POTATO TIME™

We take a taxi to the closest supermarket, and fill a trolley with cheese, crackers, olives, and double rations of hummus and tzatziki. There are also some of the biggest watermelons I have ever seen, but we decide against picking one up, as it would take the two of us to carry it. There is a large fresh meat counter we ignore, as well as homemade soft cheeses floating in buckets like preserved brains. We have to wait for another taxi to take us to the apartment we are staying in, called for us very kindly by the cashier, and my friend is concerned that the food, particularly the butter, will spoil. I am too warm to worry.

As soon as we arrive at the apartment we set about creating a feast. Mozzarella and tomato salad with olive oil, salt, and sticky balsamic glaze, very soft Irish butter with spinach crackers, and smooth Cypriot hummus, which is better than any I have ever had in the UK.

We eat until we can’t talk anymore and then finish off a dish of sliced Persian cucumbers and cherry tomatoes. It is dark by the time we really finish, as we are now two hours ahead, and many miles closer to the equator. We brave the mosquitos to nip into the courtyard and stare at the complex pool. I immediately meet a black and white cat with a fluffy brush of a tail. I am such a soft touch that I quickly go back inside before I am trying to snuggle something that definitely has fleas. I pop out again later when called by another cat’s meows through the double doors. This one is so thin and muscular, he looks like an Olympic sprinter. This one I fuss a little more, as he has much less fur.

We wind down in the air-conditioning of the living room, listening to a summer club anthems playlist, and eating a slightly chemical tasting chocolate croissant each. Before going to bed, I message my husband a reminder that I love him and our own three cat children more than all the Cyprus strays.

I haven’t checked my passport since we arrived.

I wake up at 4am UK time, but thankfully 6 am in Cyprus. It is already hot at this time of the morning, but I happily spend an hour or so reading on the sofa and eating a large bowl of children’s fortified chocolate cereal, as if I myself am a child again on a serene Sunday morning.

By 8 am we are by the pool. I am slathered in two layers of £25 a bottle factor 50 sun cream, and despite repeated applications after dipping in the pool, I will still find a small strip of reddened skin over the soft skin of my inner right arm. My friend is using a spray on tanning oil, and we are enjoying the sun in similar, yet different ways. I hug the shade and cover my feet and arms when the palm lattice sunshade let’s through small dapples of light. The cicadas buzz so loudly in the morning it is like sitting next to an electric fence. The birds are loud as well, cooing and chirping, and frequently fluttering down to the pool edge to dip their talons and beaks into the water.

The first swim I take in the pool is paradise. My arthritic hips and knees are cushioned by the water, which I know is only blue from the turquoise tiles that line the perimeter, but which still makes me feel as though I have entered another world.

A lunch we realise we have not successfully purchased halloumi, but some other soft and tasteless tofu style cheese. I abandon my portion and instead focus on the remaining pitta and hummus.

After lunch we head back outside, chasing the shade as the sun burns overhead. I am delighted to be joined by the black and white cat from the night before, who promptly curls up under my sun lounger, using my pruning body as his own personal sunshade.

By 3pm we are both forced inside. The sun is now directly overhead, and there is not an inch of shade across the whole courtyard. Even the most dedicated sunbather, brown as a cracked walnut, who beat us to the pool that morning, has now left. We dip corn-heavy Cypriot Doritos into tzatziki, and marvel at the apartment’s air-conditioning system, that makes it necessary for us both to abandon our soggy swimwear out on the patio to dry, as we are starting to feel a chill. It is then that I discover my small patch of sunburn, which I gripe over, and slather with a thick layer of moisturiser.

At 5pm we open the bottle of rosé that I chose almost at random from the supermarket’s selection. After a brief pause when we both forget to remove the foil before attempting to pop the cork, we are delighted to discover that ‘Mimi Kiss’ wine is a fizzy Italian Moscato, as sweet as squash, and the perfect accompaniment to an evening spent reading in companiable silence.

We swim again when it is shady enough to do so and then pull-on shorts and shirts for the 15-minute walk to the beach. We find ourselves temporarily locked out of apartment when the tie on my floaty sleeve becomes trapped in the closing door, wedging it shut, and trapping me in place. We end up having to rip the sleeve to separate me and the door, and even then, the remaining fabric causes 5 minutes of delay, as we have to unravel it to finally pull it from the doorframe. I vow to have nothing to do with the door the remainder of the holiday.

The sun is setting surprisingly quickly as we approach the beach, and the beach bar playing the hottest summer songs of 2003. My friend is brave enough to take a dip in the Mediterranean waters. I am not, as I, unlike her, have not brought sensible elasticated beach shoes to keep pebbles at bay, and nearly lose my flipflops to a small wave. I snap a million photos for her, to properly mark her daring.

We sit on sun loungers to watch the sunset as she dries off, and marvel that just across the ocean from us is Egypt. What seems like a whole other world, and a whole other continent. We grab a couple of canned Smirnoff Ice from the beach bar and contemplate the itinerary for the wedding tomorrow. We are getting picked up from the apartment by coach, so have nothing to do until gone 2pm.

The air on the walk back is now thicker than marmalade, but the baby bats that fly overhead are an easy distraction from the discomfort. We take a final night-time dip in the pool, the electric lights glowing like bioluminescent plankton. We are joined by some of the other guests at the complex, who are mostly displaced Ukrainians, women with children now as tanned as the locals, who spent most of the day playing with unicorn pool floats and water pistols, just as children should.

We shower before a light dinner of melba toast, with butter and wildflower honey, and spend the remainder of the evening testing our celebrity and movie knowledge with a quiz game. I think that I know more celebrities, and she knows more movies.

I did take my passport with me on the trip to the beach, but as we ended up stranded outside, this was probably a good call.