Cyprus 2023

Into The Northern Half Of Cyprus

So here we are in the northern half of this partitioned country, in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, a self-declared independent nation recognised as such only by Turkey itself. The region is accepted by the UN as not being under the control of the Cypriot Government; Cyprus is the only EU country with a section not governed by that organisation’s laws. Despite loosening of controls on the partition line, there are still restrictions in place, which is how we come to be in our current situation.

You see, we had the very good idea that it would be interesting to travel through the two separate halves of Cyprus, to see for ourselves just what the differences are between the Turkish bit and the Greek bit. Is it like moving from Turkey to Greece or is there some kind of merging of cultures? All of our research told us that crossing the “Green Line”, the partition and boundary between the two halves, is now easy, and is permitted on multiple occasions. All good.

Well, all good until a few days before we travel, when a little piece of small print which we’d previously missed, hits us between the eyes. Although crossing back and forth is fine, it turns out that the official Greek Cypriot authorities do not recognise the airport on the Turkish side as a legitimate point of entry – in fact, by coming in that route, one is considered to have entered Cyprus illegally. Guess which route we’re entering by. Correct. 

Technically therefore, and in the eyes of the Cypriot Government, we are in the country illegally, but, as long as we stay on the Turkish side and don’t cross the Green Line, they can’t get at us to do anything about it. Thus, our stay on Cyprus will now have to be limited to the Turkish side only.

Our route to here is Casablanca to Istanbul to Ercan/Lefkosa, the “illegal” airport, with an overnight stay at an airport hotel in Istanbul, and, as our flights are in and out of Sabiha Gökcen rather than Ataturk, it means we set foot in three different continents in under 24 hours, not something one does too often.

We land in torrential rain as a storm passes across the island but with an hour to kill till the next bus, the wide puddles are glinting in the afternoon sunshine by the time we’re on the road. The bus journey from the illegal point of entry to our first Cyprus base passes through towns which are undeniably Turkish in appearance, there is certainly at first glance no hint of dilution of Turkish culture – apart from how odd it looks to see traffic driving on the left in a country such as this, a legacy of course of a stretch of 82 years of British rule which incorporated the advent of the motor car.

Everywhere here has two names, one Turkish and one Greek. Our base is the coastal town of Girne, Greek name Kyrenia; the capital we all know as Nicosia is Lefkosa in Turkish; the famed town of Famagusta is Gazimagusa, but other than that there is no trace of Greece here, this is very obviously Turkish on every level – which means, amongst other things, great food.

Girne is certainly a pleasant enough town, gathered around a picturesque horseshoe shaped harbour which is, according to all the photos we saw, lined with great fish restaurants. Unfortunately though the whole harbour is closed for a facelift and every restaurant is out of action – but, despite that, Girne still has plenty to offer. There’s a fair smattering of British expats here but it’s a pleasant calm town, with its castle overlooking the harbour and plenty of good authentic Turkish eateries. It also feels very good to have the space of our own apartment again after the riads and small hotels of Morocco.

It’s hard to convince ourselves that we’re not in Turkey, so similar is this town to Turkish towns and so strong are the reminders of our previous tours there. There’s no recognition of Cyprus here – the flags are those of the unofficial Turkish Republic of North Cyprus, and of Turkey itself – and everything about this place is simply typical of that country. Indeed, we haven’t yet seen a single Cyprus flag.

Being so Turkish, there are, inevitably, hamams here, so of course we have to indulge and spend a couple of hours in a little corner of heaven, being in turn boiled, scraped, soaped and massaged. We also indulge in a boat trip along the coast, providing the welcome opportunity to dive into the beautifully clear waters of the blue Mediterranean, our first dip in its waters since Spain. Another storm breaks as we walk “home” from the boat and we probably get just as wet in the torrential rain as we did in the sea, but this time fully clothed.

To come back to the political situation, Cyprus is an independent country with a fixed border down its core, with on one side a de facto separate country recognised as such only by Turkey, yet supposedly a single Government in charge of the nation and internationally recognised. A Government which has little or no control over a large sector of its own country. How did we get here? Well, briefly….

