Halloumi to Introduce Myself
A one-hour hop over the glistening Mediterranean from Cairo landed us in Larnaka. Following a rather intense week in the Nile Delta, we planned for a far more reposeful week in Cyprus, although driving a hire car into a demilitarised zone may not have been the most stress-free start. However, without Vishnu and the freedom to explore the curious backwaters that the van brings, we deemed a rental our best option. After picking up our miniature Nissan Note—complete with a Japanese dash that was convinced we were in downtown Tokyo—and promising not to do anything stupid, we headed straight to Europe’s last divided capital city: Nicosia.
Constantly inhabited for over four and a half thousand years, the city has been split in two geographically, politically, and culturally since 1963 when a war between Turkish and Greek Cypriots broke out, forcing their segregation. While tensions between the two sides have been fraught, and at times bloody, things are thankfully far calmer and attitudes more cordial today. That doesn’t mean that the heavily armed border wall separating the two areas will be torn down anytime soon but it does mean that one can cross between the two sides, with the aid of a passport of course, if one wants to visit a Turkish bath or to buy a Timmy Holefinger jumper. Forgetting my own passport in the Note, I had to make do with sneaking a glance through the ominous barbed-wire fence without attracting any attention and, inevitably, being instantly mowed down.
For anyone thinking that Cyprus is all beaches and borders, you’d be only partly correct as most of the nation’s interior is dominated by the inimitable Troodos Mountains. And no, these are nothing like the magnificent mounds of The Netherlands or the epic elevations of London, these are legitimately prominent peaks that dwarf anything that the UK has to offer. The tallest of which, Mount Olympus (not to be confused with the tallest mountain in Greece also called Mount Olympus), reaches almost two thousand metres above sea level and even comprises several ski resorts in winter. While the quality and quantity of winter snow may not facilitate any Cypriot Olympic golds in the slalom anytime soon, it does create a surprisingly serene winter scene. Or so we were told, as it was bloody boiling when we were there.
From the highest point in the country, we continued to meander along winding passes and through remote mountain villages pausing every five minutes at a traditional taverna or a marvellous monastery, of which there are plenty. The snappily named Church of St. Nicholas of the Roof proved particularly impressive with its six-hundred-year-old frescoes, steep-pitched roof, and ample free parking which is always a bonus. It is also one of the few UNESCO sites I have visited that, firstly, didn’t charge a single cent and, secondly, didn’t involve getting harpooned in the face by a selfie stick for we had the place mostly to ourselves.
We continued to trace the edge of the Troodos range until arriving quite by accident at a place called Omodos. Nestled high in the mountains, this traditional Cypriot village had absolutely everything one could want from a traditional Cypriot village: ankle-breaking cobbled streets, unforceful street vendors, a tremendous monastery, a bustling central square, and a festival celebrating Greek independence. As a result of the latter, every café, bar, restaurant, and doorstep was full to the brim with locals filling up to the brim with local wine, a speciality of the area. We joined in with the sun-drenched, Sunday slurping in complete serenity, fully aware that our next destination would afford a very different vibe.
As we began our westwardly descent and return to the coast the sun began to set and the stifling heat began to abate, providing us with perfect dusk drivetime conditions. We had crossed almost the full length of the island which, rather surprisingly, is only about the distance from Swansea to Birmingham but it had felt much further given the constant undulations and the winding nature of her mountain passes. With our final destination on the darkening horizon, we braced ourselves for what was about to come; a place where English is the spoken tongue, John Smith’s is the default drink, and Trumpian orange is the desired skin tone. Welcome to Paphos!
J
