Birds of a feather

Green blue lorikeets screech in a flowering pohutukawa
Sulphur hued cockatoos fly in glittering shower formation
Pigeons swoop down from roofs then scatter
Mynahs bounce across grass verges, ratcheting out opinions
Rosellas dive bomb tree to tree chattering all the while
Ibis as old as the island, pelican asleep on a post
The ubiquitous seagull and sparrow…

Across the water Jumbo jets glide to earth then roar to a halt

A380s quieter, more graceful, frightful shedding of feathers

320s buzz up and down to various destinations

777s 330s 737s and other metal winged breeds

Painted tails to represent the flocks of many nations

Kyrenia - an ancient and modern tale

Driving north from Agia Trias in Cyprus' south eastern corner, we cross a line that divides the island in two – Greek in the south, Turkish in the north. A few formalities must be observed. Traverse barbed wire fences, cross a strip of no man’s land, get checked at border posts at either end. Show passports, stamps on a separate piece of paper, check the boot of the car – and pay for extra insurance.

The road continues flat and straight for a while, to the outskirts of the capital. The city has not one or two, but four names, Lefkosia, Nicosia, Λευκωσία, Lefkoşa and a line through the centre. As if that will solve the problem. One sign is clear and provocative, a large Turkish flag emblazoned on the hillside for the viewing pleasure of residents south of the line.

The road starts spiraling up through hills, or are they mountains? Less signs of terracing and cultivation this side of the line than in Troodos, which is further west and south of the line. Equally beautiful though, but peppered with military installations, where signs are armed and no photos permitted. Sloping back down towards the north coast, we reach our destination.

Kyrenia is one of Cyprus’ nine ancient kingdoms and has been inhabited since at least 1000 BC and probably long before. The Phoenician scattered trading posts across a presumably unified island. By 600 BC, Egypt had taken over, but lost control to Persia. Ancient history is vague. Hard evidence of later colonization remains visible today.

Arabic writing carved in stone, vast remains of roman settlements, a 2300 year old shipwreck in a 1000 plus year old castle museum. (Click the photos to view full size)

The wreck is most enchanting. A still solid timber structure, a cargo of large, narrow based ceramic wine jars and mill stones, nails and sail rings preserved since long before the births of both this island's significant holy men. An archaeologist's dream, and the genuine articles on view for a very modest entrance fee.

Pictures of a rustic harbour scene recreate the port it might have come from, and fantasize the lives of apparently peaceful traders. What world was that? Presumably not the one when the Greco-Roman fort had to be built to protect inhabitants from Arab raids. Nor the one in which Richard, ‘coeur de leon’ captured the island from a Cypriot king, sold it briefly to the Knights Templar, then on to his cousin, the King of Jerusalem.

Part of the medieval port still stands beside fortified city walls, deep enough to enclose a church, a museum, reconstructed dungeons showing punishments of a bygone age, a shady courtyard cafe and more besides.

In the current period of calm following many storms, tourists are the only invading hordes. Their presence is harmless, their intentions benign. The only form of violence is ignorance and can easily be excused. The hosts are entirely hospitable and don’t take advantage where others might try. The site knows peace at last, but that line through the city is not far away. It is guarded by force and can only be crossed with consent.

The mythical cat

Local legend says that an ancient Egyptian queen brought cats to Cyprus because she missed her feline friends when she married her Cypriot prince charming and moved from the hot dry North African desert to the relative cool of this fertile island paradise. Ok, just to set the record straight, local legend provides the bones of that story and I made up the rest!

That there is no shortage of cats is unquestionably true, and they live very different lives to the pampered pets I know in other places. I haven’t seen a fat one yet (pack your bags Minnie!) Most seem to live in extended families, two, three, even four generations domiciled around the same garbage bin or fishing harbour. Though I have also spotted a few lone operators.

Probably they live everywhere, and it’s just that I happen to have been walking on or close to beaches when I’ve seen them. Many appear to be seaside dwellers. I wonder if they catch their own fish, or just sit on rocks to meditate in the early morning sun.

The sad side of the story is that they breed so prolifically that the population is considered too large to be sustainable. Some people feed them but not everyone is so kind, even to the cutest wee ones.

The option of neutering and releasing them has not caught on to any significant extent, and a 10 euro donation only pays for one cat. Like any kind of subsistence living, only the smart and the strong will survive.

The old town looks the same...

...but only in certain corners!

Liverpool is a very different place in 2010 to the run down bombed out city I used to visit back in the early '70s. I didn’t explore too much the first time around. Hitched into town in October '69, camped overnight outside the Empire Theatre box office – got front row tickets for a Rolling Stones concert and hitched back home again. Repeated the free travel route a month or so later for the gig and discovered Cat Stevens' Tea for the Tillerman waiting for the band to come on. Memories as clear as if it was yesterday – including getting my purse nicked with the tickets in it. I must have had an honest face back then as we had no problem getting in without them.

