boldly headed down to the sea, hoping to leave the cats behind. As we turned left along the decking walk beside the sea, there was no-one to be seen. All the umbrellas and chairs had been removed from the hotel grass and a solitary line of white sun beds had been left in a row on the beach, where a lone waiter was settling them in line. The sea looked a bit more English, more grey than blue, with just two swimmers a few metres out, their heads bobbing in the water.

Suddenly I spotted a movement on my left and very large tabby cat appeared on the walkway striding towards us. We hesitated…but it was just a cat, after all. Further ahead two more were munching on something on the slope leading down to the beach, there was another weaving its way in amongst the deck chairs as it ‘patrolled’ the beach. We were surrounded. It felt like a ‘Dr Who’ set where cats had taken over the world and the humans were just their staff. I let out a sort of nervous laugh, what harm could they do, they were only cats? Then as a very well fed black and white specimen began approaching, I stepped away quickly. They had a knack of making us feel uncomfortable, as if they were saying – “What are you doing here off season?”

Time to move on. After a quick swim, during which I fretted about cats running off with my shoes and towel, or worse the car keys, we headed back to ‘cat car park’. We were escorted back up the path to the car by another couple of sentries, who sniffed at the tyres and watched us change. Glancing back as we sped off in the direction of normal civilisation, I could see them crouched at the top of the path again. There were no waves goodbye, they were just watching and waiting. I don’t know what they were waiting for, but I had a feeling they knew something we didn’t. Could it be someone was coming with food, or are they in fact busy planning an invasion right across the island? Watch this space for updates.

Cypriot harvest

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I feel like I want to reach out and give Cyprus a great big hug today. Driving past ploughed fields of red soil, gazing across at parched olive groves and stony hills scattered with limestone rocks and scrubby green bushes, I’m beginning to feel connected to this barren part of the island.
There are friends here now – in the villages we pass – people we share a joke with or who subtly hand me baskets of fruit grown in their gardens and nearby orchards. We’ve been enjoying the delights of local fruits for the past week which has included succulent and sweet smelling guavas. Every time I open the fridge the scent is a reminder they need eating.
Last Sunday we came back laden from the Muktar’s house (like a village mayor), where we had joined in the special event to mark the 10th anniversary of his father-in-law’s death. His mother-in-law is a beautiful Cypriot lady. By beautiful I mean she is someone who spreads welcome, hospitality and care and it is this inner beauty that shines out. Small, with dark hair, olive skin and a smile that creases across her face right up to her twinkling brown eyes, she is often dressed in black and whenever I see her she is always bustling off to fetch food or drink. Even on this sad day remembering her husband’s death she had time for a joke, asking if I would be jealous if she sat by the Major! We were late arriving, but treated like honoured guests as dish upon dish was bought to the table from a pastry roll filled with olives to Cyprus delight (a kind of gelatine sausage made from grapes) and even a refreshing but strange dish of pomegranates and bugler wheat. The hospitality was amazing and we listened as they explained some of the Orthodox church traditions and how the different festivals and occasions were celebrated. The Muktar told us ‘name days’ are celebrated more than birthdays…people don’t know when their birthdays are, it doesn’t matter, but they all have a ‘name day’ when they celebrate the saint of their particular name. This could be a slight problem if you aren’t named after a saint! Anyone heard of Saint Rachel?
We talked about the war and the village and the struggles for local people and we laughed as different ones around the table were teased. Then we talked about Jerusalem, which his mother-in-law had visited over a number of Easter trips. There was talk of miracles, visions and strange happenings, and we listened enraptured by her obvious faith and assurance that God is very much at work, even in the midst of strife and conflict in that sacred city.
We left laden with various dishes wrapped in kitchen roll, a massive bag of grapes from her sister’s garden and as if we couldn’t carry anymore, she picked pomegranates from a tree in the front garden and these we’re bundled into our already full arms. It wasn’t just the food I was full from; it was how they had filled up our hearts, welcomed us into their home and made us feel part of something. I don’t belong here, but gradually I am feeling more connected with both the land and the people… and I’m looking forward to breaking open those pomegranates, since a knowledgeable friend told me the best way to deal with them.

