Rainwater Catchment System

At long last we are in the process of installing something that I have wanted for ages: a serious rainwater collection system. How I regret not researching water conservation better when we were building this house! Retrofitting is so much harder than building to design... Where were my braincells when Best Beloved was urging me to 'really think about what you want and how we can include it, because making changes later will be hard, if not impossible'. 

Leo and I (see his feet sticking out?  He's holding the flange
inside the barrel while I tighten the outside) experiment with
creating a filtration barrel.  The barrel will be contain a layer
of stones and gravel, and will filter debris from the water after
the initial 20 minutes of rain have cleared the roof of dust and
 bird poop. The final version will have the outlet emerging
from the bottom of the barrel rather than the side.

...But that's another story... Mea culpa, he was right.

Water conservation is not high in Best Beloved's agenda. He believes that rain should be allowed to run off the roof, soak into the earth, and recharge the water table 'in its natural cycle'. I agree, but think that that rain should be made to do as many things as possible before being allowed to slink off underground and run to the sea. And that in a country as dry as Cyprus (Paphos regional rainfall is 50 centimetres per year – almost all of it falling between the months of April and November), it should be everyone's responsibility to catch rainwater and use it instead of relying on the dams and the – often antiquated – village cisterns and delivery systems. Add to our arid conditions the fact that tens of thousands of people have moved here over the last few decades with their requirements for swimming pools, lawns, and manicured golf courses, and you will see that the strain placed on our water sources and the conventional management practices, is growing every year.

Hence my mania for water storage and recycling.

Best Beloved, I reasoned, wants a swimming pool in the future. Maybe we can create some kind of rainwater natural pool..? (Impractical, it turns out, thanks to the harshness of our climate and the total lack of experience in the matter in Cyprus. There are a few in Israel, but we were unwilling to gamble on the expense of creating one here and ascending the learning curve on our own.) Maybe at least we can catch the same quantity that we would use in a pool and recycle it back into domestic and garden use? That is a distinct possibility – and more.

Strangely Cyprus, despite hosting seminars for our neighbours the Israelis, Jordanians, and Palestinians to learn about rainwater recycling togther on neutral territory, has no initiatives of its own for catching rainwater – or, novel concept, for collecting and sharing water and knowlege with our Turkish Cypriot bretheren. If the Israelis, Palestinians, and Jordanians can combine their interest and expertise and weave their shared experience into another strand which strengthens the possibility of peace between them, why can't we? But that, too, is another story for another day...

Over the last year or so I have been researching madly: reading books and contacting experts as far-flung as Israel, Australia, India, and Arizona. Following raincatcher guru Brad Lancaster's instructions, I have improved the land's ability to retain water by constructing berms and mulched basins around the fruit trees, the olives, and any other plants, and have been looking at the house and pondering how to use our enormous roof area (132+ square metres on the main structure alone) to maximise water collection.

D-Rain tanks seemed to be one possible solution, with the siting of a massive underground tank at the bottom of the driveway, but a quote from the German company that produces them was prohibitively expensive – and that was before we had even included the local construction costs.

Only the main part of the roof will be guttered.  Collection/
filtration tanks will stand at both ends of the house, sending
 the collected rainwater to the large holding tanks on either
side.

The catchment for the main part of the house – excluding the verandahs and the roofs of the lower rooms – is around 66 tons, using the figure of 50 centimetres of rainfall per year. Siting of tanks and positioning catchment systems took hours of pondering and discussion spread over a couple of weeks, and here, BB's clarity of thought won out over my unreasoned vision. “We'll put the first tanks on the lower terrace of the slope on the kids' side of the house,” he said. “And depending on how well the system works, we'll bring a digger next year, level parts of the other side, and put in some more there.” Meanwhile, we would install guttering on the upper roof (the lower, verandah roof does not have sufficient height to allow for a collection/filter tank underneath with enough slope to run off to the holding tanks. Most of the run-off from the verandahs and lower roofs is already channelled into garden beds and the area where eventually the pool and lower garden will be landscaped, and that which isn't accounted for will be easy to deal with at a later date.

The 2.4 x 11m terrace which will hold the first installment of
four 8-ton rainwater holding tanks for use in the garden.

I checked several websites for tank manufacturers. Varelplast in Larnaca makes twenty-ton tanks, but they are too big to put on the side terrace, so we have opted for an in-line connection of four eight-ton capacity polyethylene tanks from VitaPlast in Nicosia. An English company, DrainTech came out from Paphos to give me a quote for heavy duty PVC guttering, but their price was double that of a Cypriot company's aluminium work – which seems to do a fine job directing the water from Phil and Mili's roof – so we're going with Windorama. They are coming to do the work while Sophia and I are in the UK inspecting boarding schools for next year.

Best Beloved and I worked out a gravel filter system for the initial collection tanks, and he has arranged for several local craftsmen to create the structures that will hold them and install them in our absence: frames for the big blue barrels and galvanised archways to carry the downspouts from the guttering over the walkways and into the big tanks.

