How to spend a long weekend on Cyprus

At breakfast time we were contemplating the catering options at Gatwick. The 1,406 calorie fry-up at Wetherspoonswas £12.99, pint of lager optional – with only a half-hour wait for a table. 

By lunch we were looking down at the birthplace of Aphrodite, eating grilled sea bream and sipping a chilled Xynisteri white. Petra tou Romiou is located both in myth, as the birthplace of the Greek goddess of love, and also in reality, just off the dual carriageway that links Paphos and Limassol in the southwestern corner of Cyprus. Her birthplace isn’t quite the dainty scallop shell depicted by Botticelli, though – it looks more like Durdle Door might if it were located in the azure waters of the eastern Mediterranean rather than the grey English Channel. 

I’ve lived among the Cypriot diaspora in north London for more than 20 years ­– Southgate reputedly has more residents of Cypriot heritage than anywhere else in the world outside the island. Yet somehow I’d never actually been to Cyprus. This trip was to finally tick that box – and to see if there was more to the place than those seven-days-of-guaranteed-sun summer holidays it seems to specialise in. 

So the restaurant above the birthplace of Aphrodite was a promising start, both aesthetically and, at 35 euros for two fish lunches with meze and wine, economically too. 

That brings me to one of the key themes of the trip: wine. They have been practising viniculture here for 5,000 years and we only had five days to catch up.

The historical aspect of wine on Cyprus is perhaps best summed up by a panel in the delightful 2nd century Roman mosaic outside Paphos, discovered by a ploughing farmer in 1962. Here we can see Dionysus – aka Bacchus – instructing the first mortal, Ikarios of Athens, in how to make wine. Ikarios then gives samples of his first batch to a group of passing shepherds who consequently become inebriated. But in their confused state they conclude that Ikarios has poisoned them – and promptly stone him to death. The first drunks to act rashly, but by no means the last. 

In the spirit of Dionysus we visited the Tsangarides family winery in Lemonia, where third-generation vintner Loukia Tsangarides explained how Cyprus was once one of the world’s leading producers before new world undercutting saw historic vineyards being either ripped out or replanted with ‘international varieties’ like the twin Sauvignons. 

Lately they are trying to go down the more boutique road and reaffirming their faith in the island’s historic grape varieties like that Xynisteri. The whites on offer at the winery were as clean and crisp as a Sauvignon but much more interesting – while theMaratheftiko red, with its floral nose and sour plum notes, was simply astonishing for just under a tenner. 

Unlike Ikarios’s shepherds, I was making use of the spittoon throughout this tasting and others as this trip involved a lot of driving. Both Paphos and particularly Limassol, our two bases, have been engulfed in endless suburban sprawl in an ongoing little-regulated, Chinese-funded building boom which, once you’ve left the respective old towns, can make you want to head for the hills. 

Fortunately those hills are always close by, running east-to-west right down the island’s spine, so you are never far from cooler, calmer retreat upwards. As long as you have a hire car. So we spent a good deal of time driving in and around the Troodos mountains, stopping off regularly at interesting points. These included:

• The village of Omodos where the monastery contains not only the relics of numerous saints but also what’s said to be a small sliver of the actual true cross itself. Note ‘said to be’. 
• Cedar Valley – we didn’t see a single other car as we drove this spectacular and atmospheric mountain homage to one of the world’s great trees.
• Kykkos – another monastery dating back to the 11th century with the most lavish murals (where I saw a monk in full robes playing on his iPhone: Greek unorthodox).
• Forest Lodge – an art deco mountain retreat with something of The Shining about it. Almost unchanged since it was built in 1931. Daphne du Maurier wrote parts of Rebecca here.
• A series of small, family-run museums showcasing traditional crafts such as halloumi-making – the homemade stuff being a transcendental experience compared with the more rubbery fare we’re used to in Britain. We also stumbled on a one-off ‘apple festival’ where they did everything imaginable – vinegar, cider, candy, brandy – except toffee apples, a gap in the market.  
• A short hike up to the Caledonia waterfalls–so named because Victorian-era Britswere reminded of Scotland.

Speaking of Brits, we have a big footprint here. In a bit of proto-imperialism Richard the Lionheart invaded as long ago as 1191 – and Cyprus was part of the British Empire as late as 1960. They still drive on the left and you see street names like ’Isle of Wight Road’.

But it has passed through many hands: Greek, Assyrian, Egyptian, Persian, Roman, Byzantine, Norman English, Knight Templar, French crusader, Venetian, Arab and Ottoman. They all had a go before we had our second attempt and then finally returned Cyprus to the Greeks once again as the sun set on the pink portions of the world map. I think of those poor Cypriots of yore as akin to modern day Sunderland football fans: greeting the fall of each regime with joy in the hope that their new masters will be an improvement… only to find that too often they’re not.  

The most recent nation to depart are the Russians. Until last year, I’m told, Limassol was teeming with them. Now Mad Vlad has killed their holiday options. You can see why Russians liked it, though. Cyprus is a lot nearer Jerusalem, Damascus and Cairo than it is Athens and although, I gather, it is challengingly hot in high summer, the winter months barely last from December to February. Hardly Moscow. 

Of course the strife for Cyprus didn’t end with joining Greece in 1960. It was followed by the partial Turkish invasion in 1974, one of the causes of so many islanders moving to Southgate. And that’s where, after five days, I had to reluctantly return – after a long weekend that’s well worth repeating.