Borderland shopping

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I never used to take my passport when I went shopping, but then I’ve never lived in Cyprus before. Now my well stamped border paper and passport are an essential part of a trip to the city. That’s because shopping in the country’s capital is a peculiar experience.
Yesterday I strolled down Nicosia’s Ledra Street with a couple of family members, we past some familiar names like Debenhams, Peacocks and Starbucks and could have been walking through any European city centre. The several storey buildings loomed above us and cafe tables and A-frame blackboards with enticing offers spilled onto the pavement. But after a few minutes the shop fronts disappeared and we were wandering past a bare section of walls and barricaded fencing before we found ourselves in a queue at a customs kiosk. Our passports were examined and stamped and we continued on down the street into another world of shops and stalls, slightly scruffier this time, but also spilling onto the pavement with an array of goods, where new scents and sounds were on offer. It was a little like walking through the wardrobe into Narnia, but without the fur coats. The currency had changed to Turkish Lira within a few metres, yet it was the same street and the same city. This other side of the city looked poorer though and more run down, there were less high rise buildings and many more crumbling sections of concrete and simple shops selling anything from fake designer T-shirts and handbags to rolls of material and chunky baskets.
Stopping to admire some tablecloths, a stall-holder and his son began to chat to us.
“So you’re staying on the rich side and visiting the poor side are you?”
We felt a bit embarrassed by this and I promised to return another day, when I had room and time to buy a basket and a tablecloth. They pointed out the barricade at the end of a side street and shook their heads, “We’re not Turkey, we’re one Cyprus…it’s one country. We’re Cypriot”, they explained. Winding our way through the narrow streets of shops I knew what I was heading for, but which streets led there was another matter.
inn
After taking a circuitous route we eventually found the ‘Buyuk Han’ or Great Inn which dates back to the 1500s. Walking in through the archway we found ourselves in a walled courtyard lined with arches in a soft sandstone. In the middle was a domed hexagon shaped building, also with arches at its base. Round the corner wide steps led to the upper floor, which looked down on the courtyard, with rooms leading off, where travellers, and I imagine crusaders, would have stayed, leaving their animals to rest down below. Now the rooms are filled with artists and craftspeople, selling anything from painted glassware to jewellery and sculpture. It hasn’t lost its atmosphere though and sitting at the cafe tables below you could imagine being transported back to the days of Robin Hood and Richard the Lionheart, with camels and horses appearing in a ball of dust through the archway. In fact, this place wouldn’t have been there in that era…but why let the facts get in the way of my imagination?

Nicosia is filled with history and culture and I was keen to show off some of the bits I could remember from a fleeting visit a few weeks earlier. But I’m not the best with directions and maps and unfortunately my sister is no better! Still, we found ourselves at the ancient Cathedral of St Sophia, now a mosque. The massive gothic building had been carpeted throughout, two minarets tower above the arched windows and many of the carvings and statues have been chipped away to remove the Christian symbols. But it couldn’t take away the similarities with many gothic English Cathedrals. Carvings of leaves still adorned the door arches and curled themselves around pillars at the entrance, but it wasn’t quite Southwell Minster. I slipped off my shoes, wound a scarf round my shoulders and head and stepped inside. It was strange to feel the carpet on my bare feet and look up at the vaulted roof and massive pillars – Richard the Lionheart had been crowned King of Cyprus right here. If these walls and pillars could speak, what would they tell me?

We were keen to see some more of the history and walk along the massive Venetian built city walls, so after pouring over a map and turning it round a few times to see if that helped, we headed off in what we thought was the right direction. One of the party was sighing frequently and looking over his shoulder as the streets became more and more empty and the houses increasingly dilapidated. “Where are we going?” was the question…we were heading for the city walls of course, patience was required. More twists and turns and the only people we saw were children peering from behind half open doorways. A shrill whistle just beside us made everyone jump and we peered round to see a clutch of small children giggling at us from behind a parked truck. I think they knew something. Sometime later and no wall in sight we gave up on the map reading and wound our way back in the direction of the minarets, through more deserted alleyways and streets and even a motorbike graveyard hidden behind a corrugated fence. A collective sigh of relief was breathed when shops appeared and other people were walking past us! The wall was also eventually found, after we asked for directions (who does that?). Below the huge Venetian built walls we looked down into the massive moat which runs right round the city and part of which hosts a shared football pitch in the middle of no-man’s land, where young people from both sides can play. No matches were on today. Looking across the vast dried out moat between the walls we could see the UN headquarters, with its flag fluttering on top, in a former hotel that had seen much better days.
photo 2 photo 1
Finding our way back to the border crossing involved tackling another maze of streets that frequently led us to dead ends and barriers with a red sign of a soldier with a gun and a camera crossed out marked as a ‘forbidden zone’. As we skirted the buffer between north and south, the buildings became more and more derelict, some with war damage and many crumbling through neglect. Later, after we eventually crossed the border from one shopping street into another, we paused to look at the narrow gap between the buildings in no-man’s land. This little stretch of land, barely 10 feet wide, where several storey buildings towered above us, is called ‘Spear Alley’ after an incident where a soldier was killed by one from the opposite side simply leaning across with his weapon and running him through with his bayonet. Apparently at one time bayonets were strapped to broom sticks and there was jousting across the alley from the balconies above. This area of the city is called ‘the Green line’ and is a constant reminder, to all those who cross, of the deep divisions that remain. A few steps from Spear Alley as the first European shops emerged there was a bench and plastered into the wall above it a tile which read: PEACE. We sat there for a moment and wondered how long before that will become a reality for the Cypriots living on both sides of the line. I wasn’t in the mood for shopping anymore.

