Tuesday, 30 October, 2018

Pret a Manger for coffee. A little farther than Starbucks and coffee less potent, but large, cheerful, and with good wifi. Suspect it’s picking up a few of Starbucks’ walking wounded. There’s one young woman with her head down on the table and two shopping bags full of the essentials of survival. But mostly it’s cheerful bustle. 

Do  google the Samsung difficulty and conclude, as eventually suspected, that it’s a North American model that won’t work elsewhere. A fairly common problem with phones other than iPhones (5 and later). Lucky the old Nokia still works. 

Up to Kilburn High Road, which, happily, has changed much less. In fact is rather like Queensway used to be twenty-five years ago. Chain stores, yes, but tiny independents, pawn shops, supermarkets, local cafés, pubs, and fruit and vegetable stands as well as a small market. Originally an Irish area, successive waves of West Indian and Asian immigrants have made it a vibrant, mixed community, with the latest influx seemingly Middle East. Stops at Poundland and Aldi’s, and then an early fish and chip supper at Roses, home of the best cod we‘ve ever eaten. The owner always remembers us, rather surprisingly as there are months between visits. And we recognise at least one of the “other regulars”.

Monday, 29 October 2018

Overnight flight from Winnipeg via Montreal. Roughly over Kilkenny, we get what passes for breakfast. Slice of dark, sweet bread - banana? And Juice. Too bumpy for coffee. Remember previous years when it used to be a large ice cold muffin. But that was a significant come down from years ago with fruit and - what? Hot breakfast before that - or am I remembering BA, which did a pretty fair full English in the days before they decided London to Cyprus, though fractionally shorter than London to Cairo, was not long haul, and didn’t require sustenance? What next? Would straight bread and water shame them - we’re nearly there.

Twenty minutes in the queue at Immigration at Heathrow. Post-Brexit will all except Brits be in the Liberians and others line? Then tube to Bayswater. But changes are in the brickwork as well as the air. We’re too early for the hotel but still have money on the Starbucks card. Queensway Starbucks another matter. Undergoing renovation and closed. Looks major. So a coffee at Macdonald’s across the road. Coffee not bad but atmosphere no hell and can’t make the wifi work. So define ourselves as on time for Barons. Which turns out to be completely surrounded by scaffolding. But still operational, fortunately. Major roof repairs, but our usual room, and if we keep the curtains closed the workmen won’t be looking in. So not up for sale anyway. Last surprise of the day is that Whitely’s - grand old lady of department stores (dating from 1911) now turned little mall - is undergoing transformation once again., as part of a major upscaling of Queensway. All business will cease as of November 30, and Marks and Spencer is already gone. Nothing stays the same forever. And finally the sim card I buy for the Samsung doesn’t work, despite the efforts of the girls at 3. I assure them the phone is unlocked and they kindly agree to retemplate  the new sim to micro size so that it will fit in the old Nokia, and not be a waste. 

Since you’re here....It’s just about time to wind up the blog for the season. I usually run it right to the last day in London. 

However, there is a difficulty. One of my readers has reported going to the blog site and finding a virus or similar. Cleaned up by virus protection program, but obviously undesirable. I’m not in a good position to investigate thoroughly, having only coffee shop access to wifi at the moment. And don’t actually know how to investigate it thoroughly later, for that matter. 

Blogger/blogspot is a free site hosted by google - not a company known for answering individual inquiries. If I read a relevant forum answer correctly, the site itself can’t be virus infected, and all I do is add individual posts to an existing format. 

I am using an antiquated ios app called Blogger. It is no longer supported, and in fact only works on the oldest of our three ipad minis - the ipad mini 1, which is too old to be updated.  It was a very handy app as it allowed me to prepare blog entries offline ready for instant posting at connection and also allowed me, as the website does not, to post photos directly from my ipad album. 

But that was handy, not indispensible. If that is the problem, it’s posted its last. If the blogspot website is itself the problem, I’ll have to find an alternative. Unfortunately, easier said than done. Most sites either have rather limited storage or are not genuinely free - or both. 

If you have experienced problems accessing the blog, my profound apologies - and I’d really like to know what the difficulty was. And if you haven’t that would be useful to know as well. Apart from that, any helpful suggestions welcome. I’m no techie, and it’s difficult even to know what angle to approach this from. Would be grateful to hear from you. Cheers 🍷🍷

Thursday, April 12/2018

Former Chancellor George Osborne, never my favourite Tory - and yes, I do have some - was not Theresa May's favourite either, and got promptly moved to the back bench in the new regime. As did Michael Gove, of course, but he crawled back as rapidly as possible. George had other options - no point in being an old Etonian if it doesn't leave you with friends - and resigned in order to become editor of the Evening Standard. Somewhat short of a quality paper, but a cut above the tabloids and pretty widely read in greater London because it's free and an obvious choice to read on the way home. And it does allow George the odd bit of revenge. Thus the headline today, in enormous black capitals,  is 'War-War And Not Jaw-Jaw', inescapably recalling that Churchill - the epitome of a strong Conservative prime minister - had famously said 'jaw jaw is better than war war'. Yes, rhymes better with a non-rhotic accent.

Wednesday, April 11/2018

Bizarrely, BBC's compromise with reality is to refer to 'alleged Assad chemical attack' while discussing the probability of a very physical military response. Though what's a PM to do? Theresa May had referred to the Salisbury attack as involving a 'weapon of mass destruction' but with the Skripals apparently recovering from the deadly nerve agent - a microdot to kill? - public interest apparently flagging slightly. The Syrian chemicals somewhat more complex. The white helmets scarcely disinterested accusers but almost worse is the difficulty, referred to as discreetly as possible by the BBC, of co-ordinating retaliation with Trump, whose tactics change with every tweet. More hand holding in order? But when has anyone last mentioned Brexit?

Tuesday, April 10/2018

Some readjustment of our means of satisfying our news addiction. There was a time when I bought at least one paper a day in London and went home with an armload of same day papers from the most vulgar tabloid to the most sober broadsheet. Remember a student asking if the British were allowed to put porn in their newspapers. Porn proved, on investigation, to be a page three girl wearing, admittedly, not very much. Student less shocked by the photo than by my saying 'I don't really think that's porn, do you?'. 

Now we seldom buy a paper, opting instead for a selection of downloaded articles. A Sunday Times is moderately expensive (£2.75, i.e. €3.15, $4.94 CAD) and, more to the point, contains massive amounts of material - on the housing market for example - that we have neither the time nor the interest to read. This involves a fair bit of skim and download during morning Starbucks sessions but gives a broader range of viewpoints and only articles of interest. And even more selectivity with those articles recommended by a tribe of trusted Twitter posters. An excellent referral system. 

Miss the twenty-four hour wifi access, but there is the compensatory better tv and radio news. And a sort of feeling that London is a hub of news, although rather cynical about how that works. May is not Thatcher and Russia is not the Falklands, but difficult for her to dismiss a gift poisoning. Continuing reminders of the book Events, Dear Boy, a compilation of British diaries of those in power or near to it throughout the twentieth century. The overwhelming, if not entirely deliberate, message was that those one would suppose had inside knowledge, if not wisdom, frequently had highly limited understanding of events and their context and looked at the world through a flawed prism of ideological bias and - worse - ego. Well, nobody thought Blair's invasion of Iraq was unique. But interestingly the lessons of the Iraq war have not only failed to chasten Theresa May, they haven't done much to persuade the general public to half the degree of cynicism I was born with.