Cyprus was handed to Britain as a thank you gift by the Ottoman Empire in return for a pledge by the British that we would assist the Ottomans in their defence against any future invasion by the Russians. Cyprus remained under British rule and part of the Commonwealth until independence was granted in 1960, but this independence failed to prevent in-fighting between the Greek and Turk factions on the island. Fourteen years later in 1974, the Greek military made an attempt to achieve “enosis”, the integration of Cyprus into Greece, overthrowing the Cypriot president and installing a military junta. Given that the population of the island is part Greek part Turkish, the Turks understandably took exception to this and sent in the troops.

After a period of warfare, the uneasy solution was the “Green Line”, making Cyprus the only partitioned nation in Europe and Nicosia/Lefkosa the only partitioned city. This partition, and its narrow demilitarised “buffer zone”, is marshalled by the armed forces of Britain, Argentina and Slovakia acting as UN peacekeeping forces. Displacement on a large scale was one of the ramifications of this solution, with both Greek and Turkish Cypriots relocated from their home to their newly allocated “half”. Even today it’s not without tension: the most recent attempt at reunification met with a 2 to 1 vote in favour on the Turkish side but a 3 to 1 rejection by Greek Cypriots. 

As recently as two months before our arrival there were demonstrations and instances of sporadic violence; it seems those UN peacekeeping forces won’t be packing their bags just yet.

Unfortunately, due to entering Cyprus the way that we did, we won’t be able to explore each side of the divide and make those comparisons between the two halves. In the meantime there’s absolutely no disputing the overriding influences here: this looks, feels and behaves like Turkey.

Apart from driving on the left.

Dubious Saints, Mutant Sheep & Castles In The Air: Cyprus Unfolds

The downpour is so intense that we don’t really want to leave the boat, but we have to get back to the apartment somehow so it’s heads down and off into the onslaught.

“Goodbye”, shouts Captain Bayram as we head off, adding, “remember, tomorrow there is worse rain, very bad”.

He isn’t kidding either. By the time we return next day from a rather fruitless trip on the dolmus out to Lapta village, the streets of Girne are rivers, floodwater several inches deep racing down every slope and finding every shortcut through town. It’s an outrageous deluge which lasts for hours and has locals laughing and scurrying for cover in equal measure. Ruined shoes for everyone.

A little while later, watching the rain fall from our 8th floor apartment window, we get a little bit of that unwelcome end-of-trip, winding-down feeling, so it’s just as well that next morning sees us collecting our final hire car of the adventure in readiness to explore this part of the world more fully. The sun makes a return, too.

Our first road trip takes us westward from Girne, along the coast and towards the northern end of the island’s partition, a journey which leaves the Pentadaktylos (Five Fingers) Mountains of Girne’s hinterland and heads into the Troodos Mountains which straddle the Green Line, although both sections form part of the Kyrenia mountain range. Driving here has a strange additional element: what is a direct route according to Google Maps sometimes turns out to cross military territory and our way forward is blocked by soldiers, gun cocked and ready to shoot, standing beside a sign which reads “Forbidden Zone”. It’s just slightly unnerving.

First though, resort hotels and private beach clubs line the coast road in an unattractive procession of those places which provide “enclave” holidays for the less adventurous, much English language in evidence on their giant signage. It takes a while before these subside and the massively more attractive coastline and countryside begins to open up.

The impossibly blue manmade lake of Geçitköy nestles half way up the climb over the Troodos, a beautiful sight which has us lingering on the edge of the ridge for several minutes taking in the splendid view. Just beyond the relaxing coastal village of Gemikonagi are the remains of the city of Soli, an ancient Greek settlement later occupied by the Romans which now boasts a couple of very worthwhile sights.

As floor mosaics go, those at Soli are amazingly well preserved, covering a surprisingly large area and retaining easily identifiable imagery, including the swan logo much loved in Roman design. It’s incredible how well these mosaics have withstood all that has come their way, not least warfare and earthquakes. They really are stunning. Behind and above the remains of the city, the amphitheatre, built by the Greeks and enhanced in Roman times, has wonderful views of the Mediterranean as the backdrop to its stage.