I want a donkey for Christmas

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It’s started…I just saw a photo of the first Christmas tree that’s gone up in Nottingham. Oh dear, and even worse we are beginning to choose and practice Christmas songs in the Military Wives Choir http://www.militarywiveschoirs.org/ – whatever next? I’m not really complaining though because I’m very used to talking about Christmas in September or even July, which is exactly what Churchads.net does each year, trying to help churches engage with free advertising campaigns. This time around they have some interesting posters as part of the established ‘Christmas Starts with Christ’ campaign, which aims to save Christmas from becoming just another secular festival – do check out the posters on http://christmasstartswithchrist.com/ and tell me what you think.
I’m not really thinking Christmas though because it’s not the right weather yet. We’re having blustery days and what Cyprus calls ‘storms’. This seems to involve lots of wind, some clouds, and a few big drops of rain, that never really become anything. It’s hot and sunny, so I’m still waiting for what we call rain and locals have promised it will come….but not for a few weeks probably.
In the meantime I’ve been finding out about wild life on the island ( No, I don’t mean Aya Napa). A trip across the border took us to some amazing ‘umbrellaless’ beaches of golden sand where the only competition for space to lay out the beach mats were wild donkeys! Yes, we’ve been having a lovely time with Eeyore and all his family. The donkeys were amazingly tame and very happy for us to stroke them, coming right out into the road and getting cars to stop, so that people could pat or feed them through the window. One little herd (google says they can also be referred to as a drove or pace) came and grazed on grass in the sand dunes by the beach. We even had our own donkey who called round each morning and evening at the beach hut we stayed in overnight. He particularly enjoyed cheese rolls, but not sure if he should have had them. We all thought he looked thin and in need of building up.
donkey pic
The only problem we faced were the ‘donkey terrorists’. I didn’t realise they existed until one evening we were driving through a very donkeyfied area of wild country and spotted a red van stopped on the road ahead with some blokes shouting and waving their hands at a donkey, as we approached we realised with horror they were trying to scare it and get it to make a noise and they even picked up stones to throw as it trotted away into the bushes. Words of disapproval were spoken from the car and we drove on – the offenders were fairly large as it happened. Later they passed us and hooted and jeered. Disgusted and somewhat outraged by their behaviour on behalf of the very gentle wild donkeys of Cyprus, we all wondered what should be done. Various sticky ends were contemplated some which involved clearing their vehicle from the road and others wanted some unmentionable ‘army-type’ solutions. Unfortunately, none of us were quick thinking enough to take down their registration and report them to the police or possibly give their position to the Typhoon pilots currently training out here.

steal or salvage?

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Can you steal from the sea? This moral dilemma has been troubling me for a couple of nights…as I hunt around for a corner of the sheet in the middle of the night. These fresher September nights are a refreshing change from the routine of tip toeing out to the water cooler in desperate need of a fresh breeze. So I have been a little troubled about the legalities of sea salvage and what’s allowed. It all began with a ‘run of the mill’ trip to the nearest beach…

We have been out to the same little bay on a number of afternoons, but each time with a different set of visitors. The last few weeks have involved a never-ending stream of ‘hellos’ and ‘goodbyes’ – some sad as we wave goodbye to loved ones for several months and others bringing a smile as familiar faces appear through the arrivals door. It’s a little weird to keep driving to the airport so often but never actually boarding a plane. On departure for her flight, our daughter commented: “It’s odd you’re staying here,” and I’m still getting used to that fact.

