A Day Out at Lara

Caught up in the business of living here in Cyprus I forget, often, just how wonderful a place it can be.

Yesterday we spent the day at Lara. It was Li'l Bro and the Cousins' Last Day (Bridie left to go back to work last week), and they had planned to visit Lara Bay in the afternoon, inviting Alex and Sophia to go with them.

I rarely get to Lara, the turtle nesting beach half way up the Akamas Peninsula. Getting there takes an hour, and the beach is sandy – a fine, dark sand that gets everywhere and sticks to everything – and I usually have too many other things to get through. But when Leo asked mid-morning with a winning expression “Couldn't you take us, too?”, I folded up the day's To Do list that I had just finished, and started making a picnic.

Into the coolers and dry bag went tuna salad, tzatziki, hummous, cherry tomatoes from Yiayia, fresh figs, passion fruits, pitta breads and the loaf that I had just baked, as well as the sponge cake that Zenon made yesterday. I found the old table cloths to sit on and rooted out the picnic plates, knives, and forks. Then made two litres of ice tea, got juice out of the fridge, and called the Big Ones to load the Land Rover. We were at the beach by one.

I looked at the number of cars parked around the access point, and my heart sank. 'We must be mad. It will be a zoo down there,' I thought. 'Imagine planning a trip to Lara Beach on the sixteenth of August, the high point of Cypriot summer holidays..'

Oh, Asproulla of Little Faith!

 I had forgotten how huge the beach is: an arc of at least seven hundred metres, it is also at least fifteen metres wide. The expanse of sand swallowed the hundreds of people with ease, and we found a spot at the bottom of the slope, far from our nearest neighbours and close -- but not too close -- to a marked turtle nest. All along the sand people were playing raquetball, building sand castles, enjoying the day. A fresh breeze came off the water. The Big Ones and Philipp set up the umbrellas, then dashed to the water.

“The sea's not like Petra here,” Li'l Bro reminded me. “Which has been uncomfortably fresh these last few days. Here you sweat when you swim!”

He wasn't kidding. The water was like a bath. Shallow and sandy, perfect for wallowing.  There were ripples, not waves, and I floated like a starfish and felt all sorts of tensions that I didn't know I had just drift away.

After a while, everyone settled down to eat the sandwiches that Mili had made and the picnic that I had brought, then the Big Ones and Philipp went off to jump off the seven metre rocks at the headland, Li'l Bro took off for two hours of snorkelling, and I stayed under the umbrellas watching the Littles and Timi paly out an endless sand fight.

Bliss! I read, wallowed, day-dreamed... Where did the day go? The Big Ones returned for chicken fights – no pictures of that as I participated – and before we knew it the shadows were lengthening and the time had come to pack up the gear, slog uphill through the heavy sand, and drive back to the Last Supper as Li'l Bro had dubbed the evening planned by Mili and Phil to mark their youngest son and his children's final evening.

I looked at myself in the mirror somewhat ruefully that evening: although I had never actually sunbathed, the glare from sand and water had burned me a delicate pinkish tomato colour. 'Oh well,' I thought, spraying myself thoroughly with Aloe Vera. 'I guess I'll get a tan after all this summer!'

Oxi Day in Akamas

The twenty-eighth of October is one of the year’s big holidays. It marks the day, in 1940, when Ioannis Metaxas, the leader of Greece, refused Benito Mussolini’s request that Italian troops occupy Greece to further Axis aims. Italy invaded Greece, Greek soliders repulsed the Italians through the murderous mountain winter of Albania, and the following spring German Panzers subdued the Greeks and began the Occupation that would last until 1945. Oxi Day is a day that the Greeks are justly proud of – and one that many Cypriots celebrate vocally “Hurray for the Patrida!” No wonder Turkish-Cypriots feared that they would be incorporated into a Greater Greece.

But that’s beside the point. For us it’s a day off. Best Beloved planned to stay in Nicosia so that he wouldn’t commute twice, and when I asked the Little Ones what they’d like to do for the day, the answer was unanimous: “A picnic!” Alex said that he could live with that, Sophia had a friend over and we arranged that we would collect Hannah, and I decided that sixteen years had passed since I had seen Avakas Gorge, and that maybe it was time to take my children there.

We loaded the Land Rover with baked chicken, spinach pies, an assortment of fruit, bread, peanut butter, cheese, juice, and water, and set out at 10.30, stopping at Kissonerga to collect Hannah.

How the road to Akamas has changed! When I was first here, it was single lane tarmac after Coral Bay, with only a few houses scattered on either side. Now it is ribbon development: houses, offices, restaurants, kiosks… all the way to the harbour at Agios Giorgios. I almost missed the turn-off for not recognising it.