A few miles further on, and higher still up the mountains, are the remains of Vouni Palace, a once expansive construction built to enable the wary Phoenicians to keep an eye on what the troublesome Greeks of Soli were up to – this island seems to have an unbroken history of confrontation and mistrust. Pretty much all that remains of Vouni are its foundations and lower levels of walls, but helpful signage provides a decent commentary on each area and enables us to picture the palace in its pomp. If nothing else, it’s well worth a visit to Vouni just to soak up the fabulous views of the seas in one direction and the mountains in the other. 

Heading back towards Girne we call in at Güzelyurt (Greek name Morfou), home to a slightly odd museum and a remarkable little church, they’re both just closing as we arrive but with a smile and a plea we manage to get the curator to grab the keys and let us in. Inside the church, carved wooden panelling painted blue and gold depicts many scenes, again extremely well preserved and beautifully presented.

The church is one of fourteen in Cyprus alone which are dedicated to St Mamas, who, according to the museum’s own leaflet but not corroborated by Wikipedia, is the patron saint of tax avoiders. Amusing that there should be such a saint of Greek origin, given that to this day Greece suffers from a ridiculously inept tax collection system with more loopholes than a fishing net. Mamas has obviously done a decent job protecting his subjects. The museum meanwhile is mostly dedicated to artefacts from nearby Soli and also Salamis on the other coast, but in addition has a natural history room where in amongst the usual stuffed birds and mammals are a couple of bizarre mutant sheep. A sheep with two heads… another one with two bodies and eight legs? Are they real? Why are they here? What is their history? We have been unsuccessful in finding answers to such questions.

Second road trip day takes in two villages, each picturesque in their own right but of very different character to each other. Karaman (aka Karmi) is a tranquil, genteel mountain village which must be a little piece of heaven for those seeking a bit of solitude. Formerly home to Greek Cypriots, it became a ghost town as a result of the widespread relocation of citizens after the 1974 invasion. Nowadays the village has a new lease of life as home to British and German expats – mostly British judging by the voices we hear.

Bellapais on the other hand is just as picturesque with its little streets and sweeping views, but is nowhere near as peaceful, due to the presence of a beautiful abbey which draws coach loads of visitors every day, even today when the high season has passed. It isn’t a surprise that Bellapais is popular though, it’s an exceedingly quaint village.

Looking down on the entire region is the precipitous castle of St Hilarion, clinging to different levels of a mountain peak more than 700 metres above sea level. Clambering around its crumbling form and scrambling up and down its uneven steps is great fun, and again, like yesterday, worth every effort for the views alone. Construction of this castle began under Byzantine rule in the 11th century, was upgraded and further fortified during the influence of the Lusignan dynasty, then largely dismantled by the Venetians some 400 years after its creation. The ruins occupy an amazing site, perched right on the edge of the soaring stone faced mountain, its vertical walls seemingly forming an integral part of the rocky mountainside.

We’re moving on from Girne/Kyrenia now to our penultimate destination of the entire trip. Last thoughts on Girne? Well, it’s unfortunate that the obviously attractive harbour and its cafes were all out of commission during our stay, and the town itself is a pleasant little place, but in the surrounding areas there are elements which are difficult to like. The mountain and coastal villages beyond its limits are beautiful, as are the splendid views from multiple vantage points, but to appreciate those it’s necessary to drive past a big helping of resort hotels, casinos, beach clubs and the like – a big dollop of a certain kind of tourism along the coastal strip. 

But then, with Girne/Kyrenia being the centre of tourism in North Cyprus, such things were, we suppose, to be expected.

Cyprus: The East Coast And Its Unexpected Horrors

Rather than take the bigger roads via Lefkosa we opt for what should be a more scenic route along the northern shores, then turn south to head over the mountains to Iskele on the east facing coast. The stretch along the north coast is remarkable for one giant, unmissable feature: construction works. It’s been well documented that President Erdogan is keen for North Cyprus to become a tourist hotspot, but the sheer scale of development is unimaginable. 