The blue filtration barrel is not in its final position.  The first
array of tanks will be on the terrace below the fig tree, and the
pool will ultimately be in the flat area in front of the van.

I can't believe that we are finally doing this... Oh, Asproulla of Little Faith, didn't he promise you at the end of last summer that we would do it before this winter? And has he ever broken a promise?

Watch this space for updates! 

Shoes -- for The Gallery

I do quite a bit of photography at the Paphos-area community art studio, Turtle and Moon, which is run by my friend, Lise.  My children do art classes there, I facilitated a creative writing workshop there, and something creative is always going on.  It's a place where I like to have my camera to hand.

Most of the pictures I take are of artists or artwork -- the majority shot on or above table level.  But it's always worth sneaking a peek below.  Shoes, and how people wear them (or don't) are a source of endless fascination for me.

Paphos Water Park

Today saw the Little Ones and me 'Follow the Frog' as the marketing slogan urges, and make the annual pilgrimage to the Paphos Waterpark. Like the once-in-a-summer trip to the fun-fair, the waterpark excursion is one that I dread, but that I arrange because it brings so much pleasure to my children.

I resent the cost. Adults (that's anyone over 12) pay 29 Euros each, children (3-12) pay 15 Euros, infants enter for free – and that's the off-season rate in September! No food or drink may be brought in, and the price of a meal is high – 12-15 Euros for a burger, chips, drink, and ice-cream. For us to go as a family costs an arm and a leg, so it was with relief that I heard first Best Beloved, then Alex, then Sophia, express no desire to go.

Zenon, Leo, and I arrived at the gates just as they opened at ten this morning with our bags including some water smuggled from home, set up camp under the trees, and spent the rest of the day there.

I am not into places like this. I hate the rides: whizzing down water chutes, spinning through Black Holes, climbing volcanoes that spout water? Not my thing. Floating down the Lazy River in a big yellow ring or splashing in the kiddie pool (the kiddie slide is about the fastest I can cope with) is about my speed, but anything else – forget it. I hate the smell of suncream and the sight of oiled up, sweaty, roasted skin... And queueing for twenty minutes in the sun? No freakin' way...

But when we arrived, I realised that my days of having to deal with all of that is over.  I no longer have to follow the Little Ones around and deal with crowds, sunburn, and feeling ill on water-slides: Zeen and Leo can both swim, are big enough to look after themselves, and don't want Mum around twittering at them to 'be careful'! They dumped their towels and sandals and rushed off leaving me to contemplate a whole day's chance to read in the shade: ok, it came with a hefty price tag for entrance and meal, but on balance, my kids had a great time being completely engaged and active – no sitting at the computer or in front of the tv, no bickering, no fights that needed defusing... And Sophia and I spend that much on a morning of 'female bonding' with pedicures, lunch, and such.

I made forays out from under my tree to go with the Boys from time to time to watch them on a ride, or to take pictures. Leo loves the Lily Pads, and Zenon was keen to try diving. Zenon and I shared a ride in a double ring down the Lazy River, and I remembered taking both boys when they were babies (has the waterpark really been open that long?) Leo and I had lunch together, and Zenon went off by himself to eat at a later stage. We shared icecream and sips from the clandestine water bottle.

The lifeguards shooed us out as they started shutting down the pumps at 5 p.m. By then, Leo's teeth were chattering, and even Zenon had had enough. I had made it through the whole of The Way of the Warrior – book one of the Young Samurai series in which Zenon is currently immersed. He had made friends with a boy from England who is leaving tonight but hopes to come back for a visit next year. They traded telephone numbers, and each family headed to its separate car

Next year I will not dread the ritual nearly as much -- might even find myself looking forward to it!

Pets -- for 'Gallery'

Over the years here we have had several dogs as I've mentioned elsewhere in these pages. Sputnik has been with us since we found him in June – a starveling staggering along beside the road. Since, he's  gained hugely in weight, confidence, and personality.

Stumpy, our long-cherished three-legged cat, still has no idea why we introduced this bumptious canine into his heretofore peaceful routine. And still has no time for him, rebuffing every good-natured Sputnik overture with a hiss and a slash of his remaining front leg – generally a failure as he can't keep his balance and ends up on his face.

Lucky, on the other hand, is delighted to have a playmate and takes no account of their size difference when she pummels, chases, and plays with him.

Sputnik amuses us endlessly with his snores, his outre sleeping positions, his engaging expressions. He guards our house from snakes and feral dogs, plumbers, gamekeepers, and men who come to measure for guttering. Best Beloved (in typical grumpy Cypriot fashion) still can't figure out what posessed me to stop the car and pick him up; but even he, I suspect, enjoys Sputnik from time to time.