Monday, April 9/2018

Starbucks office seems a bit unbusy. Very good in terms of getting a seat in the quiet lower level, but a little worrying with regard to its continuing existence. Just too many coffee shops in the area? UK coffee shops expected to outnumber pubs in the near future. The HSBC bank across the road closed over a year ago and the building is still empty. On the whole the street has gone upscale considerably in the nearly thirty years we've been coming here. Which sounds positive, but it's lost much of its character, and more of the shops and restaurants are now chains. Well, there's Starbucks.

Sunday, April 8/2018

Two hour time change has me awake at 5:30. No wifi here, but tablets well stocked with reading material. TV does supply radio, but 5:30 does seem a little early to inflict it on other rooms. 

Back to Starbucks office. Not raining - more heavy mist - though it has rained in the night and there's a brooding darkness to the sky. So perhaps not the day for the Sunday morning paintings displayed along the railings along the Bayswater Road adjacent to Hyde Park. Home in time to watch Dateline London. Then checking out our neighbourhood. Always some small changes. The waffle shop must be new, surely. Fish and chip place never seems very busy, but perhaps they rely on takeaway. They say you can eat in, but that seems to be three or four chilly looking minimalist tables by the order counter. Whitely's, famous for closing down sales has a large sign advertising a GENUINE closing down sale. And maybe it's true, as a couple more shops there seem to be empty. Marks and Spencer and Costa Coffee now seem to be the mainstays. M&S happily not quite out of hot cross buns - my favourite of the supermarket ones. 

Watch telly in the evening. First English tv we've has in months other than Cyprus broadcasting' ten minute English news and bits of streaming on occasion. Plenty of channels, but a few of the basics seem to be missing, most sadly Channel 4, which carries better news than BBC. Watch what I take to be the first hour of a film from the 40's on Talking Movies, only to find that it's an episode in a serial. Reminded of getting family Christmas parcels from Scotland as a small child. They usually included two or three Scottish comic books, made up of a number of different comics, some of which were serials, so I'd read the second and third in the lot, having been hooked by the first, knowing I'd be left hanging and never know the ending. If indeed there was an ending and they weren't like Orphan Annie, going on forever.

Saturday, April 7/2018

Bill and Jane kindly take us to the airport. We're early but our organisation is superior to that of Cobalt, the Cypriot airline we're flying with. No, can't check in for Heathrow flight until 10:25; we're checking in for Manchester now. And we realise that they're not set up technically to check people in for more than one flight at a time. In fact for about ten minutes preceding 10:25 three rather bored looking clerks sit at the desks  doing absolutely nothing, hands on chins. Then brief meeting with a young man, shuffle of papers, and desks open for Heathrow flight. Non-EU queue already longer and slower than EU queue at immigration. Will be interesting post-Brexit. Forget to take small plastic bag of liquids out of carry-on bag at security, but they, being busy with other concerns like removal of shoes and belts, appear not to notice. 

Larnaca airport notorious for exorbitant food and drink prices - even by airport standards. Cheapest bottle of water €2.50 ($3.88 CAD, £2.19). On board, water is €2. Have to admit that if plane tickets had been two or three euros more we'd have paid it without thinking twice, but there is something essentially wrong about ripping people off for water. And many airports now do supply free tap or fountain water. Here the lavatory taps - as often in Canada - supply hot water. However, our departure lounge turns out to be in the basement and the tiny loo next to the lift turns out to have a normal old-fashioned tap with hot and cold water. No non-potable warning, so our water bottles filled, contributing to neither corporate greed nor plastic environmental tsunami. 

Plane fairly full, and we have, as requested, aisle seats opposite each other. No one occupying the middle seat next to me, so I trade with J. Five hour flight to Heathrow Terminal 3. Fairly warm, though well short of the Cypriot sun we left behind. High teens. 

Tube to Bayswater. Greeted at the hotel by Genie and Nick with the sad news that G's mother died on Thursday. After a very short illness. She was ninety-three but had been mentally in good shape and mobile, if not in perfect physical health. G very distressed and, of course, funeral plans and all the practicalities still to deal with. 

Friday, April 6/2018

Rather strange. Good Friday here, so fortunately bread and pitas collected yesterday, more by good luck than good management. Finish packing, which involves leaving less than previously but more than we'd hoped boxed and labelled here - radio, CDs, a few clothes, two pots, a few glasses, the cafetière, an extension cord, a couple of books. And etcetera. Not too bad considering we've spent parts of the winter in Cyprus for eighteen years now. After the boxes have been stashed, everything else has to go in the suitcases (20k limit tomorrow) or the carry-ons, or be thrown out. Not sure organisational skills are improving much with age. Jane and Bill pop in for coffee and, happily, take a few books with them. Fair bit of overlap in taste.

Thursday, April 5/2018

Two conference pears, 500 grams of strawberries grown in greenhouses in a village a little to the north of us, one red pepper, a few small onions, a few tiny new potatoes, a few cherry tomatoes. It's hard not to overbuy here, but we've reached the point of not buying any food now without knowing which meal it is slated for. We're going to miss the variety of super fresh (and inexpensive) fruit and veg.

Last meal out with friends. Rather appropriate timing on a last supper, as tomorrow is Orthodox Good Friday. With Jane, Bill, Ailsa, Harry, and Maureen to the Ocean Basket. Prawns and mussels are surprisingly good. Shouldn't be surprised, but shrimp that have been frozen - which is most of them - often disappointingly tasteless. But beautifully buttery. The place is very busy, with quite a few families. Noisy but cheerful. 

Wednesday, April 4/2018

Two conference pears, 500 grams of strawberries grown in greenhouses in a village a little to the north of us, one red pepper, a few small onions, a few tiny new potatoes, a few cherry tomatoes. It's hard not to overbuy here, but we've reached the point of not buying any food now without knowing which meal it is slated for. We're going to miss the variety of super fresh (and inexpensive) fruit and veg.

Tuesday, April 3/2018

J with Harry in the jeep to collect a sofa bed from Bill,s attic and transfer it to the loft in Harry's cabin. I, coming back from post office, miss a call. Can never hear the mobile in traffic. Eventually suspect it may be from the bus company - certainly from a Larnaca landline. So call, and phone answered to immense background noise, suggesting pretty accurately several fairly loud men of the sort who do not habitually lower their voices just because someone in their small room has just answered the phone. So who have I reached? Just barely catch one word relating to bus company. Eventually some heavily accented and fairly incoherent references to hat. Was mine a man's or woman's. Relatively gender neutral shapeless cotton sunhat, but our combined communication skills are failing us, what with vocabulary, accents, and background uproar. I say I'll come down and look, and do. And indeed there is a hat, found on the 425 bus on April 1, but it's a baseball cap with team logo. Right bus, right day, even right colour - but wrong hat. Thanks anyway. Actually had had no expectation at all of their attempting to reconnect me with the hat.

