Kitty in the Lemon Groves.

“Journeys, like artists, are born and not made. A thousand differing circumstances contribute to them, few of them willed or determined by the will - whatever we may think” (Lawrence Durrell)

These heady summer temperatures have brought to my mind the halcyon days of when I lived in Cyprus.
The first thing that I was greeted with when I first stepped off the Aeroflot, was the feeling of being hit in the face by a warm, wet towel. The smell of burnt tundra filled my nose. The Sun God assaulted my eyes, and the okra landscape shimmered in the haze. I could hear the cicadas “zin-zigging” in the eucalyptus trees. I fell in love.
I spent many months each year in Cyprus with an English family of some great charm and hospitality. They originated from Kensington in London, and despite having the countenance of the upper middle classes, they had at their disposal natural charm and a pleasing earthiness.
I was given a hammock strewn between a clementine tree and a lemon tree to sleep in. It was surprisingly comfortable. I could curl up like a kitten and stare at the Milky Way, planets and rogue satellites. On the breeze I could hear the bouzouki being played at the local outdoor swimming pool for some elaborate wedding reception. And as a chorus of small green frogs added their musical contribution, I would fall asleep. I was in heaven.
I spent my days picking through the stones of a neighbours field looking for artefacts from a temple devoted to Aphrodite. Small “corys” could be found. These were small sculptures of women in togas, these were for devotional worship to the Goddess. And whatever was placed in their hands was the gift to her, such as rosemary to remember a loved one. The landscape was filled with wild herbs, and the smell of thyme made me feel overwhelmed .The Butterflies seemed as large as saucers with their garish, strobing wings in flight.
My young companions spoke Cypriot Greek with a native tongue, and I faltered to keep up. They fooled me often about it, teaching me to order a “wanker” in Greek at the local tavern. I eventually learned to paraphrase the last word spoken, so everyone thought I understood. It seemed to work well, as the villagers became so fond of me they gave me my own Greek name, Kyria Karinoula.