Windy. Sea is grey with white caps when we wake up. The house is old, about six hundred years. Lusignan (French) period, predating the Venetian period, which predated the Ottoman period. Fortunate to be married to someone better educated than I and with a better memory as well. Much more to learn.
The house is stone and has the sort of stone walls that remind us of my late cousin’s house in Scotland, originally a worker’s cottage with three foot thick stone walls. Floors also stone, mostly tile but with trim of the kind of small Mediterranean stones inset on edge that make lanes on Rhodes destructive of suitcase wheels and ankles.
Delightful and eclectic mix of old and new - antique furniture, old wood not so readied for the dealer that we’re afraid to use it. Marble surfaces. Our bed the only four poster I’ve ever slept in - though could claim a second if desired as there is another in the second bedroom, complete with lace curtains. But beds always warmer when shared. Lace curtains do show in the photo. What isn’t clear is that the bed is a good metre off the floor, not including the mattress.
And meanwhile in the country the grief continues as bodies of the students have been retrieved and returned to TRNC for burial. The whole country feels the devastation but this is particularly true in Gazimağusa (Famagusta), their home. J quicker than I at spotting the location of this anguished funeral. It is Lala Mustafa Pasha mosque. Have sat under its ancient fig tree many times. A five minute walk in the old city from the place we lived for most of our five month lockdown in TRNC.
 |
| Translates roughly as There is no Remedy for this Pain |
Posts