Monday, April 2/2018

Plastic bags - or a lot of them anyway - to the animal shelter charity shop. Free plastic bags are being phased out in Cyprus. Should now be 2 cents and 5 cents by summer, but no supermarket wishes to be the first to experience the wrath of its customers so they're still free and accumulating, despite our fabric bags. But the charity shop can use them. 

Stop at the bus station on my way to inquire about the hat I left on the bus yesterday. Hadn't been optimistic about recovery but the level of dysfunction here is ridiculous - and actually funny. Yes, I know which bus number (425) and which road and which direction the bus was going. And yes, I also know the time - quite precisely in fact. (And yes, with all this personal precision one would have assumed I could have managed not to drop my hat). Consultation  between two of the three men in the little bus station office. Followed by much shuffling of paper. And two telephone calls, also in Greek, of which I understand only the word "oxi" - no. Slowly I realise that my man has been searching for the phone numbers of the drivers most likely to have been on the 425 at 12:45 yesterday. There is no lost and found box, there is no end of shift procedure, there is no assured way of identifying vehicle or driver. Any sixteen year old girl could have set them up in a day with a better system than they have been able to devise over the past several years. He does, kindly, ask for my phone number - in case - and I give it, but have clearly seen the last of the hat. 

Stop at the little jewellery shop owned by the jeweller, Natalia, our Ukrainian friend, and meet up with J who's been on his own errands. Always a lovely place to visit. And she points us, after a discussion on Slavic food, to a tiny café recently opened by a Georgian girl and serving Georgian fast - and not so fast - foods. Not very different from Ukrainian. So we find it and go for coffee and try a couple of her small deep fried "pies" - one mushroom and one potato. Comfort food rather than health food, but nice. The café is called Titanic. Hope it doesn't go under.

Sunday, April 1/2018

Easter Sunday, but not for Cypriots, and in fact the Catholic Church in Cyprus follows the Greek Orthodox calendar out of consideration for local customs and mixed families. Last Sunday lunch out, this time at Cambanella's, our default. Then coffee on Jane and Bill's patio. Too hot in the direct sun so awning down. Flowers and tomato plants now convinced it's spring, if not summer.

Cyprus Sunday Mail has a nearly full page article on small diameter particulate matter in the air - dust. The nearly full page not quite as dramatic as it seems as the slim edition is always looking for fill - and running to repetition. Interesting though. Confirms our understanding that the source is mostly the Sahara, not, as widespread rumour apparently has it, the war in Syria. Hadn't heard the rumour and wouldn't have believed it in any case for a number of reasons, chief among which is that Syria, while close, is to the east of us, whereas the prevailing winds, as in other places, are from the west. The next question, as J had wondered, is whether excessive dust events are becoming more frequent. The answer is mostly negative. They are tending to last longer, and desertification is a factor, but the main change is in the frequency and detail of information being given to the public. In other words it used to be this bad but we didn't know it. Unfortunately, while ignorance may feel like bliss the minute particles (and they really are minute at under a hundredth of a millimetre) are not filtered out easily, ending up deep in the lungs and, furthermore being associated with higher incidence of heart disease. As a bonus, the particles can carry bacteria. Very cheerful. 

Friday, March 30/2018

                 Harry's cabin - Jaworski file photo

Good Friday in the Western Church, but not here, where the Julian calendar is - this year but not always - celebrating Easter a week later. Thus we leave Cyprus before Orthodox Easter but arrive in London after Catholic Easter. 

J out with Harry to Harry's little cabin, beautifully crafted in Finland and a continuing well loved (by Harry, not so much Ailsa) work in progress. Today they're painting. And, J reports, feeding cats, which come from all directions when H arrives, knowing the tender hearted rescuer will have a meal for them. And they're right - he keeps cat food in the cabin.

Thursday, March 29/2018

To the Blacksmith Restaurant in the evening with Bill and Jane and Harry and Ailsa. Their meze is excellent and the place is humming full. Fourteen dishes, including a deep fried halloumi with a subtlehoney coating, much nicer than that may sound. As always, far too much to eat, but that's never quite so guilt inducing with H and A, who always come equipped with plastic bags for the leftovers for their many rescue animals. Mild outside as we leave, and the candle shaped light arrangements over the streets seem to go well with Easter - except that they must be, as the red bows suggest, still lighting the town centre as they did at Christmas.

Wednesday, March 28/20018

Maggi over to show us her photos from recent Sri Lankan trip. And full of stories, from wonderful Sri Lankan guide to visit with Sama, who was her friend here in Cyprus when she was working as a maid. Incredibly sad story. Sama worked here for years, underpaid and poorly treated, sending all she made home to Sri Lanka to her mother and husband who were raising her now teenage daughter. Not an uncommon scenario for Filipina and Sri Lankan women here. When she finally got to quit her job and return, her husband was killed almost immediately in a road accident and her mother died shortly afterward following surgery. And Sama with virtually no pension and not much desire to live. So a very mixed trip for M. But many pix, enough actually that her laptop runs out of battery, so to be continued on Saturday.

Tuesday, March 27/2018

Missing child described in police bulletin as white, male, 4" tall. Fortunately found by the time I see Facebook requests to be on the lookout, as first involuntary response is that 4 inch high boy might be difficult to spot.

Monday, March 26/2018

Cyprus Mail notes that Cyprus, unlike most of the western world, is not expelling its Russian diplomats.  Not astonishing, considering that Cyprus has benefitted financially from a very close relationship with Russia. As indeed has the UK, which is playing a more contortionist game - expelling the diplomats, keeping the oligarchs, and trying to ignore the money laundering.

Sunday, March 25/2018

Today is a national holiday, but not one that transfers to the Monday when it falls on a Sunday.  So are the supermarkets open? Low on bread, though not urgent. I phone Sklavenites, the nearest to inquire - one of those silly situations where their answering the phone is itself the answer to the question, which must be asked anyway because hanging up on someone is rude. Yes, they're open. But we opt not to go anyway because of horrific levels of dust in the air, fine particulate matter blowing in from the Sahara. It's been a frequent problem this winter, and clearly - or rather unclearly - not one the government can do anything about. The matter is so fine that face masks don't prevent inhalation, not that we're tempted, and it can be a significant cause of cardiopulmonary damage. We can check pollution levels on a site that gives hourly readings for Larnaca - and plenty of other world cities if we want to see how much cleaner the air is in London or see how much we resemble Beijing. Actually quite a handy site as looking out the window is an indicator but not a very precise one.

Saturday, March 24/2018

Take the bus out to th British base at Dekhelia to meet up with Bill and Jane. The restaurant there is known for its fish and chips. Fish must surely be frozen, but beautifully flaky and light, crisp batter. Then back to B&J's to watch the last of The Crown. And wonder as before. Events obviously right - but what about the slant? Was Philip that petulant? The Queen Mother that manipulative? Clementine Churchill was indeed responsible for burning Graham Sutherland's portrait of her husband, which wasn't actually hers to burn. We're old enough collectively to remember some bits and Joe and Bill good enough on the history, e.g. Suez crisis, to watch with a critical eye. Makes for Google as you go viewing.

Friday, March 23/2018

News today which really shouldn't have to be news at all. From the Cyprus Mail:

"Police in the British base in Dhekelia on Friday said they have dealt a blow to bird trappers and highlighted their commitment to stamping out poaching by destroying a large number of mist nets and bird imitating devices, all seized from bird trappers over the past year. In addition, more than 60 kilometres of illegal irrigation pipes were used to support the illegal trapping of songbirds have also been removed."