I hooked up with a cute, long haired (of course) flared jean-ed Liverpudlian guy called Dave and continued to visit for the next year or so. I remember a bombed out city centre, live music at O’Connors pub and the Kardomah Coffee House in the city centre. And of course The Cavern, which is like a shrine these days, well preserved with few alterations from when the ‘fab four’ played there between gigs in Hamburg's red light district and fame and fortune in America.

The docklands are a different story – restored and refurbished with smart accommodation, shops, restaurants and the Beatles Story museum. Strange to walk through a museum full of sights and sounds familiar from my younger days. Not the first time I've done it though. I found a same year model as my ex-boyfriend Albert's Hilman Hunter in a transport museum in Wanaka a few years back. The recordings of screaming girls, thick accents and fabulous old songs are a bit older. The number of young people coming to pay tribute to their parents’ favourite musos is remarkable.

I feel sad at the end of the display as a room dedicated to each of the Beatles reminds me George died of cancer, John was shot dead in the street, Paul lost the love of his life – also to cancer - then a large-ish chunk of his fortune to a less than enduring second marriage. Only Ringo’s room brings on the warm fuzzies. Thomas the Tank Engine, movies with wife Barbara Bach, solo records and a son following close in his footsteps.

The nostalgia rounds off with a flutter in the penny arcades (at 10p a go!) then fish and chips and mushy peas at OAP prices on the pier at Southport.

Turn back Whittington

Amusing to think what young Dick would find if he turned up now with his cat and a few possessions tied in a spotted hankie slung on the end of a stick. How would he perceive the hub of this ever so slightly faded empire and its own peculiar dash of decay? The gap between have and have not is as pronounced as ever. No member of this city’s large itinerant population is likely to become mayor today. Although someone has to win the lottery I suppose.

The history that justifies the word ‘Great’ in the title of this wee land reeks of more affluent days. Tourists still arrive in droves to snap up every detail.

But this is a land of contrasts, and my room in a rather splendid old hotel near Victoria Station is like well-heeled Edinburgh folk, who are said to wear fur coats but no knickers. Despite 3 degree overnight temperatures, there is no heating until I ask and a portable appliance is delivered by an East European bellboy. The price of an up market 4* hotel down under buys me a single bed, but no room to swing Dick's cat. Barely space to make a cup of tea, but that fabulous anachronism, ‘the Corby’ trouser press in every room. Grand dome topped windows with broken blinds and no double glazing so traffic noise always intrudes.

Excuse the poor quality shots - there was virtually no natural light in the room either! The fabulous location offsets a few minor discomforts though. Guests can walk to Buckingham Palace to stare through forbidding fences and imagine one the richest families in the world living in extravagant, well serviced comfort.

I risk being accused of inappropriate comment (or madness!) when I say its getting more like one of its own former colonies every day. I do not mean it as such, but the endless bustle, the beginning to fade glory and relentless assaults on the senses make it seem to be heading that way. I have no pictures to show that perspective, as I didn't venture far from the palace on that sunny Sunday morning, until I battled the crowds at the station and took a train to the north.

There is (at least) one (and actually many) important distinction(s) in this place though. The voice of dissent is generally allowed, and its presence is right there in the faces of everyone. Whether it finds a listening ear and a strategically placed champion to take action is possibly another matter.

Off again on again

Declined dinner after a midnight take off and grabbed a few hours uneasy sleep in a seat where AIR NZ has - unusually - crammed too many into the cabin of the Boeing 777. Their Airbus 320s are almost more comfortable now they’ve done away with the sardine style seating layout. The irony of this whinge strikes me as soon as these words appear on the page. I will visit the International Slave Trade Museum in Liverpool, England when I get there on Monday. Realize I have no valid complaint about the discomforts of travel.

Just one stop from Auckland to London – and not in a holding pen at LAX this time. Hong Kong Airport is perfectly designed for stop over travelers wanting to stretch legs, grab a nap or shop til they drop.

But at 5.30am everything is closed - light just seeping through clouds and over the fringe of jaggy peaks that surround this familiar landscape.

A wonderful thing about writing

One of the wonderful things about writing is that it can be done anywhere, and the best places are often away from the office. I hooked up with a colleague from Oz this last week to work on an article we’ve had in the pipeline all year and need to get finished. It rained incessantly for the first few days in northern NSW so all remaining data got analyzed pdq! But even writers have to eat and exercise.


When the rain finally took a break, so did we. An early morning walk took us around the long sweeping curve of the beach from Belongil to Byron Bay, then wound uphill to the lighthouse at the eastern most point of the enormous island that is mainland Australia.

Spring is post-natal season for the Cetacean order, so we stopped frequently to gawp at passing whales, dolphins and a white pointer shark! Probably just as well I didn’t actually see the white pointer when it passed within 10 feet of the flimsy sea kayak I was trying to keep upright on pretty workable surf! The break ended with lunch and a wee bit of indulgence at Fishheads, a café overlooking the beachfront car park.

It’s a perpetual season here, for 1970s hippy VW Combis to rub bumpers with late model yuppy jeeps owned by the country’s rich and famous, who inhabit the fabulous houses and patronize the elegant shops and restaurants hereabouts.