Back at the beach, as we bumped along the cliff track to the secluded bay, we could all drink in the deep blue and turquoise scene on our left, where dark black rocks and yellow sandy cliffs curled their arms around the clear water. We’ve named this bay, Sea Carrot Bay, on account of someone finding what was believed to be a ‘sea carrot’ on the sea bed a few weeks ago (please don’t tell me you’ve never seen a sea carrot!). Bags, snorkels, beach mats in hand we eased ourselves carefully down the winding steps to the beach below, mastering the knack of feet slipping from flip-flops on the sand coated steps. At the beach some tried out snorkelling for the first time, others just put on flippers, while the expert son No. 2 just wore goggles! This particular bay affords a view of the crumbling old hotels and buildings lining the beach of Famagusta. Between the gaps in various jagged rocks forming archways and strange ‘windows’, the multi-storey blocks are visible like mini painted scenes on the horizon of the bright blue water. While we were floating around, some peering down at the fish and rocks below, a strange piece of wood was spotted on the seabed by the eagle-eyed Major and son No 2. promptly dived down to investigate. Earlier I’d seen him lift up a concrete weight with a rope tied to it. I was impressed, but then realised everything weighs less underwater and it wasn’t just the gym sessions taking effect. So, the piece of wood was brought to near the surface after a bit of panting and heaving and the salvage operation of swimming it to shore began. On asking, “why are you carrying a really heavy piece of wood to the beach?” The answer was: “Treasure!” Too many Pirate films had them thinking this was part of a wrecked ship. The huge beam was lifted onto a rock by the beach for further examination and looked like…a piece of battered brown wood, with some holes and bolts, slightly curved, with lots of sea creatures attached to it. And it smelt of fish. So I was a bit perturbed that they announced it was going home with us. There was no hidden key or map or even a hint of treasure hidden within.

“But it belongs at the bottom of the sea,” I protested…”and what are we going to do with it?” Apparently it would go in the garden. The question of who it belonged to, didn’t seem to be an issue. So two strapping lads were tasked with lugging the beam, or piece of ship’s hull, up the winding cliff steps and then it was manoeuvred into the car, with passengers dispatched to the other vehicle to make room for the salvage. The smell behind my left ear on the journey home wasn’t pleasant and I was glad to get out of the car when we got home.

Yesterday I went for a swim and noticed a kind of fishy-sea smell as I headed up one end of the pool. Glancing up I saw the gnarled-shipwreck-like beam of blackened wood staring down at me. Thank you guys for the authentic decoration on the edge of the pool – we won’t be taking this back to the UK with us, but we now have a little bit of history and something from the sea bed at Sea Carrot Bay in the garden. I’m a bit hazy about the laws of salvage and realise raids from customs officers are always a possibility – but I have planned my excuse. ‘Didn’t you know this area of Cyprus was once under the sea and this ancient scrap of wreck must have been left behind?’. One day it’s presence here will puzzle archeologists, because who would dream that a family would drag it from the sea and drive it home several miles as a trophy or even a garden ornament?

no go area

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I’ve never been very good about ‘no go areas’ it must be something to do with my rebellious nature. Put a sign up saying ‘private: no entry’ and I just wonder what’s in there and what they are trying to hide. ‘Off limits’ areas at school were just the same – we all deliberately played in the ‘out of bounds’ basement of the old building and found a way into the ‘forbidden’ gardens of the White Lodge on the edge of the school grounds. I also contemplated scaling the walls down into the gardens of the Martello tower in the school grounds – but that never happened. I still think it would have made a brilliant party venue though. So given the rule breaker that I am today’s trip up the mountain to a ‘men only’ monastery at the top was looking tricky.

StavrovouniThe Stavrovouni Monastery is one of the oldest in Cyprus, founded in 327, and was pointed out to us on our arrival in the country by a talkative Cypriot bus driver, who delighted in mentioning that women were not allowed in. The imposing building can be seen from miles around as it sits on the top of a lone peak which rises out of the plains towards Larnaca. It was an English bank holiday so what better idea than a trip up to the Monastery…. Did I want to go with the guys? Well, apparently there was a great view at the top and I could go in the church by the gate, so I decided to join the party.