At the parking lot for the Gorge, I had a little smile to myself. The place was full of safari Land Rovers that were just leaving (thank God!) and as each one passed us, the drivers checked me out. Very few women drive Land Rovers here -- I think I’ve only ever seen one other, and like me, she was a foreigner. I don’t know if these guys felt their masculinity in doubt, but I know that I saw some of them bridle.

“We’re not going for a walk are we, Mum?” Sophia said, looking dubious.

“It’s not far,” I answered. “And there’s no point in your coming and not seeing the gorge. It’s spectacular.”

Some eyes rolled. “But what’s there?” Teens!

But Zeen and Leo were already heading up the track, Alex in their wake, so the girls had no other option but to follow.

A few other people were on the path, and we joined them in reading the names of various trees and shrubs that the forestry department has thoughtfully labelled. The path is much clearer than when I was last here – trees cut back, and steps built into some of the rougher parts. A few stagnant pools of water were in the stream – in true winter, it often becomes a cascade, and I’m sure that I remember Exalt Travel, in the days when David Pearlman owned it, doing some kind of trip down the Gorge with inner tubes.

When the walls narrowed to the point where we could nearly touch them on either side, even the girls were impressed. The boys loved it, scrambling ahead, clambering over boulders, their shouts echoing around us. “A goat!” they cried, pointing to a precipice thirty feet above us, where a goat nibbled on some greenery. And “Look at the pigeon having a shower in the waterfall!”

About half an hour in, the girls elected to turn back, and Alex, saying that he was hungry, went with them. The Littles refused. They insisted on continuing for another hour and a half, so I went with them, sure that the Gorge would open out soon, and we would find our way back down the road like Best Beloved and I had done sixteen years before. Sometimes we followed a trail marked with red paint splodges, sometimes we just stuck to the streambed. There were no other hikers about, and the trees were full of bird song.

But eventually Leo flagged, and a couple that was descending said that it was at least another half hour until the walls ended, so we turned back. I sent Zenon ahead as I was afraid that the others would start to worry as we had been away longer than I had hoped, and he set off at once. I had to help Leo over the steeper bits and give him a hand over some of the bigger rock falls, but he never once complained. I carried him the last 200 metres, and we consoled ourselves with the hope that the others had left us some food.

We needn’t have worried. There was plenty left.

After lunch we drove further into the Akamas. Past Lara Bay where the turtles nest, we found some Hobbit caves and went up to explore them. Some old time shepherds had filled the mouths of naturally weathered limestone hollows with rocks to make simple shelters for their flocks, and we all enjoyed climbing and exploring. “Can we come out here and camp in the summer?” That was Sophia’s question and, yes, she was serious. But “Without an adult, I mean. Just a crowd of us?” I had to say no. Party-pooper!



Rain threatened, so we headed home, stopping at the kiosk by the harbour at Agios Giorgos for an icecream. It was a rip off. But nobody really minded. We had all enjoyed ourselves far too much to let something as insignificant as crappy ice-cream ruin the day.

Summer Picnic

“Wow!” said Sophia. “Real water that's not in a bottle or the tap! Or,” as an afterthought. “The sea, of course...”

We had reached the river.

Wondering what to do on a long Sunday morning, I had suggested a pic-nic and we agreed that we should visit the Turkish Cypriot property that we rent in the village of Agios Ioannis. Then Best Beloved developed the theme further by saying that on the way he wanted to visit one of the Ottoman pointed bridges near the deserted monastery of Synti, so we packed an Eskie and some plastic plates, bought some water, ice, and fruit at the kiosk in Mandria, and headed into the hills.

I was in a spiky mood. Since having children my sense of physical adventure has largely deserted me, and while 16 years ago, heading off into the hills for some off-road adventure in a Land Rover would have been grist to my mill – I used to drive diving safaris in the Sinai, for god's sake! – these days I am more inclined to adventure of the armchair variety. Armchairs don't tip over, get flat tyres, run out of water, or crash. “Oh for heaven's sake, calm down and relax!” exclaimed Best Beloved in frustration when I begged that he ask for directions in the kiosk. “We speak the lingo and we're never going to be far from a village!”

I calmed down and relaxed somewhat as we reached Nata and asked about the bridge. “Go down to the river,” a local told us. “You'll find an asphalt road marked Kelokedara...” Where the asphalt road crossed the river we asked a man filling 20 litre jerries how far the bridge was. “Follow the sign to the monastery, then keep going. It's a long way, but there's only one road!”