Trapping, often with illegal nets or by using glue that makes them stick to a surface, of songbirds is very common, though illegal, in Cyprus. More enthusiasm for combatting it in the British base area than in the rest of the country. Animal welfare not apparently a cultural priority historically, and charity shops that support animal rescue almost invariably run by Brits. There is, of course, a market for these birds, equally illegal obviously. They are considered a delicacy and some restaurants as well as individuals are happy to serve them surreptitiously to interested customers.

Thursday, March 22/2018

Last trip (this year) to Famagusta market. Always a sensual pleasure. Colours, shapes, scents - tastes if you wish. Most of the produce is local, but nuts from as far away as California and some of the bananas from South America. 

Cabbages so enormous it's easy to see how the tales of babies being found under cabbage leaves began. Quite a lot of flowers and bedding plants. Clothing and dry goods as well, some of it surprisingly inexpensive. 

The Turkish lira has dropped nearly 22% against the euro over the past year, making life very difficult for Northern Cypriots, especially since many major purchases, such as cars, require hard currency. Nevertheless, we do notice that, despite sanctions, there are more late model cars and new buildings than there were seventeen years ago when we first came here. And quite a lot of trading seems to be taking place with Europe, Asia and the Americas. Through Turkey? 

Lunch at Minder, the little restaurant with village style home cooking, only steps away from the back of the market. There is a sheet of daily specials, but the owner also lifts the lids of the metal tubs to show us the possibilities. The most interesting are artichokes, with what seems to be rings of minced stuffing between the leaves. The effect is rather pretty, actually, but artichoke leaves are not nearly as nice as the (ridiculously labour intensive) sautéed hearts that J does occasionally. Settle for meatballs that remind me of ones J's mother used to make. Lovely meal.

Wednesday, March 21/2018

Jane and Bill here for noon meal. They frequently have their main meal of the day at midday. Suspect it may be connected with aging, as we've known others to adopt the practice. Not denial that prevents me. It's just that having breakfast after coffee and the digital newspapers and second cup can mean it's ten o'clock. Hurrying to make the main meal for noon seems onerous - and slightly ridiculous. And works rather poorly with any meal that requires more than two hours prep and cooking time. But a good idea for today as they need to be in Larnaca anyway. Borscht, salmon fillets, and fresh strawberries with ice cream. Can't imagine why we don't have borscht more often here. Almost all veg extremely cheap and beets can be bought vacuum, four to a pack, already peeled and boiled. J does point out, fairly enough, that the flavour is better if the beets are cooked in the soup rather than precooked. He's right but there's none of the caught red handed bit this way. Very clean.

Tuesday, March 20/2018

First day of spring and also, apparently, International Happiness Day. The Cyprus Mail captions it oddly, saying that Cyprus is the 61st happiest country. Could be worse; that is in the top half, but that's not how they put it. The annual index ranks countries on happiness with income, healthy life expectancy, social support, freedom, trust, and generosity as the variables. Like all countries Cyprus looks first at itself and then at its significant others, citing Greece at 79th and Turkey at 74th, as well as Russia 59th, Israel 11th, US 18th and the UK 19th. Then the stinger, in a paragraph all to itself: "The report also includes the north of Cyprus which held 58th position".

Monday, March 19/2018

Meet J down at the waterfront. It's 25 degrees today, warmer than I like it, though I know better than to say that to anyone in Canada - or in UK during this repeat cold spell. And indeed can see how soon we'll be missing Cyprus's warmth. Though the thing is that official temperatures are in the shade, of course, which leaves it quite a bit hotter than that in the sun. But Harry's has its umbrellas up and we do have our coffee in the shade. Quite a few tourists around now and umbrellas up on the beach. Tourists in shorts but locals certainly not, and in fact often wearing two sweaters or hooded jackets. Something we've always wondered about. Understandable that people from different parts of the world learn to feel comfortable at different temperatures, but surely some physical phenomena are standard, like the temperature at which people perspire. One of life's mysteries. 

As we're having coffee J spots the bird lady across the road. She's often seen in the centre of town wearing long black skirts and sitting or walking with several birds on her head and shoulders. People do take photos, but it's not at all clear that posing for them, and perhaps accepting contributions, is her main motivation. Certainly she's never aggressive about approaching anyone. We stop at the cancer patients charity shop to donate a set of Greek coffee cups (cups are Cypriot but coffee in them would be Greek - or Turkish - same coffee with nomenclature varying politically). Simply too heavy to consider taking back with us. 

Cut across the courtyard in front of St Lazarus Church, festooned with pendants and flags - Greek, Cypriot, and the black two-headed eagle on gold background representing the "Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople", in other words the Greek Orthodox Church. By the wall a woman is painting St Lazarus, often the subject of photographs as well.

Sunday, March 18/2018

Sunday lunch at Jane and Bill's today. Bill has produced a terrine - chicken, bacon and sausage meat  this time, and nicer, actually than the rabbit one. Lovely to look at too. Can see that the horrible stick-your-finger-through-it bacon at home would do it no favours but wouldn't mind giving it a try. Can't be only old age and failing memory that makes us think side bacon used to be better. Certainly less water infused. And there's no doubt that streaky bacon here and in the UK is much leaner than what we get at home. 

Watch the next bit of The Crown on Netflix, taking us up to the coronation and the breaking up of the relationship between Princess Margaret and Peter Townsend. Can remember watching the coronation on Uncle John's TV, long before we had a set. Not, of course, in colour. And not live either. No satellite transmission, but the video specially flown out to Canada immediately after the ceremony.

Saturday, March 17/2018 🍀

Should we wish to buy property in Cyprus - which we don't - we should have done it twenty years ago, and it would probably have tripled in value. Not a bad rate of return regardless of upkeep and taxes. One good reason for not having done so is the endless fiasco of the title deeds, or lack of same. When we first began coming here we were puzzled to see advertisements for houses or flats "with title deeds", our previous experience leading us to believe that the title deeds were what you were handed when you bought the property, or at least when you finished paying for it. 

Not so in Cyprus. Despite various ineffective efforts of the government to solve the problem owning a (fully paid for) house without the title deeds is very common, possibly more common than possessing said deeds. This applies to Harry and Ailsa's house. Also to Bill and Jane's, though Bill makes regular visits to the land registry office where they call him Mr William and assure him that the paper work has all been done. He points out that this has been going on for years and he will be eighty-five next birthday. But assurances are all he gets. And so another government attempt at solution falls somewhat short of convincing. Actually, this attempt seems to come from the opposition, which is not necessarily more encouraging. The Cyprus Mail summarises:

"In the absence of tangible government action, main opposition Akel said on Wednesday it will be preparing two proposals designed to iron out kinks in a 2015 law that sought to sort out the title deed mess, offering relief to so-called trapped buyers. The law sought to resolve the problems for homeowners who had paid for their properties but were not issued with their title deeds either because it was mortgaged by the developer, or the state could not go ahead with the transfer because of outstanding taxes. Since developers’ land and buildings were counted as assets that need to be offset against their debt to banks, this gave lenders a claim on people’s properties that had been mortgaged by developers."

