Tantrum behind me and sullen mood locked away, we went off to explore the hotel grounds, on the way to breakfast, of course.

The resort was both welcoming and beautiful. After waiting, on our balcony, for the sun to be completely risen, a habit I would repeat each day of our stay, it was time to head out to breakfast.

I have to say at this point, two young female members of staff, every time we headed for the restaurant, were there to greet me. God only knew when they took a break, it always seemed to be the same two young girls there at breakfast and, then again, they were back there in the evening at dinner. To be fair, we never eat lunch when we are away, always surviving on two meals a day, so maybe they were resting through the middle part of the day?

I was always escorted to our table, one young lady holding my right arm and the other the left. Their command of English was not tip-top, and why should it be, so when we approached a step they would jerk me up, although not quite in unison. We got there in the end, though.

I am sorry to say, however, the property was a near death trap for blind people. There was no way, in a week anyway, that I would have been able to negotiate all the obstacles without a companion. It was precipitously steep, handrails where they existed were of a non-continuous type, leading to many nearly broken fingers as I used them as a guide, and steps were irregular and dangerous as you would step off a perfectly flat tread onto a ramp steeper than a ski jump run.

Once I got a little used to it, it wasn’t so bad. Although, I have to say, I was never even brave enough to visit the bar on my own; imagine?

We were restricted to using the pathway to our little bungalow after dark; the stairways were a little too challenging, even with my trusty old guide dog on hand. Once, when making our way up an internal staircase, from reception to the restaurant, things seemed to be going nicely. As usual, I was using the handrail as a guide. Then, crunch! For some inexplicable reason, it ended abruptly, hard up against the ground floor ceiling. My hand, in reality, I mean my fingers, smashed into the concrete soffit. Oh, blow it, I think I thought, or words to that effect. At least if it had been plasterboard I might have been able to punch my way through. The bruises to the ends of my fingers, along with the cut on my shin from the night before, had not heeled by the time we got home. It really did feel like I was a prisoner in my own room. I could not go anywhere without Jane as it was far too treacherous. Never mind, I was going to suck it up and make the most of it.

Freedom Destinations should have known that this resort was not suitable for blind customers. It was dangerous beyond compare. I cannot blame the resort as I have no idea what the local building code demands in the accessible construction of paths, ramps and staircases. We should not have been sent there.

Funny that I should liken it to a prison. That is exactly what Koh Tao used to be: a prison island. It seems like it was used as a penal colony of sorts from the mid-nineteenth century through to the end of the Second World War. It was reserved for political prisoners and, so it appears, the link to the end of the war has nothing to do with the Japanese. Hunting down further tales of an occupying army’s brutality as proved elusive. Despite thinking there would be a continuation of the story started in Singapore it seems, from our point of view at any rate, it ended in our crossing of the River Kwai.

We resolved to make the next week the relaxing part of the trip. The balcony attracted me every morning about one hour before sunrise. The dawn chorus was, in every way, equally as impressive as it is at home except, of course, it is tropical in nature. The new day was heralded by hill mynas, green and pied imperial pigeons and Indochinese Rollers amongst others. Birds of paradise all. This, along with watching the not too far off sea emerge from the curtain of darkness, to be followed, later in the day, by fabulous sunsets right in front of our balcony, never ceased to amaze me. If there is one reason to return to Koh Tao this would be it: our balcony. I don’t think we spent so much time in any single place as we did at this personalised viewing platform during the entire trip. I will never forget it. And, what is more, it is where our slightly frazzled relationship blossomed again under a tropical sun.
One day, friendship rekindled, we went for a stroll. I recall that this particular excursion, just about, took us from just after breakfast until nearly dusk.

We started off by walking into Sairee Beach itself. The road was all downhill from our hotel but it was so steep you could feel your toes ramming into the fronts of your shoes with each step. Maybe we should have availed ourselves of the complimentary golf buggy! We didn’t make the same mistake again. The little township was rammed with much younger people than us. We only spotted one person who was, possibly, older than us. He very kindly took it upon himself to guide me across the road, although I am sure Jane was more than capable; I didn’t have the heart to say that I wasn’t looking to cross but he meant well. Many a time I have found myself on the wrong side of the road because a well-meaning citizen takes it upon themselves to escort me across. Maybe I shouldn’t do so much curb walking! Bless him!