Soon, at this rate, the flatlands between the mountains and the sea will be full, there will be nothing to see but concrete, steel and high rise, such is the breathtaking expanse of construction works. Giant hotels, vast resorts and entire towns of holiday apartment blocks are either skeletal, poised for occupation or newly opened. The spaces between the blocks are hidden behind hoarding bearing the name of the contractor who is about to rip up the remaining trees and build another hulking mass. And it goes on for mile after mile after mile. It’s a mind blowing level of change.

Turning inland is a godsend; construction sites vanish, replaced by hairpins, steep climbs and pine forests. Birds flit between trees, buzzards circle above, probably looking down on the land which is no longer theirs. We pull over and pause for a while, studying the views but wondering just what we’re doing to our planet in places like this.

Eventually we arrive in Iskele, a little unspoilt village with a cluster of “home cooking” style cafes sending delicious smells into the dusty streets. We feel encouraged. Too early to check in, we head along the coast to Bogaz, where small fishing boats bob in the pretty harbour and enticing restaurants on jetties display fresh fish ready to grill. We are now even more encouraged, especially after all that we’ve seen today.

And then. And then we follow the Sat Nav back through the two villages and towards our next accommodation, and as we turn off the main road, our jaws drop and our hearts sink simultaneously. Our eyes are greeted with the most appalling sight: a seemingly endless complex of recently built apartment blocks and probably an even greater number of blocks at various stages of construction. This fake city goes on, literally, for miles, the only interruption to the never ending forest of apartment blocks is the occasional monstrosity thirty-odd storeys high. Without seeing first hand, it’s just not possible to imagine the sheer size of this unstoppable nightmare creation which is racing to cover every inch of many, many square miles.

As we turn a dusty corner into another road devoid of people, past tower cranes, cement mixers and hoardings decorated with pictures of “paradise”, the sun disappears behind a dark cloud and if at that moment a wolf had howled at the moon or a witch had cackled from behind a wall, it would have been appropriate. This is one dreadful, depressing place. No wonder we could only find “apartments in developments” on line.

The completed part of Fake City is already a gigantic, claustrophobic mass, an inaccessibly huge sprawl – God only knows how big it will be when the whole ugly thing is finished.

As a teenager living in Bedford I saw the new city of Milton Keynes taking shape; later I watched on as London’s Canary Wharf reached for the sky. Those developments have absolutely nothing on the scale of this place – this giant, fake city of holiday apartments, communal pools and skyscrapers on barren land seems to stretch further than the eye can see. Then it dawns on us that there must be, potentially, hundreds of thousands of apartments here – so an awful lot of people must actually like this place. Or at least, there is an expectation that they will.

The one saving grace is that our own light and spacious apartment is comfortable, as long as we don’t spend too long “admiring” the view. From the front, we face the estate’s communal pool and its crappy looking bar, whilst from the back our view is of the temporary cement works and mountainous heaps of shale and aggregate forming the supply source for the gigantic building sites. Beyond, across a vast area, the land has been cleared in readiness – it looks like it’s miles until the first tree.

Between Fake City and the sea there’s a fast dual carriageway with a six foot high concrete wall in the middle, so the only route to the beach is via subways which despite their newness are already filled with graffiti. Muscling their way on to the sand are utterly gigantic restaurants with literally hundreds of covers, each place with a car park the size of a California cornfield. So many people must come here in season, who the hell are they?

Russians. That’s the answer. Signs around the pools and labels in shops have Russian translations, we can hear what sounds like Russian being spoken by the few neighbours we hear. We’re half expecting someone to step out of the shadows and say, in a menacing Russian accent….”aaah, Mister Philip, we’ve been expecting you…..”

Cyprus has long courted the Russian vacation market as well as Russian investment. Since the invasion of Ukraine, and the closure of virtually all European airports to flights from Russia, North Cyprus, presumably backed by Erdogan, has seized the opportunity, and the people of Russia have responded. Ercan/Lefkosa, the “illegal” airport through which we entered Cyprus, now has direct flights to and from Russian cities every day, for the first time. This is not just Russian holidays we’re looking at here, it’s Russian investment. This is, allegedly, one place where the money of the sanctioned oligarchs is now ending up. Allegedly. Had we known any of this prior to arrival, we wouldn’t be here at all.