Little Bird Overhead

A familiar clatter echoed around the valley just after dawn this morning: the Electricity Authority Little Bird was cleaning the pylons. Twice a year all the pylons are cleaned with a high pressure hose, but this is the first time I have managed to photograph it.

Note:  CLOUDS in the sky (I was even wearing long pants and a t-shirt with sleeves!).  Autumn is on the way...

Nabbed by the National Guard

Well the Army found Alex on Friday.

Most lads get their papers at age sixteen, and since he had made it to seventeen and a half without their being served, we were wondering if somehow he had slipped through the cracks. Perhaps the host of irregularities attending his birth (mixed parentage, unwed parents, no number on his birth certificate, no baptism (previously only Orthodox boys served), parents moved district in early childhood) had led to his somehow evading the system – and since it is the obligation of the State to serve the papers than for the boys to volunteer, we thought that he might just be blessed with the choice of whether or not to don a uniform and pick up a rifle (there is no chance of non-combattant status in the Cyprus National Guard) when he finished school.

I had rather mixed feelings about this choice, and knew that should he face it, he would have to make it alone. On the one hand, I am a pacifist and hate the thought of my sons serving as conscripts in an army – as well as resenting the fact that the two years that the Army takes (and in many cases wastes with endless guard duty rather than taking the opportunity for serious training and creativity within either a military or a community service sphere) are two that would otherwise be spent in the enthusiasm of youth's creativity, curiosity, passion. On the other, I recognise the Army as almost a rite of passage for Cypriot men. If someone doesn't do it, everyone thinks 'Lucky Sod!', but they also realise that that individual has missed out on an experience that nearly everyone else endures – a bonding, for better or for worse... So I had resolved to stand well back and let him make his own choices within the embrace of parental support.

But a phone call from the police on Friday changed all that. The Army had been looking for Alex for weeks in Nicosia and had finally found him through a relative in the police with the same surname; he had to report to the 'Army Office' to sign his papers and provide reason for any possible deferrment within the next fifteen days, or he would be conscripted in January.

We went this morning to the government building, found the Army Office, and spoke to a corporal behind the desk. “Where do you go to school?” she enquired when he said that he had spoken to the police. When he told her, she sighed: “You pay all that money for a private school, and they don't get the papers right with us, ever!” He filled out his form, signed it, and she explained that we had to have a letter from the school by December saying that he was enrolled for this year – which corresponds to the Third year of Lyceum. Next year, when he will be finishing his A-Levels and school is not mandatory, he will need another letter and proof of fees paid.

“Typical!” Alex snorted when we got into the car. “You remember N, the kid who was like the unofficial student council, the liason last year when there was all the trouble (our school has undergone a series of upheavals in the last few years culminating in total shake-ups, take-downs, and seismic changes)? He was in a similar situation. Told the Army he was at my school, the Army called for verification, and the school said he wasn't a student. He couldn't finish his A-levels and he's doing his two years now...” I don't know what N's story was – except that he is indeed a gun-bunny these days rather than the A student that he was – but I suspect that his parents (like many at our school) had not paid this year's deposit because they wanted to see what all the changes would bring before committing to another year – and thus the school, with no reason to protect N, simply said that he was not enrolled.

We went to the school, and requested the verification of Alex's being a student, and the Director explained that he never filled out the Army forms. “I can't,” he said. “It's a violation of the state's privacy laws to give details of my students to anyone, even the government!”

That may be true, but at least he could have let parents know that the papers had been served so that they had the choice of whether or not to fill them out, avoiding a last-minute scramble! All of Alex's other friends from school have already either gone into the Army – being a year ahead, are foreigners who are exempt, or are girls.  

Mataro Morning

Yesterday was the turn of the mataro grapes to be picked, and because the 'Gast Arbeiter' as Best Beloved jokingly calls his Austrian nephew – his key assistant in the vinyard – has returned home for a camping trip, the family was out in force. Even Sputnik was in the field by six a.m.

BB's back problems, and the short stature of the mataro vines, meant that BB supervised and everyone else picked. Leo and Zenon, once we managed to press their enthusiasm buttons, proved adept.

First we removed the netting that protects the berry clusters from sparrows, then we went down the rows of vines snipping away the bunches. We separated the grapes into Alpha and Beta qualities: the Alpha for immediate processing and the Beta for a few days' drying in the sun before pressing (BB is endeavoring to make a vin doux paille, and for that the grapes need to be slightly raisinated).

Blessings on BB's new machinery, the destemming and crushing was done in less than an hour, and the mataro has started it's journey from 'vine to wine' in one of the steel tanks in the basement.  Its next stage is to ferment in open steel tanks for a week or so, with BB or me pressing down the grapes several times a day to ensure that no crusty cap forms on the top of the grapes, and that all get an equal chance at fermentation.

I returned to the field after all the grapes were picked because the mango season has just started.  The troops were clamouring for breakfast, and I was hungry too.  What better than a fig and mango smoothie?