rocks became fields. Vines appeared. Dotted around them men, labourers who had
left their construction jobs for a month or two, to harvest the grapes..
Tala we headed higher still. The next clue was a poem. It told us to pass an orange
grove and referred to gossip and letters.
We scratched our heads and let the road
lead us. Up, the road wound, until we arrived at another village, this time with
impossibly narrow streets, built for donkeys, not cars.
white villas clung together. Wrinkled men eyed us between puffs on their pipes.
Geraniums nodded from their window boxes. We abandoned the jeep and set off to
Maybe there was a post office. Seemed unlikely. Just maybe. We began to ask.
old man pointed with the bowl of his pipe, wondering what the hell four English
people were doing posting letters this far up and looking so damned anxious about
quickly settled himself back down and took a deep, relaxing puff. The day was
too warm, too beautiful to worry about anything. Tomorrow. Worry can always come
tomorrow in Cyprus.
of this infinitely sensible rule we scurried off, as fast as our sandals could
take us and were rewarded with finding a tiny white, one-roomed building.