This does provide some level of explanation for the bizarre state of affairs, but Cypriots have learned not to hold their breath.

Friday, March 16/2018

Intend to drop off a couple of books and a shirt at the convent school’s charity shop, largely because it’s conveniently located on my way to meet J for coffee. It has extremely nice volunteers running it and also very low prices, which is not actually a good thing, because the point of my visit is not really to support the school but to dispose of items that we can’t easily take with us or store here, and being presented with desirable books at twenty-five cents apiece is not helpful. 

But they also have very limited hours and I seem to have missed them. So head over to St Helena’s charity shop. It also has limited hours but Friday from ten till one is included. And I’d rather support them as their shop proceeds go to feeding the hungry. Get into long conversation with a new volunteer, triggered by a query about my accent. She, it seems, would love to move to Canada. What do I know about immigration. The answer really is not much for sure. Last looked into it fairly superficially about twenty years ago when a Scots cousin expressed some interest. 

It gets more complicated. She likes the cold although her young Tunisian husband might not so much. He’s a hard worker, though, in construction. Feel sorry for her, both because her mother has rejected the marriage (on grounds of religion and some rather sweeping assumptions about terrorism) and because the UK, which has to take her back, won’t allow her husband in unless they have far higher income than they can hope for. Have heard this story before, the last time from a woman whose daughter worked for a UK supermarket and was married to an American with an army pension. Her income not high enough to sponsor him and his pension not, apparently, considered. Suggest that best odds might be to find a company looking for construction workers in a location with a labour shortage. Haven’t the heart to say I don’t think it will be easy, or even that the last spell of horribly disruptive British weather was neither cold nor remarkably snowy by Canadian standards. Heartbreaking, though, how modest many people’s hopes and expectations are. How little they ask and how unlikely they are to find it. “He’s a hard worker,” she says, “And I can do anything”.

Thursday, March 15/2018

Reading a new afternoon (as in enough daylight to read by) read aloud book. Alice Munro’s The Progress of Love, as acquired at St Helena’s book sale. Thought we had it at home, and maybe we do, but in any case I can’t remember the stories. Which could always be more a commentary on my memory than proof that we don’t own a copy. Good reading anyway, as always with Munro. Also picked up another Nobel prize winner’s book at the same sale - Naguib Mahfouz’s Midaq Alley. We read part of his Cairo trilogy years ago and it was excellent. Hope we have time to fit this one in as well before we leave. It’s also set in Cairo and apparently his most popular. Published in 1947.

Dinner in the evening at Apostolos Andreas Restaurant. Ailsa and Harry, and Bill and Jane bring with them Sheila and Nick. Retired, and splitting their time between England and Cyprus. He now teaching part time in Nicosia at English school apparently in need of a senior geography teacher. Though that doesn't appear to be the primary reason for their part time Cyprus residence. We've actually met Sheila before, though quite a long time ago. Massively too much food, which is good news for Ailsa and Harry's many rescue dogs and cats, who will be the beneficiaries.

Wednesday, March 14/2018

Cyprus, legendary birthplace of Aphrodite, makes some attempt to promote itself as a venue for tourist weddings, and no doubt there are tourists, and certainly locals, who manage to wed without benefit of tourist board assistance. The climate is kind and there are plenty of picturesque spots for wedding photos. A frequent one is St Lazarus Church, and seafront shots are also popular, particularly on the little pier just east of the church. In fact occasionally when we are having coffee at Harry's a wedding party will trek past on the short walk from the pier to St Lazarus. Today J, out for his beach walk, spots a photo op at the pier with bride and several bridesmaids but no groom or groomsmen. Assuming this is, unusually, a pre-wedding picture.

Tuesday, March 13/2018

To Harry's Café for coffee - and a small unexpected slice of chocolate cake. The canary cage is out as usual, and the canary singing away. As the owner says, the music is free. J always hears the song as happy, but I'm less sure. We don't speak canary, and it is caged. A pigeon lands on the table next to the bird cage, spying some crumbs there, and the canary is not happy, though somewhat short of panicked. It retreats to the top perch and keeps a wary eye out.

There's rarely anyone in the flat next to us but it does seem to be occupied. Trainers permanently on the little balcony and window sometimes open. Tonight, though, there are sounds of a television, not loud enough to be disturbing but arousing our curiosity. There is also an unmistakeable scent of weed. This is interesting because the laws on marijuana are pretty draconian in Cyprus. While we couldn't care less whether our neighbour is using, it seems reckless of him to assume that no one in the building would be the sort to call the police and self-righteously report illegal drug use.

Monday, March 12/2018

Heading, indirectly, to Kakopetria, a picturesque village in the Troodos Mountains. Jane comes here after swimming and Bill is to take the bus in from Pyla and join us. He arrives a little after ten, somewhat put out by having waited endlessly for the one bus that goes down their road. Last time it was fifteen minutes early so he timed himself accordingly, only for it to be ten minutes late this time. As that bus only goes every hour or hour and a half, catching it can be a procedure. 

We're off to Nicosia first, where Jane has a cushion to return to IKEA. The store is a newish addition to Cyprus and we've not been before and stay just long enough for Jane to do the return and us to pick up a catalogue. Entirely in Greek as, more surprisingly, are all the signs in the store - unlike road signs or those in supermarkets. But we can look at the pictures and see the prices. 

Then out of the city no west. We're actually following the border just south of it, although we're really reminded of that only when Bill spots a UN lookout spot. And Jane a sign showing that we're only a few kilometres from Morphou (Guzulyurt to the Turkish), and nearly on the west coast. We're gaining altitude at the same time and can at times see the sea to the north of the island. 

Kakopetria is a lovely little village nestled in a valley. We've been here before but it was three years ago. Quite a compelling place, though. One of those spots that leaves you thinking I could stop and live here, this would be as good as anywhere. An odd thought for a gypsy like me. (And yes, I know the word is politically incorrect but it still feels so much more romantic than the alternatives, and traveller is terribly imprecise). The restaurant is called The Mill, and there once was a mill here. Now restaurant and hotel. With probably the nicest trout I've ever tasted - although it's had competition! We all know we're going to order the trout but read the menu anyway out of curiosity and for general inspiration. 

Then down the steep and windy roads and home via Limassol. A reminder of just how small this island country is. Between ten o'clock and six we've gone from seaside to mountains and back, been to the three largest cities and looked down on the Mediterranean on the north coast before lunch and the south coast after.

Sunday, March 11/2018

Sunday lunch at Cambanella’s. The bus, as usual, gets us there a few minutes early, so we take a walk around a field, where it turns out the poppies are just appearing. Spurs discussion between J and me about whether I prefer British or Canadian Remembrance Day poppies. And I’m torn. Initially, British poppies looked faded and a bit drab to me. But they’re a lot more like real poppies in colour. Canadian ones have the virtue of being what I grew up with, but they’re too crimson, and I’m starting to regard the velvety texture combined with the brilliant colour as a bit vulgar - kind of Elvis in gold paint on black velvet. But the ones in the field are lovely. 

After lunch over to a small freshwater pool - actually where the drainage ditches empty with water from the fields. Moorhens not in evidence, but a still egret poised watching the fish. And some of the fish are surprisingly large - perhaps eighteen inches - as they surface in the murky water to take the bread J throws them. It’s just metres away from the walkway along the sea. A fresh water lagoon.