As the car chugged its way up the winding road towards the Monastery we reflected on why women were not allowed.
“Obviously they lead the monks astray and are a distraction…and I don’t blame them!”
Hum…I was feeling uncomfortable about this and the thought that I would have to remain outside the gate while the others were welcomed in.
“I could get in if I wanted of course. I could go in disguise – I could dress as a man, they wouldn’t know.” But The Major wasn’t convinced…”that’s against the spirit of it….anyway, they’d sniff you out!” Well I wouldn’t wear perfume of course – but he might have been right because on the way back he told me the monks considered showers evil, so they all smelt very bad.

Suddenly we were at the top and the road was barred by a big brown solid metal gate – with a cross on it. That felt a bit contradictory – Jesus arms spread wide on the cross, with no-one excluded? There were buildings either side of the gate, one a kind of gatehouse beyond that I could see a little cobbled path which lead enticingly up towards the building perched on top of the mountain’s peak. It was slightly like a castle in pale stone with a look out area that almost looked like turrets on a tower, but was in fact a terrace overlooking the valleys below – but I didn’t see the monks doing much sunbathing up there. The rest of the building was a series of pitched roofs butted together with little windows, which I later discovered were the monk’s cells, looking blankly out into the distance.

Just in case I had any doubt about the no women policy, a large sign on the gatehouse wall stated women were not allowed and men must be fully clothed. This caused a bit of shuffling outside the car as shorts were swapped for trousers and there was a brief debate about whether short sleeved Tshirts would be classed as fully clothed – well at least they had the sex right! Ironically the Monastery was founded by a woman – St Helena – who brought a piece of the Holy Cross to Cyprus from Jerusalem and apparently part of this cross is now in the chapel inside. According to my sources you can’t see this very old piece of wood because it is covered in silver and ornate stuff….but nice to know it’s there. A friendly gesture would be to let anyone with the name Helen in once a year. I resolved to put it in the suggestion box, when I found it.

Once the men headed off through the gatehouse, I was left in the car park to reflect on what it means to be a woman…50 seconds later I was on my iphone, thinking how much I had in common with suffragettes and women priests, or at least would-be anglican women bishops. The car park did have its compensations, there were a few trees for shade, some toilets (yes, for women too actually!) and panoramic views across to the south coast of Cyprus and in the other directions towards to the Troodos mountains, which were shrouded in a grey-blue heat haze. Glancing at one or two other lone women left to wander the carpark like outcasts, including one particularly chunky lady on a quad bike, I decided solitude was the answer and made my way towards the little church. Inside it was a typical Orthodox scene, with the small space lined with icons and wall paintings in deep shades of blue, red and green and so much gold paint everywhere. There were a few wooden seats with very high arms. These are not designed for very tall people, but for people to lean against as standing is very much part of the Orthodox church tradition. I looked up at the images of Jesus, Mary and various bearded saints and thought how they all seemed to have the same sad brown eyes…had they been shut out of somewhere too perhaps? I wasn’t cross with the monks really, I admire them for giving their lives to prayer and God in this way, but I am in favour of equality, so if they don’t want female visitors, don’t have any, that way no-one gets upset.

It was very cool but airless in the church and I was quite alone – but I couldn’t get those rebellious thoughts out of my head. I looked at the gilt carved eagles and swooping angels and gold bunches of grapes. I had a sip of water and thought it might be nice to have something to eat. This was probably forbidden in the church…’all the more reason to do it’…said the little voice in my head. I fished about in my handbag and felt that familiar crinkle of a sweet wrapper. Out came a green chewy sweet. I gingerly turned my head to see if anyone was coming in, or worse still hiding in the alcove behind my chair. Coast clear, I tucked in and enjoyed the fruity flavours filling my mouth – so much more tasty because it was probably not allowed.

A few minutes later the men returned. They had been shown round by a young monk and heard stories of monks gone by. They told me the current Abbott (chief monk) joined Stavrovouni (which means mountain of the cross in greek) when he was 15 and is now 88 years old. He has spent his whole life in the building on the hill, longer than I’ve been alive, and only venturing down for food occasionally or to see family who could come twice a year to the gatehouse to meet him. Mind blowing as this all sounded, the nearest I would get to the inside was an illustrated booklet with the monastery’s history, which had been donated to the penniless Major (who forgot his wallet!). I’ll read that later and maybe repent of my sweet eating in church.

Mountain trails & trespassing

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Planning a holiday with all five Farmers is tricky to say the least – how do you please everyone? Fine weather helps and usually something ‘boaty’ does the trick and so we started with a few hours messing about in a boat. But it was the wrong kind of boat for me because there were no sails, just a very noisy fast engine. Still, everyone enjoyed the doughnut ride, three managed some impressive wake boarding and we also motored into a few secluded rocky bays where we anchored and swam in the shelter of sea caves.

