Writing about cycling for this post feels a bit odd as it took place in an ex's homeland of Essex. No, I mean her half Greek-Cypriot heritage obviously.
To be honest, I had put the thought of it into the back of a cupboard, and forgotten about it. Nevertheless, it is a country that I cycled a bit in. Along the southern coast near Larnaca is beauty, splattered with lager-louts. Talk about a sudden change in the way of life for a generation of families who still remember the worst of the awful conflict 45 years ago, as they clashed with the Turkish at Varosha/Famagusta, depending on the perspective one has on the event. Either way, it is and will remain a ghost town.
I rode to the the frontline, which reminded me very much of the barricade from Les Misérables, just nastier. (I assure you, I am not posh). Picture sandbags, ladders and gun turrets. I was shocked and became very interested in what happened as it was the first time I had heard about war first-hand since my Pops' stories of World War 2. Now though, I was old enough to want to learn what caused the battle and what the resulting effect is. I hope that the result is not just that there is a guided and themed bike tour of the area, which would be a bit uncomfortable and likely draw too much attention from the resident armed soldiers for my liking.
Cycling was more of a enhancement to a relaxing beach holiday. I'm not very good at doing nothing, so within a day or two I was itching to do something other than lounge around a resort. This is probably the moment I realised that my holidays to new places would nearly always involve exploring with a bicycle.
There is not much to write about my experience of cycling here, no anecdotes or quips, just the memory of cruising along the southern coastline, sometimes in peace, but other times grimacing at the sound of bad-boyz in their pimped-up rides, revving along the promenade. I'm sure that there is some stunning riding to be had here.