Morning comes and while I effectively gain an hour in bed, I really don't want to get up. I'm staying in Limassol, a town of about 150,000 people (Aberdeen, more or less) that, for a multitude of reasons, I would never, ever visit if I wasn't being paid to do so. There's no interesting architecture and little culture, just resorts and hotels, clinging to the coast like shit on the bog rim. Perhaps I'm wrong, but if there's much more than that, it's hidden pretty well.
My hotel is allegedly five star, but perhaps only by Cypriot standards. The fact that they refuse to give me free dinner doubtless colours my opinion, but I'm a petty child. So there. Work gives me an allowance of about 35 quid a day, no matter how the trip is organised. As this one is mostly being looked after by the Cyprus Tourism Office, I'm determined not to spend any of my allowance - or as little as possible - of this free money. Everything I have left over from this month's trips and August's is going to a greater cause so if they're not giving me Ma Tea, I'm fucking sure I'll not pay for it. With this bitter stinginess in mind, I gorge on breakfast before going to meet my guide.
He's sitting with a woman from National Car Rental when I get there. I'm being given wheels for this trip, a fact that me a little worried as I'm a really, really bad driver. To complicate matters, one of the dozens of British hangovers on the island is that Cypriots drive on the left.
I''m relieved when ZZ says he'll be driving for this first day. He asks if it’ll be OK to go pick up his daughter from school first, though – which of course it is. Before we get the chance to do any of that, though, we have to get the car going, which is much harder than it sounds on account of the total lack of handbrake. The dashboard insists it's on, but how can that be possible if the bastardin’ thing doesn’t in exist. Seriously – it’s nowhere to be seen and both of us are completely bamboozled by its absence. Eventually, we have to phone the car company... It turns out the pedal that's where the clutch would be on a manual car is in fact the handbrake, the insane danger of which is only now dawning on me as I write.
We leave Limassol, pick up the daughter, dump her at home and head into the mountains. The drive is really something special: at times it feels like I’m the Pied Piper in reverse, with animals leading us up the hill. Swallows, tits and Cypriot hoopoes fly all around, while dozens of kamikaze butterflies bid farewell to the world on our windscreen. Most exciting of all, though, are the geckos that sprint across the road, save for one that runs up ahead of us for a few meters before realising what’ll happen if he doesn’t let us overtake.
We head further inland and the land changes from chalk white to Martian red. In the bygone days of yore this was hardcore wine country – a world leader in fact. Then the Ottomans (Muslims) arrived, pimped all the churches as mosques and banned wine for 300 years. God bless Blighty, though – we brought it back. Cyprus, of course, is stained with our mark more places than most. Unfortunately, today that’s most clearly evidenced by the highest point on the island (Mount Olympus – no, not that one) being a military station, shut to the public.
"Bloody British, always interfering," I weakly joke with ZZ, who surely was called Top at school.
"Yes," he replies bluntly. "They have shut quite a lot of Cyprus off."
I change tactic and, as always, damn Dubai. I think he listens to most of it, but I can’t be sure. He does, though, reply with a funny-though-not-surprising story from the 1980s about watching a Philippino maid chasing an Arab man around the beach with a deckchair. Unannounced he would occasionally sit down – it was up to her to have the seat in place before he hit the sand.
My hotel is allegedly five star, but perhaps only by Cypriot standards. The fact that they refuse to give me free dinner doubtless colours my opinion, but I'm a petty child. So there. Work gives me an allowance of about 35 quid a day, no matter how the trip is organised. As this one is mostly being looked after by the Cyprus Tourism Office, I'm determined not to spend any of my allowance - or as little as possible - of this free money. Everything I have left over from this month's trips and August's is going to a greater cause so if they're not giving me Ma Tea, I'm fucking sure I'll not pay for it. With this bitter stinginess in mind, I gorge on breakfast before going to meet my guide.
He's sitting with a woman from National Car Rental when I get there. I'm being given wheels for this trip, a fact that me a little worried as I'm a really, really bad driver. To complicate matters, one of the dozens of British hangovers on the island is that Cypriots drive on the left.
I''m relieved when ZZ says he'll be driving for this first day. He asks if it’ll be OK to go pick up his daughter from school first, though – which of course it is. Before we get the chance to do any of that, though, we have to get the car going, which is much harder than it sounds on account of the total lack of handbrake. The dashboard insists it's on, but how can that be possible if the bastardin’ thing doesn’t in exist. Seriously – it’s nowhere to be seen and both of us are completely bamboozled by its absence. Eventually, we have to phone the car company... It turns out the pedal that's where the clutch would be on a manual car is in fact the handbrake, the insane danger of which is only now dawning on me as I write.