We were on an island tour of sorts, heading first for the remote and slightly inaccessible Akamas peninsular, which involved some very potholed tracks, much to the delight of the boys, who looked with envy at every passing open-top jeep. We found a lovely fish restaurant overlooking the sea and promptly ordered lamb from the menu..well, some of us did! We were like Swiss Family Robinson, all jostling about in a big red minibus, packed with food, drink and beach stuff, while whoever was in the front took turns to throw wrapped sweets to the sugar starved passengers in the back – it was a bit like tossing fish to seals, but they were slightly less noisy and kept complaining about the lack of yellow chewies…

Although I’m a sea lover at heart, the two highlights of the trip for me were in the mountains. The heat here has been incredible for the past week and now we officially have a heat wave! A heat wave in Cyprus with average temperatures of 37/38 can’t be good…we’re heading for the 40s and we are sizzling. What do you do when it’s too hot for the beach? Head for the hills of course…so day 2 we waved goodbye to the sea and the boat and set off into the mountains as a pink sun was slipping into the sea behind us. Enter the Troodos mountains where pine trees line the road and red roofed cabins are tucked in steep valleys, with craggy rocks forming the breaks between the trees. As night fell, so did the temperature and after a few false routes in one mountain village we found our way to the top just below Mount Olympus. Our destination was a cabin near the village of Troodos and all we needed to do was collect the keys….sounds simple. But we were running late. This was in part due to the need for showers after speedboating and the fact that there was only one and that it turned out to be a tap in a cubicle and not a shower….then we had to pick up water and tea which we’d forgotten. Combine this with switchback mountain roads, a lack of signs and a navigator who was trying to read a book at the same time and the result was that we arrived around midnight to collect keys and get directions for the cabin. Helpful directions were given and we set off, negotiating more hairpin bends on a road that got progressively narrower until we found ourselves in front of a serious looking barrier that promptly lifted, so we drove in. Suddenly a man emerged from the cabin just inside and rushed towards the car torch in hand looking worried. We wound the window down and told him we were looking for our cabin… “Not here, you can’t stay here.” He seemed very adamant. But we have an email, we’ve booked and this is where they said we should come… He shook his head and called over a colleague. He shook his head too and looked shifty. Our presence was making them uncomfortable. Our driver became more insistent. Are you sure it’s not one of those cabins over there, should we drive and look? We have the keys here… They looked concerned and glanced at one another. “It’s not here, no you can’t come in here.” This seemed a bit rude and unhelpful. It was very dark and late and we needed to find our cabin. The bald headed man shone his torch into the back and promptly shook his head, “You should go to the campsite.” OK so the back was filled with sweet wrappers and sandy towels, but we weren’t visiting the Queen. A third man was called over from the cabin, this one had a bomber jacket on and was reaching behind him into his waistband in a Starsky and Hutch-like manor. What is this place we wondered? And why are all these people on the gate at midnight? They were becoming more insistent all shaking their heads in unison. “You must go, you can’t stay here. This is the President’s house.” So it all became clear, we were talking to his bodyguards – no wonder they were edgy. We decided to call it a day, or a night and turned around back up the hairpin road to where we’d come from. We would wait to be invited. If only he had known who we were, I’m sure he’d have offered us a room free of charge. Our cosy cabin in the woods was eventually found and so was the cool weather. We eagerly hauled out blankets and sat round eating pizza, excited about the possibility of sleeping under a duvet for the first time in months!

The next morning it was still hot, but several degrees less than the coast and we followed a trail through the woods down a steep valley to a waterfall, where the water was icy and refreshing.
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Two of the party were volunteered to hitch a lift back to the car to save us the hike back up the hill and when we had almost given up hope of seeing them again the big red bus appeared round the bend. Walking on a high trail around the summit of Mount Olympus later that afternoon we were treated to spectacular views across the Troodos mountains, where we looked out on a sea of hills in ever paler shades of blue, until they were just a mist on the skyline. That night we ate beside a roaring fire in the cabin lounge, after we had sent out a firewood party to forage for pine cones and dead branches in the dark. They returned from each foray in a flurry of huffing and slight panic due to a plague of biting flies who had swarmed around their legs in the trees. From what I gather they barely escaped with their lives and may be permanently scarred from the experience. How strange that we should revel in lighting a fire in August and snuggling under duvets in the chill of the mountains.

