Play Miley Cyprus – Party in the Takeaway
From exploring traditional Cypriot mountain villages and discovering seven-hundred-year-old UNESCO-listed monasteries to Bar Street Paphos; the cultural chasm was wider than the potholes on Mumbles Road. Or was it? We had a week to find out whether the infamous Inbetweener beach resort had anything more to offer than two-for-one cocktails and chlamydia. We were booked into a functional and fairly fresh apartment, as we needed to teach during the daytime, located about a thirty-minute walk from party central. Any closer and we risked vibrating walls and absolutely no sleep as a result of the copious number of freshers playing Mike Posner—or the Gen Z equivalent—until six in the morning.
One place we were fairly sure that we’d be able to find at least a fragment of culture was the Paphos Archaeological Park and boy we were not wrong. From prehistoric monuments to Roman villas with superbly mosaiced floors, the extensive site, which was still under excavation, had it all. Although, more intriguing than the ancient structures or the rich tiles were the weather-beaten, hungover Brits regretting their final sambuca from the night before and desperately trying to avoid throwing up in an antique chalice. Not all succeeded. The park is encircled by a rugged coastline and an intimidating fortress which guarded the historic town during Byzantine times. Today, it offers a pleasant view of the new harbour as well as of the many brightly coloured banana boats bobbing and banishing their boisterous cargo in the distance.
The following day, our guidebook recommended travelling the ‘short distance’ north up the coast to Lara Beach, otherwise known as Turtle Beach due to the number of loggerheads that choose to lay their eggs there. Despite not being laying or hatching season, the secluded beach was supposedly ‘well worth the slightly bumpy access road’ for the views alone. Two and a half hours of dirt and dust later on the worst road I’ve driven since rural Mongolia, we reached our destination. Our miniature Nissan Note, which certainly wasn’t designed for such challenges, bravely crawled its way towards the remote location which, unsurprisingly, we had entirely to ourselves. Beautiful though it undoubtedly was, it probably wasn’t worth risking our rental, as well as our spines, to get there. Except, perhaps, during turtle season.
Needing a Keo lager or three, we paused on our return journey to Paphos at a stunning beachside restaurant and bar, rented a couple of sun loungers, and embraced what Cyprus does best. I opened Marco Polo’s The Travels, took a few soothing breaths, and attempted to take in my perfectly serene surroundings. The beating sun and gentle whoosh of the tide were then suddenly interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a septet of sash-wearing, prosecco-slurping hens from Sheffield. We persevered for a couple of clamorous hours but had to leave before the fourth rendition of Dancing Queen began in earnest.
About a thirty-minute drive south of the city sits Aphrodite’s Rock, one of the nation’s preeminent tourist attractions. So much so that its photo adorned our erstwhile Cypriot guidebook—now destroyed after the advice it proffered earlier in the day— as well as on most postcards of the country. Its name derives from its status as the birthplace of the ancient Greek goddess of love and beauty and, whether true or not, the location is certainly worthy of her imitable name. Technically a sea stack and not a rock, for any pedants, the rough, foaming, frothing sea around its base is supposedly the result of Uranus’ ample testicles which were cut off and submerged there by his mischievous son, Cronus; and from this seminal broth, Aphrodite emerged. Not deterred by this origin story, brave locals still swim around the hefty stack, through its choppy waters, as a rite of passage.
On our return eastwards across the country we kept to the coast, taking in the swanky port area at Limassol, paying a small fortune for a thimble-sized smoothie, before returning to Larnaca. Unbelievably, although not for the first time this trip, the Mediterranean storm clouds gathered for our arrival on Finikoudes beach for our last afternoon of rest and relaxation. Just as in Cairo, the heavens immediately opened although that didn’t perturb my aquatic partner from taking one last dip in the ocean before making our way to the airport. So, I hope that our week-long foray around the island has dispelled the myth that Cyprus is all about Ayia Napa and all-inclusive resorts, this is simply not the case. They also have a Debenhams and a Flinstone-themed bar, that we frequented all too often, where every single drink is served with a Yabba Dabba Doo. What else could one want?
J