We leave Limassol, pick up the daughter, dump her at home and head into the mountains. The drive is really something special: at times it feels like I’m the Pied Piper in reverse, with animals leading us up the hill. Swallows, tits and Cypriot hoopoes fly all around, while dozens of kamikaze butterflies bid farewell to the world on our windscreen. Most exciting of all, though, are the geckos that sprint across the road, save for one that runs up ahead of us for a few meters before realising what’ll happen if he doesn’t let us overtake.
We head further inland and the land changes from chalk white to Martian red. In the bygone days of yore this was hardcore wine country – a world leader in fact. Then the Ottomans (Muslims) arrived, pimped all the churches as mosques and banned wine for 300 years. God bless Blighty, though – we brought it back. Cyprus, of course, is stained with our mark more places than most. Unfortunately, today that’s most clearly evidenced by the highest point on the island (Mount Olympus – no, not that one) being a military station, shut to the public.
"Bloody British, always interfering," I weakly joke with ZZ, who surely was called Top at school.
"Yes," he replies bluntly. "They have shut quite a lot of Cyprus off."
I change tactic and, as always, damn Dubai. I think he listens to most of it, but I can’t be sure. He does, though, reply with a funny-though-not-surprising story from the 1980s about watching a Philippino maid chasing an Arab man around the beach with a deckchair. Unannounced he would occasionally sit down – it was up to her to have the seat in place before he hit the sand.
Our first stop is Argos, or Agros, I’m not sure which, a mountain village famed for its produce. The following is the sort of exaggerated wank I reserve for the pages of the magazine, but you know I wouldn’t lie to you, dear reader.
As you approach, the reek of roses is carried up the valley on a warm breeze – God’s pot purri – and everywhere there are flowers. Zenonas assures me they are all wild. The place is a vibrant palate of colour, each separate, distinct and vivid.
As you approach, the reek of roses is carried up the valley on a warm breeze – God’s pot purri – and everywhere there are flowers. Zenonas assures me they are all wild. The place is a vibrant palate of colour, each separate, distinct and vivid.
Our first stop is at the House of Roses, where the delicate flowers are used to make all kinds of products – from candles to wine, aperitif and liquer, a shot of all of which I drink quickly and get immediately drunk.
They also produce, as we get to see first-hand, rose water. While this may only be the first stop on the first day, I know that watching this process is the thing that will stay with me for a long time and, from now on when I smell a rose, I’ll think of a huge vat of flowers, teeming with tiny insects unaware that they’re about to be boiled alive.
Next is Nikis, a candied sweet shop a little further up the hill. Niki started the business 22 years ago in her kitchen when she needed work and couldn’t find a babysitter. Now she processes 250,000 tonnes of fruit a year. We eat some of the grape goo as we hear her story before she gives me some of her product to take away.
We drive on and on through the mountains and the scent changes to musty pine. Everywhere there is life. On the map, Cyprus looks like a machete Turkey has dropped by accident. But now I don’t see that; when I look at it I think of an enormous fertile berry.
We drive on and on through the mountains and the scent changes to musty pine. Everywhere there is life. On the map, Cyprus looks like a machete Turkey has dropped by accident. But now I don’t see that; when I look at it I think of an enormous fertile berry.
After stopping at a village and seeing a wee old man who looks a bit like The Greek from The Wire, we arrive back at the hotel and say goodbye. I’m especially grateful for the large, late, complimentary lunch we had on the road. These bastards won’t see a coin from me tonight.
An hour later, wracked with guilt and a need to flex my knee, I head to the gym. I spend half an hour on the bike watching a bored, butch Greek machine – somewhat resembling a woman – knock fifteen shades of fuck out of a wretched blonde who has made the mistake of asking (and presumably paying) for her as a personal trainer. The trainee’s early enthusiasm is soon extinguished and replaced with discomfort, and by the time I’m done on the bike, she’s limping around like she’s shat herself.
She’s terrifying, the trainer. Imagine trying to sleep with her; she looks like she’d only approach satisfaction if you came at her with a knife. Only when she’d broken your arms for sport, she’d straddle you, laughing all the while at your pathetic sobs.
I clamber back up to the room, get naked, put Prince on, realise I’ll never be a good dancer, then have a shower. After that, I open a bottle of red wine, put on some music, and sit down to write. Tomorrow I head back to the hills alone.