What two giant ironies that creates. First, the EU, so rightly vocal in its criticism of the Ukraine war and so quick to implement sanctions, is turning a blind eye to massive Russian investment pouring into its own territory. Fat lot of use the sanctions are then. Second, we learnt earlier that Britain was first handed control of Cyprus by the Ottoman Empire in return for assurances that we would help to resist any invasion by the Russians. Well, they got here in the end, didn’t they.

As we rise on our first morning and look out across the concrete jungle which is Fake City – or shall we call it Cyprusgrad – a rainbow forms and attaches one end of its colourful arc to the heap of aggregate next to the cement works. There’s a pot of gold here for somebody, that’s for sure. Furthermore, as we look at the mass of white walls, gaze up at the monstrous skyscrapers, and wonder what this land used to look like before it sold its soul, we know we’re going to need both our sense of humour and our resourceful nature to make anything of the next few days. Thank goodness we have the car.

We could say that this place resembles a concrete new town, a fake city, the biggest housing estate you can imagine, or even a record size holiday camp. More fittingly perhaps, it also resembles a glorified version of the giant Soviet blocks one sees in Eastern Europe. That could explain a lot. Whatever, Cyprusgrad is quite possibly the most soulless and unattractive place we’ve ever stayed in, yet it’s clearly going to appeal to many. One man’s meat is another man’s poison. 

With both the early rain and its attendant rainbow subsided, we walk down Concrete Street to the nearest coffee house, which looks like a wannabe Starbucks except that the coffee is, unexpectedly, quite drinkable. Trying not to get too tortured by our surroundings, we discuss where to go today to escape Cyprusgrad. 

We head out of the jungle, hit the coast and turn left, through Bogaz and out towards the guitar neck at the island’s north east tip, an area described on line as “wild” and “untouched”. Oh, yes please….

Escaping Cyprusgrad: The Better Parts Of The East Coast

There’s a palpable air of relief in the car as we drive past the little harbour at Bogaz, knowing now that the horrors of Cyprusgrad are behind us, at least for a few hours. The land opens up to olive groves, fruit trees and even vineyards, then ploughed fields and vegetable crops, and at last there isn’t a high rise or a construction site to be seen.

Turning east into the start of the island’s guitar neck, we are, somewhat ominously, suddenly on a brand new roadway of pristine black tarmac. Ominous because, why build a new road to nowhere unless you have development plans? We decide not to dwell on that thought and instead just enjoy the change of scenery for what it is. Eventually the new roadway runs out and we are back on old roads, after a while coming to reach the small town of Dipkarpaz where in a pastiche of its history the mosque and the church sit just a few yards apart.

Now we’re on the narrowing guitar neck peninsula, the road deteriorating step by step, mile by mile, until eventually the game is one of avoiding the worst potholes rather than negotiating traffic. It’s a huge relief to be out here and away from the claustrophobia of intense new build, out where farming is still the income source and wildlife is still free. As the land narrows, the Med makes appearances on each side, blue glimpses to our left and then glorious glinting expanses to our right.

Small coves begin to peep up from the rocky coastline until eventually a hand painted wooden sign points down a tiny track: “Golden Beach”. Taking the track as far as we can without a 4×4, we walk the last quarter mile through mature sand dunes to reach a huge sweeping strand which absolutely lives up to the name on that wooden sign. There are probably less than ten people dotted along the big golden beach; the sun is warm with a gentle breeze, the crystal clear Med sparkles, bright white surf flings itself over the unseen sandy shelf. Throwing our bodies into the sea feels like liberation. We are ourselves again.

Back in the car after swims and dozes, we resume our journey along the peninsula, passing the unusual St Andrew’s Monastery, a pilgrimage site due to its healing waters where, despite its isolated location, a group of stallholders have religious keepsakes and good luck charms for sale by the bucket load, presumably clinging on to the hope that just a handful of pilgrims with spare cash turn up today. Michaela window shops but doesn’t buy.

Before the monastery and with the road deteriorating further, we come to the gateway and cattle grid which signals the boundary of the Karpaz National Park. A pale coloured fox, almost camouflaged against the sandy ground, beats a stealthy retreat as we wander out amongst the scrub, its daily routine disturbed by our interruption. Inquisitive donkeys come to see if we have any food for them, poking their long noses towards us and even through the car windows when we get back on the trail. 

