BITTER LEMONS

Wed driven on the uncertain road all the way from Episkopi, where we were based, to Nicosia and then over the range of hills masquerading as  mountains, passing St Hilarions Crusader castle, down to Kyrenia. It hadnt been far really, perhaps fifty miles, but it felt like three times that in our new Ford Anglia, our first car.

We had passed through a few villages separated by miles of old gnarled olive and carob trees behind ramshackle stone walls. Now and again an overburdened lorry passed by, expelling a stream of diesel smoke. Similarly overburdened donkeys trotted under loads of wood, their thin legs just visible, encouraged by raps from the riders stick.

We booked into our hotel, the Dome, a rambling old-fashioned building on the harbour front. Our room was spacious, with old furniture but there was a stunning view across the sea to the mountains of Turkey forty miles opposite. The Dome was the epitome of fashion and luxury in those days, 1957, but we had decided to splash out on our little holiday, a few days away from the cliff-top garrison on the south coast. Today it would seem bare and uncomfortable, but that was then, this is now.

There were the three of us, Anne, myself and Andrew, two and a half. We ate in the hotel dining room, white table cloths and a hovering Greek waiter. Adequate straight-forward unfussy meals, English menu, under a high ceiling. The hotel did not appear full, we were unhurried.

During the next few days we toured the area, the east west strip north of the Kyrenia range. Good fertile farmland crammed with small orange farms, some of which were owned and run by retired ex-India military and civil servants. Cyprus was recognised as a good place to settle down, better than the cold and wet of England after the years of heat in India.

We visited Newmans farm, also run by a British family. It was the only farm on the island with real cows. We luxuriated in the shade of oak trees and drank glasses of cold milk, sitting at wood benches. I took photos with my new 35 mm camera, colour slides that are today stored with dozens of others somewhere in the loft.

Kyrenia was then still a small town, a mix of Greeks, Turks and British, Perhaps more of a large village. It was a singularly beautiful place, set at the edge of a startling blue sea and the rising ground of the range, dark green with orchards and grass. Scraggy sheep and goats wandered among the olives, bells at the necks tinkling prettily, a boy shepherd perhaps sitting on a stone, playing a flute he had carved himself.

Most of poorer flat-topped houses were the colour of the stone and earth from which they were made, light orange-brown and flat roofed. The small gardens often contained a stone oven under an olive tree. The better houses were white-washed and red tiled. Bougainvillaea climbed up houses everywhere, purple against white walls. Red Cannas grew along with beds of tomatoes and watermelons in the gardens.

We had brought with us a copy of Bitter Lemons, by Lawrence Durrell. The camp bookshop had a plentiful supply, it being newly published. It was the story of his time on the Island, he had only just left after working for the Government. Consequently, the book covered the history of the island and his view of the darkening political situation. The developing tragedy of Greek against Turk against British was around us. Had we known it, we were in the last days of our freedom to come and go as we pleased, before terrorism penned us in our garrison home.

Already we had tasted the enmity when we had lived for a while in Limmasol. One of our Senior technical NCOs had been shot dead in his car as he had waited outside a shop for his wife. The bells of the local church rang out the rhythm of E-O-KA as each time incident was signalled. Limmasol was in bounds one hour and out the next. Our house shutters were fastened firmly to at night for fear of a lobbed hand grenade. Small boys on their way to school spat at our bungalow as they passed.

But Kyrenia seemed more relaxed, perhaps because our money was more important to the economy there, Yachts bobbed in the harbour, there was an air of relaxation. This was the place where we went to get away from the heat of the plains the other side of the range.

But Bitter Lemons was also an evocative, lyrical and humorous description of Cyprus and its peoples in more peaceful times. It was delight to read. One afternoon we decided to seek out Clitos tavern. This had featured in the book as the place where Durrell had passed many hours at the bar. He had written about the characters that frequented it, and there was a photo of Clito, the owner,

It turned out to be quite small and very primitive. Blinded by the sunlight we carefully stepped down into the dark interior. The walls were lined with large barrels of wine and brandy, the bar little more than a narrow benchtop. We recognised Clito from the photograph, thin and with a smiling face he welcomed us into his tavern. He had achieved fame from appearing in the book and was not surprised to see the three of us come into what was normally a Greek only establishment.

There were a couple of others there as I remember. There was some discussion, I felt about our presence, but nothing overtly serious. We ordered brandy sours and a soft drink for Andrew and sat perched on high stools. Clito seemed pleased to see us and before long we were in animated conversation, our few words of Greek and his fractured English. We got along fine, and the ambience improved markedly as the Brandy sours passed across the counter.

I seem to remember a lot of talking, goodness knows what about, a fair degree of laughter and before we knew it a couple or so hours had passed, Time to go. I produced my copy of Bitter Lemons for him to sign, which he did with a flourish across his photo with a few words of Greek which I have never had translated. I asked for the bill for our excellent afternoons entertainment and was waived away, payment refused. We parted after vigorous handshakes and departed up into the early evening sunshine, I having left sufficient, and I hope more, funds, to cover what had been a unique experience.

Sadly, we never returned. Clito has now in all probability gone, his little tavern demolished to make way for a Turkish supermarket, the town swollen with new intakes of population, the Greeks exiled to the south, British properties seized without compensation, a haven of heaven gone for all time.

And yet, the Greeks had brought the Turkish invasion of 1974 on their own heads. They not kept to the  terms of the 1960 Settlement of the troubles which had been brokered by the British. After the Settlement we had handed most of the Island over to a joint Greek and Turk Government.

I remember Kyrenia from the first time I had seen it in 1946 when I had walked the last two miles down the mountain road into the most beautiful place I had ever seen. Our Army Jeep had suffered a punctured tyre, and as there were enough hands to change the wheel I left them to it. I sat drinking lemon squash in the hot still afternoon, the dry leaves of a tree rustling in a faint breeze, watching out for the others to join us.

There were major changes when we returned for our visit to Clito eleven years later. Now, another forty three later still, I do not want to think what Kyrenia is like, the houses, the cars, the noise. Seeing the horrors of Aya Napa on the south side of the island on Television is enough to stiffen my resolve.

Our copy of Durrells Bitter Lemons sits on our bookshelf, the yellow cover torn, with a suggestion of the faint aroma that grows on an old book.

No, I shall never go back to the Island of Bitter Lemons. Let the memories stay as they are.

Max Frost

6 Nov 2000