Saturday, March 10/2018

Lovely as it might be to have servants, I'd be bad at it. Winters in Cyprus are the closest we come, with our monthly rent paying for daily cleaning and twice weekly linen change as well as the one bedroom hotel apartment. The cleaning consists of emptying the garbage, providing the toilet paper, sweeping and washing the tile floors and cleaning the bathroom fixtures. If we didn't make the beds the cleaners probably would do, but like all the other (Scandinavian) long stayers in the hotels we've lived in we regard that as our responsibility. (In fact one Swedish woman of our slight acquaintance was the cause of scandalised gossip amongst long stay Scandinavians for leaving the beds for the maids.) 

Cleaning has never been problematic in the other places we've stayed - pretty thorough and occurring either six or seven days a week. Here it has always been rather lick and a promise, and on the fourth floor the sisters (in the familial not religious sense) got it down to about three minutes by virtue - though virtue doesn't seem like quite the right word - of never vacuuming. One of the advantages of the move to the first floor was that the floors were all tile so that the sitting room as well as the kitchen and loo got washed daily. At first, that is. Then the odd day of no show, then two, and eventually three. In the end almost a guarantee that if we did not go out there would be no service, possibly with the self-deluding excuse of not disturbing us. 

At which point I feel compelled to mention the problem to Kiki, the receptionist, so as not to report Venera the maid, whom I like, to Management, whom I don't much. Putting it as tactfully as possible - has the cleaning schedule perhaps changed? Kiki is clearly appalled at the slackness, and presumably this will solve the problem. The sad thing is that we don't usually tip - for what is the worst housekeeping service we've ever experienced - which may have led to worse service. It's also possible, even probable, that the cleaners are underpaid, but given a fairly hefty rental increase this year we're unenthusiastic about assuming the burden of subsidising the staff. Ah well, servant problem not one I'm blessed with at home. 

As we're having lunch, Kiki comes up to the flat with a large bag of oranges. Left for us at reception. By a man - no she doesn't know who - an old man. Mystery solved when Ailsa calls to say that Harry has taken us some oranges (they have a tree). I say we'd been wondering but didn't get far by asking for a description. Ailsa agrees that there would have been no obvious descriptors - he's not tall, short, fat, or excessively thin. Don't feel compelled to mention Kiki having said old. Don't actually think of Harry as old, but suppose that at eighty the description is not completely unfair.

Friday, March 9/2018

 Partly out of interest and partly because the nearby British forces base provides us with quite a bit of BBC radio, and partly because we're much closer to the UK than to North America in time zone, we follow quite a bit of British news. Heavily Brexit for weeks, with continuing bits of complaint about the effects of austerity on health and social programming. 

Now, for the past several days, a lot of dramatic focus on the attempted murder by nerve poison of the former Russian spy Skripal and his daughter. Trying to remember whether the somewhat similar poisoning twelve years ago of the former spy Litvinenko received quite the same non-stop coverage. We were in London at that time and certainly it was a major news story, made more dramatic by the fact that for days he was conscious and contributing clues to the murder mystery until inevitable death overtook him. 

The cases are not precisely analogous, because Skripal was a double agent who betrayed his fellow Russian spies for cash and was convicted of treason and then given to the West as part of a later prisoner exchange. Litvinenko reacted against Russian corruption and sought asylum in the West. This does make him a somewhat more sympathetic character, but it also makes him a more likely Kremlin target. The convention has been that those who were part of prisoner exchanges are not targeted afterward by the governments that originally employed them, as this would make future spy swaps pointless - no one would participate. However either high level secret service personnel or those involved in illegal international activity such as money laundering might well have wanted revenge, wished to make a very public warning and had some access to highly restricted chemicals. In that case the perpetrators would be Russian but not Russia, I.e. the Kremlin. 

Even this much analysis is too much for the BBC, which endlessly repeats the basic story of finding the two victims, the fact that an unspecified nerve poison is involved and threats of sanctions that must be taken against Russia if it is indeed found to be the culprit. More than once an hour, and always as the lead story, even in the absence of new information. Brexit has disappeared from the news entirely, at a point at which the UK is more or less paralysed by government infighting and the EU has frozen talks until there is an amended proposal to discuss. It has not become any less urgent, but is more than failing the 'if it bleeds it leads' test. 

In fact, following the cui bono principle, one can't help observing (tasteless as it may be to joke about these things) that the chief immediate beneficiary of the Skripal poisoning is probably Theresa May, whose failings have been replaced in the media by a great deal of posturing about the UK's intent to identify those responsible for the poisoning and bring them to justice. The outrage at an attack on British soil is perfectly legitimate, but twenty years from now the story will be all but forgotten while the UK will have been majorly determined by whatever the Brexit negotiations create.

Thursday, March 8/2018

Thursday, and the dust in the air much reduced, as promised. Warm (definitely T-shirt weather) and windy. Meet J down on the promenade and we stop for coffee on their balcony. By far the best - and cheapest - coffee in town. Prefer Harry's Café, but the thought that they might not have put the large umbrellas up for shade is a deterrent. Bad timing at McD. It's 11:30 and crammed with teenagers. Half holiday? Teacher's strike? Student walkout? The last two not nearly as uncommon as they might be in most countries, but no way of knowing. They're all in pretty good humour as befits the newly released, but it makes for about a fifteen minute wait. 

Good people watching site though. Quite a lot of people on the beach, with several in the water. Sea temperature today 17.6. (August average 28.1). So any warm, sunny day is good swimming. The poles for the beach umbrellas are now planted on the beach by the dozen, but umbrella rental has not yet begun.

Wednesday, March 7/2018

Early to Prinos to get some fruit for lunch. Early by our standards at least; Prinos has been open since 6:30, as always, and is unlikely to consider eight o'clock early. And it will be open until early evening. When we first started coming to Cyprus all but the smallest corner shops closed mid-afternoon on Wednesdays and Saturdays, an inconvenient old time practice backed by legislation that the larger enterprises fought, eventually successfully. We have pears and grapefruit and oranges at home but add apples,  kiwi and grapes (imported) and strawberries (local). Citrus fruits are beautiful all winter here and there have been local greenhouse strawberries for a month now, but grape and fresh fig seasons end in late autumn, about the time we arrive. There are local apples but they're never as good as the imports, our favourites being Pink Lady from Greece or (preferably) Italy.

The artichokes are in season now and J has bought half a dozen. He's learned by dint of watching a seller at the market, to trim away everything but the heart and carves the tiny slices off the choke to sauté in olive oil. Very highly labour intensive - probably ten to fifteen minutes an artichoke for the trimming and carving - and the yield is small, but lovely and rich. An appetiser today when Jane and Bill join us for lunch, but also a luxury topping for pizza on rare occasions.

Tuesday, March 6/2018

Cooking the vegetables so that they only have to be reheated tomorrow when Bill and Jane come to lunch. Necessary because we only have two burners and a microwave. The frying pan is good stainless steel but not very big, which means endless panfulls. Strips of red pepper, long dark green beans, hard boiled free range eggs cut lengthwise with their dark orange yellow eyes. Time consuming but such an aesthetic pleasure. Later J trims the artichokes and slices the hearts. Truly labour intensive, but I read to him from the third volume of Alan Bennett's diaries as he's sautéing them. Bennet's diaries always such gems it feels they should be saved for dessert - but wifi off, so options limited.