The wild donkey population of Karpaz, thought to be as high as 2000 in number, are direct descendants of the animals left behind by the Greek farmers displaced by the 1974 invasion and the creation of the Green Line. Judging by the way the donkeys surround the car, the 2023 gangs are well accustomed to sharing the picnics of visitors. When eventually the road becomes too rugged for our modest saloon car, we stand at the clifftop, gaze out across the beautiful blue, and breathe in the scent of wild thyme lacing the otherwise pure clean air. Too soon it’s time to head back.

Darkness falls as we consume delicious grilled fish right at the water’s edge a few miles short of Cyprusgrad, the soothing sound of the waves providing the best possible soundtrack for the moment. We’ve staved off our return to the high rise jungle until a point where we can go indoors, shut out the world, and sleep till morning.

Morning in Cyprusgrad is heralded not by the sounds of muezzins or cockerels but by a melange of cement mixers, tipper trucks and piledrivers. Sunrise is filtered through clouds of dust. 

If we needed any further reminder that Cyprusgrad wasn’t a great choice of place to stay, our visit to Famagusta aka Gazimagusa provides it, its ancient sand coloured ruins and proud city walls giving an appealing city dimension which we haven’t really seen since Morocco. Cathedrals converted to mosques, a Venetian palace, dungeons, archways and city gates; churches of various religious denominations, hamams and monasteries, all at different stages of preservation and decay, and all tucked into the compact area encircled by the robust, powerful walls.

The Othello Castle, renamed such after Shakespeare placed the murder of Desdemona within its confines, looks over the working harbour from just behind the Sea Gate. Flocks of tourist groups, presumably off cruise ships, disgorge from coaches to take in the sights, and half of the city streets lack a proper surface, but Famagusta is alive and welcoming and is without doubt the greener grass of the other side compared to Cyprusgrad. Ah well, in a trip of this length we were never going to get everything right.

And so we move on to the very last place of a tour which has lasted well over three months since we set out on July 3rd, and take it from us there is absolutely nothing sad whatsoever about leaving Cyprusgrad behind. We never did get to meet our host here, and only during our stay as the dark truths of this place revealed themselves, did the significance of his name dawn on us. It’s Sergei. 

Leaving the huge new urban sprawl behind we head off in the general direction of the rental car drop-off point at Ercan, first calling in at the ancient city of Salamis. One of several ancient Greek cities of that name, this Salamis was according to legend founded by a Greek warrior forced into effective exile for failing to succeed in battle. 

Later incarnations saw occupation by the Romans, Byzantines and Christians, the site being a thriving and important port location which was at one time the capital of the island. Today the ruins are extensive and impressive, occupied these days not by a race of humans but by an impressively large and varied lizard and gecko population.

After a brief call at the small St Barnabas monastery, we say a last farewell to the very last rental car of the trip and head to our final destination, the divided capital city of Nicosia, so divided that the part we will occupy doesn’t even bear that name.

The Lefkosa Half Of Nicosia

A small sign saying “Pacific Car Rental return point” is all there is to guide us at Ercan/Lefkosa airport, and with no office presence, it’s soon clear that we have to phone Pacific for them to come and collect the car. 

“I have no drivers just now”, she says when we call, “send me photographs of the car and leave the key under the driver’s mat, we will pick up the car later”.

This means that we leave an unmanned rental car parked on double yellow lines immediately outside the airport terminal where it will probably stay untouched for at least a couple of hours – just imagine the consequences if you did that at a UK airport!

We are fascinated to explore Lefkosa, the northern half of the divided city of Nicosia, even though our method of entry in to Cyprus means that we’re not permitted to cross the partition line and so are restricted to the Turkish side only. Known as “North Nicosia” by the Greeks and by most of the rest of the world, the name Nicosia is rarely used at all on the Turkish side where the name Lefkosa prevails. 