The asphalt petered out to dirt and stones. The river appeared and disappeared, sometimes flowing underground on its way to the dam, and as we pushed further into the hills, big rocks and trees began appearing along its banks. We reached the restored monastery of Synti, and although it was locked, the children and I wriggled in through a window and explored various nooks and crannies. Then we pushed on to where tall trees and oleander bushes overhung the water, and the coolness and ample shade invited us to stop for lunch. Only one other time have I ever seen a river running during the summer in Cyprus – the same for Sophia, hence her comment.


















After lunch we paddled, and where the creek ran shallow and narrow I suggested building a dam from some of the big, smooth rocks that formed the bed and banks.

Sophia was the first to start, laying four or five flat stones as a foundation from the far shore. Whether from bravado, lack of thought, or a random urge to destroy, Alex dropped a boulder on the lot – wiping out her work, and splashing all of us. Furious, Sophia turned on him, and Best Beloved, too, told him off. Construction resumed, with the Littles and me working on one side, and the Big Ones on the other.













Alex picked up another big boulder, sighted it precisely, and let it drop into a hole. The resulting splash wet Sophia again, and she turned on Alex and attacked him, throwing the rock that was in her hand and lunging at him.

Alex holds a Second Dan black belt in Tae Kwan Do; Sophia will take her black belt exams next year. They both have tempers, and are both suffering the hormonal tides of adolescece, so life with them right now can be... exciting; and the occasional physical conflict is like Clash of the Titans. The fight lasted about a minute, with more boulder hurling, a choke hold or two, and some effective kicks and punches before Sophia scrambled to her feet, grabbed her handbag and stormed off, unhurt but angry with Best Beloved's admonishment to not 'go far because we're leaving soon' in her ears.

We chastised Alex for not keeping his temper, and for – yet again – overreacting to provocation, and returned to dam building, imagining Sophia just out of earshot beside a shady pool with her book.

Half an hour later, we decided to pack up. No Sophia. Anywhere. After five minutes of searching on foot along the river, we got in the Land Rover and drove a little way in the direction that she had walked. Calling, sounding the horn, searching, produced nothing. Alex spotted a shepherd a top a steep hill, and climbed up to him to ask if he had seen her. Nope. We sent Alex back to the picnic spot with my phone and told him to wait there – family rules being that if someone is lost or separated they return to the place where we were last all together – while Best Beloved and I drove back along the river with the Little Ones.

Three quarters of the way to the monastery, we decided that she couldn't have come this far: it was midday, the temperature in the mid-thirties, she had no bottled water, and Sophia likes her comforts. After an hour's searching I was worried that she was either snake-bit or hurt. Thank goodness we don't have to worry about abduction here... yet. But “I didn't like the look of that shepherd!” Alex muttered. “And he was a Syrian!”

“Alex, he's hardly going to leave his sheep, dash down the mountain, hurt or abduct Sophia, and dash back up to his sheep again,” I said. “And besides, my experience of Syrian shepherds is that they all look dodgy, but the ones I've met have hearts of gold...” But that still didn't get us Sophia.

“Drive all the way to the monastery,” Best Beloved finally told me. “And if she's not there, call me. I'll go back along the river.” Alex and I got into the Land Rover with the Little Ones knowing that we were one step away from calling in reinforcements. The nearest police station was Kelokedara, and it would take at least an hour to get a search team assembled there, and another hour before they could be out in the bush. We had plenty of light left, but the afternoon had gone from being one of light-hearted adventure to one tinged with menace.

Where Best Beloved and I had turned back before, Alex and I saw Sophia sashaying along the track in the direction of our picnic spot. I pulled up beside her, feeling grim as she gave me a saccharine smile. “I really hope that you've been enjoying yourself!” I said as she climbed into the back.

We called Best Beloved to say that we'd found Sophia, then backtracked to pick him up. “Did you not think that we'd be looking for you?” he asked her “That we'd be worried?”

“Oh, yes. I knew you'd be looking for me!” was her cool reply (“I'm suffering, and I'm going to make all of you suffer, too...”).

We didn't say anything all the way back. When we reached the house, the Big Ones went their separate ways – although I called them back to help wash the picnic debris. Zenon took the dog out for a walk, and Best Beloved and I discussed the afternoon. “I'll talk to her in a bit,” he said. “There's no point in punishment – this is teenage attention-seeking – but she's got to realise that it doesn't work like it's intended.” We agreed that while the roots lie in her age, her best friend's death last month probably contributed, and Alex's breaking of her phone last week was a more recent catalyst.

“How does the poem go?” Best Beloved asked. “'Ours is not to reason why/Ours is but to do and die'? And not give up on them. They will make us suffer – I never got to see my bridge – and we have to be patient and strong and guide them... And everything will turn out all right in the end...”

“If I'm not in the loony-bin first,” I finished for him. Before promising that next weekend, we'll try again – and this time, we'll find his bridge.