Monday, March 5/2018

Back to the air pollution. And as usual the haze in the sky is particulate matter, most probably dust from the Sahara. Improving by Thursday, according to the paper. It's been a dusty year. No truly horrible day, but a number of warnings. No one to blame, really, either. Not much to be done about desert sand and wind.

Sunday, March 4/2018

Invited to Jane and Bill's for Sunday lunch. Beautiful roast leg of lamb and we eat outside as usual. Susan and David here again, and, happily, Maureen from down the terrace. She's going to London in a couple of weeks to visit her daughter and has taken our UK mobile number so we can meet up for a drink. After the others have gone we watch first part of The Crown, with Claire Foy as a very young Queen Elizabeth. Well done, but liberties? Was the Queen Mother really that self-centred? Who knows.

Saturday, March 3/2018

Caption in today’s Cyprus Mail reads “Man arrested illegally entering Republic by jumping off wall “. The man was a Kurd and had obviously landed, by air or more likely sea, in the North - where he would probably have been made more welcome. Although as far as the Republic (the South) is concerned any landing in the North is illegal. However, for whatever reason, he chose to enter the South by jumping from the old Venetian walls, exiting via a small park atop the wall in broad daylight at 2:30 in the afternoon. Unsubtle enough to make one wonder about his mental state, although if he intended to apply for asylum or assistance he would have had questioning to face anyway. And jumped is undoubtedly an overly dramatic way of putting it - scrambled more likely. 

We remember being in that park looking down, on the only visit when we ourselves entered illegally (from the point of view of the South), taking the ferry from Turkey to Kyrenia. It was a very odd feeling going to Nicosia and looking down on the South where we had stayed the previous month, barred from entry. The border is much freer now than it was in 2001, but only non-EU tourists who land in the South can cross freely from North to South. And yes, they would know. Your passport would give you away.

Friday, March 2/2018

Theresa May's much anticipated speech on Brexit - part whatever - proving largely that the driving force, as it was for her predecessor - is the unpleasant task of trying to satisfy a hopelessly divided and antagonistic cabinet. Jonathan Freedland in the Guardian has the metaphor for it: 

'When I was a young child I had a tantrum at a motorway cafe. My parents ordered for everyone, selecting baked beans on toast for me. I stamped my foot and demanded I choose for myself. I then proceeded to read the entire menu, holding up everyone, including an increasingly impatient waitress. Finally, I announced my choice: I would have baked beans on toast.

The memory of that episode returned to me while watching Theresa May give her big Brexit speech at Mansion House today. The speech was praised in some quarters for being serious and, by the standards of her government, pretty detailed. The main takeaway was that the prime minister had finally bidden farewell to “cakeism”, admitting that we couldn’t both leave the single market and have unchanged access to it. “Life is going to be different,” she warned.

But the speech also suggested that Brexit could end up rather like my strop at Little Chef. We would put ourselves and the rest of Europe through a great ordeal, only to end up with an arrangement rather like the one we could have had anyway, all for the sake of feeling in control. Except that, in this case, the end result would be both inferior to, and much more costly than, the dish originally on offer.'

Indeed.

Thursday, March 1/2018

Tourist arrested for drunk driving. Normally the locals have significantly worse driving habits than the tourists. In fact, today as I'm walking to the bank a car travelling north on the very busy Makarios Avenue pulls across the southbound lane midblock, forcing a honking car to brake in order to avoid a collision, and proceeds to park on the far side of the road (heading the wrong direction, of course). 

But the arrest of a tourist is unusual. Tickets, yes. It's an open secret that car hire licence plates (coloured red to alert those who need to know) are much more likely to be ticketed for minor infractions. This is a small island and no police officer wishes to find that the ticket recipient is a friend of a relative or relative of a friend. Besides, it's only right that those who can afford to holiday should contribute to the state coffers. 

So the caption 'tourist arrested for drunk driving' arouses immediate cynicism. Does drunk mean fractionally over the conservative .05 blood alcohol, and were the red plates the reason he was stopped. No, and no. The 28 year old visitor attracted patrol car attention by speeding in a town at midnight without lights, overtaking two cars stopped at a red light and driving through said red light. Fair cop - obvious cause for investigation. And he was breathalysed at three times the drink drive limit. But also charged with possession of weapons. Two knives (not described), a collapsible baton (?), and a sledgehammer. A sledgehammer? No doubt that it could inflict grievous bodily harm, but is it really a prohibited weapon? Who knew? Fence post installers be warned.

Wednesday, February 28/2018

Haircut day. Me, that is, as J usually cuts his own. Then we meet up in the courtyard of St Helena's Anglican, where the regular end of month used book sale is taking place. It's generally pretty good, as the books are donated disproportionately by British expats about our age. Too many light novels, but often a few gems as well. While browsing, I overhear the following conversation between a man and woman. He has obviously remarked on, and probably recommended, a vegetarian cook book:

She:  (apologetically) I really should be vegetarian, but I’m too weak.

He:   Oh, the problem is people eat too early. I never eat anything after five o’clock. I eat a big     

breakfast though.

She: (probably hoping to avoid further unsolicited advice) Have you ever eaten meat?

He:   Oh yes! I’ve eaten dog. I’ve eaten rat, I’ve eaten mouse.

She:  (weakly) That must have been when you were very hungry.

He:   Oh no! It was for the experience. I like to experience everything!

I do refrain from commenting on the stellar social life he must have, never eating before five and then vegetarian or rat. In all fairness, the vegetarian period seems to have followed, and probably superseded, the rodent period, but he is at pains to point out the voluntary nature of the dog and rat experiences.

On the way home we come across a cat, happily soaking up the sun.

Tuesday, February 27/2018

Flowers are not all that's bright and beautiful along the road on the way to meet up with J for coffee.

Monday, February 26/2018

Showery and a reading day. Current reading aloud book is Judith Flanders' A Circle of Sisters. It's the story of four sisters from a large middle class Victorian family who through marriage became the wives of Pre-Raphaelite painter Edward Burne Jones and Edward Poynter (who became head of the Royal Academy), and the mothers of Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin and poet Rudyard Kipling. It's highly readable but still a well referenced piece of scholarship, as much a pleasure for the social history as for the narrative. A "real" book, though, so only readable in daytime natural light. 

Mildly annoyed that, for the second time in a week the sisters who clean the hotel have skipped our flat. Just thinking we should say something when there's a knock at the door. Housekeeping? Well, sort of. Kiki, the receptionist, and Venera, the younger cleaner, with a foil covered plate of baking. It's the birthday of Maria, the older sister and she has been baking. It seems ungracious to mention the non-cleaning in the same breath as the thanks for baking, so we don't. But no return visit with a mop. As J says, no one should have to clean on their birthday.

