A bend in the road

I’m waiting for winter. I thought it had arrived a few weeks ago when we
were hit by a cold snap with temperatures below zero at night. Now the sun
is shining again, the birds are singing and I’m wondering when the rain will
come. The landscape around the house has changed a little in the last few
weeks and although I can still see the tropical line of palm trees
silhouetted against the horizon, instead of fields of dry earth and yellowed
patches of grass and scrubland, a few green fields have popped up and the
road is edged with bright green grass.

I’ve also been walking again. The tracks across the fields that were too hot
to venture onto in the summer heat, now offer a pleasant walk. Although it’s
not quite Nottinghamshire’s rolling fields and hedges, there are different
things to look at. The houses dotted around the landscape can fairly be
described as scruffy, painted in shades of yellow and ochre, with numerous
outbuildings, lean-to shacks and machinery lying all around. Sheep have been
pulled into ramshackle pens beside farm buildings and there’s a lot of
baa-ing and bleating mixed in with cockerels crowing and dogs barking from
behind wire fences. Fruit that should have been picked in the summer is now
fermenting on the trees and a few deep brown over ripe pomegranates hang in
an abandoned orchard next to the track. But oranges and grapefruits are just
becoming ripe and they provide a splash of colour in the greenery of nearby
gardens and fields.

There’s a bend in the track which leads through a darkened area lined with
tall pines. The first time I walked this route I hesitated about walking on,
wondering what would be around the corner and if I wanted to walk below the
overhanging branches such a long way from the main road. Having walked for
whole days in Italy on my own without meeting a soul, I ploughed on, and the
towering pines were soon behind me, giving way to familiar olive groves and
a tumbled-down stone house perched on a rise above the track. I had a
destination in mind. In the distance I had spotted a wood on a small hill,
where I knew there was an ancient church I’d visited before. Taking that
unknown curve in the road meant I had eventually reached my goal and around
another bend on a small hill, a tiny stone church came into view nestled in
amongst the trees.

Leaning against the stone walls warmed by the sun, I thought about the path
and the bend in the road. I wasn’t sure it led to where I wanted to go and
it could even have been a dead end, but I would never have got there if I
had turned back or stopped walking because I wasn’t sure. Now I’m thinking
curves in the ‘road of life’ are exciting….you never know quite what’s
coming and that’s the beauty of it.

Mountain trails & trespassing

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.