AS MY HUSBAND is Greek Cypriot — via Birmingham — we were always aware that our two small daughters would, at some point, have to embark on a
Roots-style quest for their heritage. Personally I didn’t think this would be too difficult. After all, judging by their grandparents, this would consist primarily of shopping obsessively at John Lewis, and shouting out all the answers on
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, only to sigh disappointedly at Chris Tarrant should he disagree.
However, grandparents Yia-yia and Papou were insistent that there are aspects of Cypriot culture that they have not successfully been able to export to Solihull, and that the children must, at some point, be exposed to the homeland — and at an age young enough that they get a taste for roast songbirds, and shouting Pesevengi! at slow drivers.
So here we are, on a scorched hillside high above the Venetian port-town of Polis, north-western Cyprus, visiting Uncle Yiorgos’s farm. Behind us lies a table under a pergola of vines, spread with roast lamb, tomatoes in olive oil, big white loaves and cold Coca-Cola. But before we can eat, we must be given the tour of Yiorgos’s livestock. Four-year-old Dora and two-year-old Eavie have already been charged at by a pig, which has left them unwilling to let go of my leg.
Yiorgos’s grandchildren — puzzled by their unhappiness — keep trying to cheer them up by dangling baby goats in front of them. The baby goats are all horn, hoof and hard knee, and are screaming at the top of their lungs — being handed one is rather like grappling with a mandrake root.
The smell, however, is not from the goats, but the cheese-shed — a dark, gloomy lean-to where the home-made cheeses are drying out. Each is kept in the leg of a pair of old tights, and hung from the ceiling. The impression is of a cave of rank dairy stalactites, encircled by flies.
“At least it’s all organic and free range,” my husband comforts, breathing through his mouth. Then Yiorgos opens the door to another shed. “Na tes!” he says.
This shed is airless and dark, and filled, from corner to corner, with stringy, greasy, bug-eyed chickens, who are attacking each other with poo-stained claws. But of course, Yiorgos doesn’t want free-range chickens. He’s too busy spending every day following his sheep across the hillside, slowly burning to a deep-purple colour in the scorching heat. He looks around 80 although, he is, in fact, 58. “You see why I left?” Papou says, slapping Yiorgos on the back.
“Why I came to Birmingham! This is all too hard! It stinks! It will kill you! You look terrible!” To be fair, when we eat Yiorgos’s 60-denier cheese, it is lovely. And towards the end of the visit, Dora does become Cypriot enough to hold a goat — although when she discovers it has poo on its tail, she starts crying again.
A child’s cultural heritage is all fine and well, but I think, like most things, it’s something best discovered from a base camp in a five-star hotel. Hotel Almyra is surely one of the classiest hotels in Cyprus. Sitting on a clear, shingled, swimmable beach in Paphos, it is less Eurotrash than its sister hotel, the Annabelle, and styled in a serene, minimalist, Tyler Brûlé way.
Whereas most of Cyprus is decorated in dark, varnished wood and overpowering florals, the Almyra has Philippe Starck fixtures, waffle linen, floor-to-ceiling windows and Goldfrapp playing serenely in the lobby. Outside, the pool is made of black slate — swimming around it in the early morning, it reflects the sky perfectly. Occasionally, pink hibiscus flowers fall in the water as you scull. The Athenian cocktail waiter makes perfect mojitos, and brings them to the poolside. It isn’ t a particularly taxing existence.
The main reason for picking the Almyra — other than that it is in Paphos, which is by far the most pleasant of Cyprus’s seaside towns — is because of its semi-legendary child-friendliness. A kids’ pool, a kids’ club, child menus, free milk and cookies at bed time, and the Baby Go Lightly service, where buggy, cot, bottles, high-chair, nappies, potty and car seat can all be ordered to await you. With Paphos airport just 15 minutes away, it’s actually quicker and cheaper to fly to Cyprus and stay at the Almyra than it is to drive down to Fowey Hall in Cornwall at half-term. And, of course, a great deal warmer.
The only drawback — apart from the uncharacteristically impractical showers, which drench the floor — is the food. The buffet breakfast would please only someone from whatever nation it is that has tinned peaches to start the day — and the restaurant food is over-priced, uninstinctive nouvelle. With a former chef from Nobu on board, and situated 50 yards from the sea, tinned tuna in a Niçoise salad seems rather mean. And the Greek barbecue on the beach would horrify any real Greek — especially since it costs £21 a head.
However, Paphos has two excellent restaurants which, let’s be frank, is all — along with a Pizza Express (52-53 Poseidon Avenue, on the sea-front) — you need on a week-long holiday. Fetta’s Corner (33 Ioanni Agrotti) is a five-minute drive from the hotel and on a picturesque, if busy, crossroads. In a kitchen the size of a cupboard, hand-cut chips are fried in a smoking black cauldron of oil, while the Greek salad comes with tart, misshapen tomatoes and a feta cheese Neal’s Yard Dairy would kill for. A £5 plate of sweet, charred pork souvla could easily feed four, and the olives went beautifully with the house red. We ate here four nights in a row, and still fancied coming back on the fifth.
Eventually, however, it faced knock-out competition from 7 St Georges Tavern (www. 7stgeorgestavern.com). This is the dream Cypriot taverna — a vine-covered veranda up in the hills, serving home-made, organic wines, cheeses, meats, pickles, breads, vegetables and puddings. It’s basically the Cypriot Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons, run by local figurehead George, his English wife, Lara, and their chatty, cockney-sounding kids. If you want — and you probably will after a carafe of George’s chilled, sweet red wine — George will give you a tour of his larders: jars and jars of pickles and relishes, cured hams, cheeses wrapped in muslin, chillies hanging up to dry on a thread, and bread proving in huge brown bowls on the windowsill.
“People are amazed when they eat my salads,” he says, nibbling cheese as he walks. “They ask, how do your tomatoes taste so good? I say, because I grow them there,” George points to his fields out of the window, “chop them here,” George points to his wooden chopping board, “and serve them there.” He points to his candle-lit veranda. “You can’t screw that up! Hahaha!” It was while simultaneously patting one of George’s tiny, grey Burmese kittens and eating a huge hunk of crusty bread that Dora finally seemed to undergo a cultural epiphany about her Cypriot heritage. As she stared up into the sky, she let out a huge sigh. “It doesn’t smell here,” she said, before peacefully falling asleep in her chair.
NEED TO KNOW
Getting there: Caitlin Moran and family travelled with ITC Classics (01244 355527, www.itcclassics.co.uk), which offers seven nights’ B&B at Hotel Almyra in a Garden View room from £565 to £979pp between January and April, and £285 to £295 per child under 12; flights included.
Further information: Cyprus Tourism Organisation (0900 1887744, brochure line, 60p per minute; www.visitcyprus.org.cy).