Our second mountain top experience was in the north of Cyprus, where we left the burning sand dunes to drive up to an ancient crusader fortress – Buffavento castle. Buffavento is one of three ruined castles clinging to the craggy hills above Northern Cyprus, which run like a backbone towards the wild expanse of the country’s eastern tip, known as the ‘pan handle’. And it is these same hills we watch the sun set behind each evening from our house. Turning off the road at the top of the ridge we followed a single track road which clung to the side of the mountain and gradually snaked its way upwards. Passing places were few and far between, sheer drops were everywhere and the mini bus could barely take each corner without its wheels running precariously close to the drop. We were all feeling nervous and as the bends got tighter and the road narrowed, we almost decided it might be safer to walk the remaining few kilometres. Finally we reached the end of the hair-raising road and it was a 40 minute hike up the side of the mountain to reach the castle silhouetted against a clear blue sky above us. As we tackled the 500 plus steps and winding paths, we paused for breaks and water each time there was shade. Each rest stop was a chance to look at the immense view of the parched plains spread out in front of us and the city of Nicosia – a hazy jumble of buildings and roads. Eventually the path crossed over the top of the ridge and we could see the other side of Cyprus below, the coastline edged with sandy bays scooped out of the landscape and lined by a deep blue sea. The path and steps continued upwards and it was another 15 minutes before we reached the first crumbling gatehouse of the castle where the views got more and more spectacular. A sign above the gatehouse told us that Buffavento had been captured in 1974 by the Turkish army after a raid at 4am and a battle which lasted till midday. Looking out from the highest point in the castle’s crumbling ruins we could see Cyprus spread out before us – east towards the pan handle, west to another cascade of misty blue mountains, south to the dry plains and Nicosia, then north to the scolloped coastline framed by a sparkling Mediterranean. Here was Cyprus in all its summer glory and we were standing on top of it.

The hot life

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I’ve been holding back on talking about the weather, mainly out of respect for many in the UK who were suffering with rain and a lack of sunshine when we left…but I think it’s OK to say it’s hot here, now there is a mega heat wave across Britain.

The heat brings its owns joys and trials in Cyprus. First off, manual work needs to be tackled early and by that I mean before 9am! I’m not a morning person, but I do find it easier to get up earlier as the sun streams in and yes, ‘Surprise! It’s going to be another sunny day’. By 9 o’clock the temperature has risen enough to make you eat breakfast in the shade and from then onwards the heat builds steadily. Today we hit 37 degrees.

My skin is now accustomed to being semi moist most of the time. Before living here, I had to do a serious amount of exercise before my face was wet with perspiration….like running round the fields, or up and down the stairs at work with boxes of unwanted files. Now I can just be hanging out washing, sweeping the floor, making beds and as I lean down water is running down my face and dripping onto the floor. Apparently this is the humidity. It also makes getting ready for a night out tricky. No sooner have you had a shower, than your face is soaked again with the heat, so forget about wearing make-up boys! This also means a dress or costume have to go on at the very last minute, so advice is – stay in underwear as long as possible, only putting clothes on immediately before stepping out of the door.

I am not complaining though. It is relaxing to wear fewer clothes and good to hang out washing knowing it will be dry in less than an hour. Also weirdly liberating never to even consider taking a cardigan or a jacket with you for an evening out. At first I used to check myself English-fashion, Does it look like rain? Will it be cold later? The answer was always ‘no’, I can’t remember what rain feels like. The other day the sky was slightly less blue and I saw water running down a window outside… “Is it raining?” I asked. “No, silly it doesn’t rain in the summer, that’s the air conditioning unit dripping down the window.” Although there’s no rain, there’s often a warm wind here in the afternoon which is a blessing as it billows through the house, helping cool overheated skin and bringing relief from the intensity of the heat. At night we are saved by the ceiling fans, but if that’s not quite enough a cold shower before lying down seems to do the trick – the sheet acting as your towel.

Cooking can be a trial in the hot weather though, opening the oven door and stirring food on the hob is hot sticky work. But I have discovered the sun does a great job of making bread dough rise – no finding warm places in the house or balancing tins on radiators. The other day two tins of bread dough had risen in half an hour or so sat on a chair in the sunshine – easy peasy. I haven’t tried frying an egg on the patio yet, but guess all things are possible in this heat!