Wake up in a four poster bed and can see the Mediterranean without lifting our heads from the pillows. Breakfast a delightful what to choose first. Electricity expensive here and subject to occasional power cuts but stove, with four burners and an oven, is gas.
Steuart, no earlier up than we are, comes round to show us the village, all mountainside lanes, traditional houses, and mountain and sea views. And stops to trade cars with Doğan, our landlord, and introduce us. We stop at a local supermarket and fill our cart - no desire to waste the opportunity of available horsepower or the local advice on quality.
Peppers, aubergines, broccoli, potatoes - could have filled the cart entirely with local produce - had there been no need for basics like cheese and wine. Then stop for a now latish meal. Excellent fish and chips and beer, which we eat outside. Bit of a chill in the air but lovely in a sunny, sheltered spot. And afterward there’s a little Russian shop with sausage and smoked meats and frozen perogies. A little earlier and there would have been rye bread. Food authentically Russian but made locally.
And Doğan round in the evening to fix a recalcitrant internet. We’re no longer incommunicado.
There is, though, a sad counterpoint to this happiness. The country is in mourning. Among the many thousands dead in the Turkish earthquake, a small group from northern Cyprus is held in the hearts of everyone here. Twenty-four students, aged between eleven and fourteen, were attending a volleyball tournament in Turkey along with four of their teachers, ten parents and a trainer. An exciting trip for young students anywhere, especially for Turkish Cypriot kids. TRNC is not recognised internationally and, other than in Turkey, they cannot attend international competitions. They were asleep in their hotel when the earthquake struck and flattened it. A teacher and three parents were pulled out alive but since then only bodies, and not yet all of them. And now there is no hope.
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