Sunday, February 25/2018

To Kofinou for lamb kleftiko, with Jane and Bill and their neighbour Maureen. A bit cloudy but not cold and the restaurant surrounded by flowers and almond trees in blossom.  There are several restaurants in the village that specialise in kleftiko, and Sunday's are often busy. Entirely local, apart from us, and ordering anything other than the obvious can involve poor translation on our part or even hand gestures. Thus we don't manage to get Jane a small carafe of wine, but the good woman does understand that a small rather than large bottle will suit. The rest of us drink beer, which is simpler. And we all have salad - large shared bowl - as well as olives and pourgouri (a bulgar and vermicelli dish which is nice but which we know better than to eat much of, as it's filling and we know how much kleftiko and roast potato will follow). Kleftiko is from the outdoor beehive shaped ovens, cooked to a melting softness. 

Opposite us are three Cypriot hunters enjoying an enormous meal. They're dressed in typical Cypriot hunter garb - camouflage! Horrifying to Canadians, who wonder why there aren't even more accidental shootings. Meal finishes with small warm cheese filled pastries, two apiece. Though we thought we were full. 

And the kleftiko? As we're leaving we read, for the first time, the single sheet menu taped to the front door and reading in part kleftiko (goat). Have no way of knowing if that is sometimes or always, and in any case goat meat very difficult to distinguish from lamb. We wonder about bringing pictures to inquire next time, in preference to trying out animal noises. Only really idle curiosity - except for Maureen, who does seem mildly distressed.

Saturday, February 24/2018

To Lidl for bread and walnuts. Well, they have the bread. As is so frequently the case with Lidl, the walnuts are on sale at a pretty good price, but conspicuous by their absence. Since it's a Saturday/Sunday sale beginning this morning, it's pretty clear that there won't be any. But they have a pretty good multi-grain seeded bread. 

On the way we pass the still under construction 16 storey Radisson Blu Hotel. We've been watching the construction for some time - talking years not months - and have wondered at its location. It's an unprepossessing on-the-way-out-of-town strip with shops, car dealerships and such on the land side and the commercial port and huge oil storage containers along the sea front. There is, certainly, a plan for the removal of the oil refinery installations and depots and the development of a beach front linking up with the beaches by the hotels further up the coastal road. Unclear whether the water would need decontamination. But Cypriot plans are often slow in coming to fruition. Meanwhile, the Radisson Blu remains unfinished, though with some signs of construction activity, in an area characterised by oil tanks and the sort of unsalubrious hotels one might expect of a commercial port area. (OK, we're within walking distance ourselves, but the sleazy nightclubs and substandard hotels are past our place. 

The Tourism Board has definitely had plans: 

"The road leading from Larnaka city centre to the tourist region of the Larnaka-Dekeleia Road will undergo regeneration with the removal of the oil refineries and new area upgrades. The area will be developed for touristic and recreational use and with the refineries transferred there will also be an additional 3 km of beach for use. Larnaka-Dekeleia Road is lined with hotels, holiday apartments, restaurants, pubs and other leisure facilities."

 All very nice, but perhaps optimistic, as the completion date listed is 2014. Meanwhile, the Radisson Blu, if not the refineries removal, is progressing with outer cladding and a sign. Also an impressive website, describing five star facilities, conference rooms and a twenty-four hour restaurant. You can even get married on the sixteenth floor in a room with a Mediterranean view. Only in the smallest of print does it say that it is opening in early 2018 - which must by any definition mean by June 30. There's high rise parking too, which is good, because on street is pretty poor. Traffic heading to the centre is undisciplined and central parking desperate, but anyone staying at a five star hotel shouldn't balk at the prospect of an overpriced taxi. Or they could cross the road and wait for the half hourly bus. With a view of the oil refineries.

Friday, February 23/2018

Several snails on a wall and sidewalk between us and the greengrocer. Fairly large ones. They're not far from a fenced yard with lots of greenery and flowers where they'd be much better fed and presumably happier, so it's a mystery what they're doing here. Tempting to toss them into the long grass, but we don't interfere. Locals often look for them in the fields and collect them as a delicacy.

J has acquired a very nice beef fillet from the butcher at Prinos. The plus and minus of living in a simpler food culture. He inquired on Friday and was told to come back on Wednesday. And indeed on Wednesday it was there, a kilo and a half of it. So the timing of the invitation to Jane and Bill for Friday follows on the butcher's acquisition. Soft as butter lovely, though, with mushroom sauce and leeks and carrots and salad. As always, we have two burners (with somewhat uneven heat) and a microwave. Really miss the radiators of past years. Once a dish was hot it was possible to keep it warm until everything was ready. Fresh local strawberries now - greenhouse, obviously, but nice.

Thursday, February 22/2018

The two flats directly above us are occupied, by friendly, quiet Norwegians. For whatever reason, though, the kitchen sink and bathroom toilet empty with sounds as clear and present as if they were in our flat. Not an annoyance, but slightly weird, to walk past the loo and hear the flush, knowing neither of us is in there. Kind of like sharing the place with a friendly ghost.

Wednesday, February 21/2018

Jane’s birthday and the gang meets up at a Chinese restaurant (which we actually suspect of being Filipino, but Asian, anyway). Nice festive sparkly decor appropriate to a birthday, and the food’s pretty good too. With seven of us each choosing a dish there’s lots to sample. And bonus - Jane gets the owner to turn down the music so we can hear everyone at the table. As with every restaurant here, regardless of the ethnicity of the food, there’s Greek coffee to finish. Lovely warm night as we leave - stars and a sliver of a moon lying on its back.

Tuesday, February 20/2018

Finish reading Payback, the novel about kidnapping a banker during the Cyprus financial crisis. Fun, and a fast read. If you're a Cypriot, or a Canadian from anywhere other than Toronto or Vancouver, you probably rarely read a book set in a place you know intimately, as must happen to Londoners, say, all the time. So reading Gail Bowen's mysteries set in Regina had a particular resonance for me as the central figure, like Gail herself, lived within six blocks of a house I had lived in, and one book was actually partially set in a university building where I had had an office when I taught there. And much of the pleasure of Payback is in the familiarity of the setting. Not a great literary attribute, but a pleasure. Minor editing failures - leading me to wonder not for the first time if I would have enjoyed life as a copy editor. Like the hero rolling down the car window, enjoying the wind in his face, and lighting a cigarette. None of the five co-authors ever smoked? But fun anyway.

Monday, February 19/2018

Well, today is Green Monday, and predictably only a few tourists are wandering along the waterfront. It’s nothing like as busy as any other holiday, or even a normal weekend day. The locals are either at home barbecuing or, more traditionally, picnicking and flying kites in the countryside. Cypriots have strong rural roots, even the urban dwellers. A little like Canadians of a generation ago, when the phrase going home to the farm resonated with many even if the farm in question belonged to an uncle or grandparent. With Cypriots it’s the village, and you often hear that someone is going to the village (name not specified but understood) on the weekend or a child is staying with grandparents in the village. Unlike Canada, farmers are quite likely to live in a village rather than on an isolated farmstead. 

Many restaurants open today, especially in tourist areas, though our usual café closed. Charity shops, mostly run by  expats, seem to be open, but shops, including supermarkets, closed, apart from the tiny corner shops. Bakeries always open. In fact we discovered our favourite bakery by means of happening to walk past it one Christmas day. Few Cypriots buy their bread at supermarkets (and even there almost all of it is baked on the premises) and deprivation of fresh baked bread is apparently unthinkable.