The Green Line partition which stretches coast to coast to split the island in two, passes right through the centre of the city, with only a couple of permitted crossing points within the city limits. We covered the background to the 1974 split of the island and the creation of the partition in a previous post so we won’t repeat it now; suffice to say that despite recent relaxations of rules there remain tensions here which surface from time to time.

However for the most part the evidence would suggest that the wall is a badge that the population, on this side at least, wear with an element which almost seems to be pride and definitely contains humour – for instance, we spot trendy bars named “Barricade” and “The Wall” both very close to the Green Line.

It’s all quite unique – Europe’s only divided city and the World’s only divided capital – and it’s very odd to see the different ways the divide is constructed and maintained. After all, it is these days a “soft border”, in other words, all you need to cross the line either way is your passport (unless of course, like us, you’re illegal), yet the barricades away from the crossing points look like those from a war zone. Streets are cut in half, neighbouring houses are in different territory, separated by anything from lofty walls to steel sheeting capped with barbed wire.

Here’s a selection of shots of different parts of the wall…. (note the “no photos” signs, we had to be sneaky)…..

We keep finding ourselves drawn to barricaded street after barricaded street, there’s a kind of quasi morbid fascination in something so peculiar, something which is such a tangible measure of just how stupid the human race can be. Still, if it keeps the peace…

The effect of the partition on Nicosia/Lefkosa is not a breakeven, Lefkosa is significantly smaller than the Greek “half” of the capital. This uneven split has a helpful consequence for travellers to this side of the city – it is very compact with virtually all of the interesting sights tucked into the tight area between the ancient city walls and the not-so-ancient partition. Churches and cathedrals turned into mosques are a common sight, where often the transition is no more than the addition of a minaret and the clearance of the interior.

Within this compact centre lie two small but attractive squares either side of the Selimiye Mosque, one of which is centred by a majestic Venetian column brought in from Salamis. Just north of the column and towards the Kyrenia Gate are the old houses of the Samanbahçe quarter, a cramped area of contiguous homes built on what was previously agricultural land. These small houses, each one of identical design, were an early example of social housing constructed during British rule to help with the city’s booming population. 

Lefkosa has what we might term a “lived in” look; there aren’t many pretensions in the town and there are plenty of derelict houses as well as humble dwellings in untidy streets. That’s not meant to be an insult: on the contrary, Lefkosa is a proper, slightly gritty town which feels very real, and is all the more welcoming for that.

There is another joy here though – one which for us is extremely welcome after our previous two locations in Cyprus. The narrow streets close to the mosques and close to the central market and the Ledra Street crossing point form a relaxed, laid back quarter filled with kebab restaurants, coffee houses and bars. Gentle music plays, the draught Efes beer flows, smoke from hookah pipes drifts up the alley ways and the whole area overflows with the feel of calm, enjoyable evenings. 

It’s a bit like being in a smaller town on mainland Turkey, or the Alsancak district of Izmir – a million miles away from the soulless concrete sprawl of Cyprusgrad and feeling, it has to be said, absolutely nothing like a capital city. There’s more of a content small town feel than anything else, pleasantly surprising given its proximity to a solid and contentious boundary. But for us it’s a welcome ending to what has not been a totally edifying visit to this country.

The two evenings in Lefkosa are splendid and we could easily relax and enjoy more, though in terms of sightseeing we’ve probably done all that there is to do in our single day here. Without being able to see the “Nicosia” side, landmarks are we suppose somewhat limited.

Our last morning dawns. The mosque which is just yards from the window of our final base just happens to deliver possibly the loudest call to prayer so far, breaking the morning quiet at precisely the moment our alarm sounds to send us on our way to our early flight. Our status as illegal entrants means a flight to Istanbul and a second one on to Heathrow, a seamless and stress free journey but a little on the slow side, taking 14 hours door to door.

And so we’re home, our long and eventful journey through a Mediterranean summer is over, a trip which took us over land and sea all the way from our front door to the Sahara Desert without a single flight. A trip with many highs and a handful of lows, with lessons about the reality of world politics, with some fabulous, unforgettable experiences, with wine and song and those utterly memorable pintxos of northern Spain and Seville. A trip of 114 days, our longest yet.

Time now to reflect on it all. Time to get the maps out and plan the next one too.