Having said that, however, it did appear that motorbikes had the habit of appearing, seemingly, out of nowhere. I am convinced to this day that some of them drove right out of shop, bar or massage parlour doors. Imagine Rome boosted by double caffeine! Lanes, barely wide enough to accommodate single file pedestrians, were particularly hazardous. You would, without warning, be confronted by one of these mechanical monsters, belching smoke from their rears; the motorbikes were just as bad! I am convinced it would have been easier for the riders to walk. It did get me thinking what the minimum qualification to ride one of these things was. It struck me that all you needed to possess was the ability to breathe, not necessarily in the right order! I wondered if they would hire one out to me? I felt that some of the riders were too dangerous even to be let out on the roads at Legoland.

We stepped onto the beach itself. It was pleasing enough to the senses, but can anyone tell me the allure of laying, all day long, on the sand in the baking sun. Sorry, I don’t get it. A stroll, maybe even holding hands if she is lucky, yep; sitting in the shade of palm trees, cold beer in hand, yep; even paddling in the surf, although not for me, I do understand it.

Laying in the sun, lined up like sausages on an outdoor grill, what’s that about? Europeans, especially the northern variety, were pinkening well! I was so worried that their skins might split in the intense heat, it crossed my mind that I ought to prick them with a huge fork to relieve the buildup of pressure. Jane described the body shapes on display and sometimes, just sometimes, I thank my lucky stars that I have restricted vision. On the other hand, though, there was one specimen, who had clearly received cosmetic assistance, displaying her wares, I cursed my bad fortune.

Bars reaching right down to the sand, stretched right along the strand. The noise, that portrayed itself as music, was blasting out from each separate hostelry. To my older ears, and I think it is an age thing, it had the same allure and beat as the riveting guns from my father’s factory in the seventies and eighties, except not quite as melodic.

Eventually, right at the end, we came across a quaint little place, aimed at a much older clientele, probably still 25 years my junior, but it hit the spot. This was more like it, a bench under a shady palm, two or three cold beers, all whilst being serenaded by Ed Sheeran, Taylor Swift, George Ezra, and Adele among others. Still modern, but, even so, that’s what I call music. Delightful!

Next time, we will continue our exploration of the immediate area, including a stroll into a rather hilly wilderness.

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Farewell to Paphos

I know the things I enjoy about a break away aren’t everybody’s cup of tea. My main aims when I arrive in a new place are to enjoy the local walks, I was pleased to average 17,000 steps a day in Paphos, enjoy the local food, both in and around the hotel and further afield, and most of all, enjoy the occasional local wine and beer.

The good thing is, as we all know, calories and units of alcohol don’t count when you are on holiday (American: vacation). I don’t know how that works but it is, without any doubt, true.

The hotel boasted three restaurants, including one fine dining. As mentioned earlier we enjoyed the Mediterraneo on our first night and did venture back a couple more times; the layout was, very much, based on a rural taverna from a different age. The rooftop venue, under cover at this time of year is, unfortunately, named Ouranos. I say unfortunately because, as mentioned in an earlier episode, Ouranos was the God of the Sky, or the Sky Father but, more concerning, he was the one who had the falling out with his wife who, promptly arranged for their youngest son to separate his wedding tackle from his body. I was very nervous about eating the prawn balls starter; I took the plunge, though, and assumed it was not a themed eatery.

Just nearby there was a rather nice Chinese. I realise it appears a little strange to go to Cyprus and enjoy Chinese food. I wonder if we will find a Moussaka or Kleftiko in East Asia next February? Probably.
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If one strolls along the harbour front, there are eating places galore, many of which are seafood. How delightful it is to sit within a bellyflop of the ocean and eat produce straight from the fishing boat. It is a foodie’s dream destination. There are plenty of different places to eat and drink although, it has to be said, many of the bars along the harbour strip seem to be based on English or Irish pubs rather than traditional Cypriot or Greek tavernas. No matter, there is plenty of choice.

One great little discovery was Phivos Cocktail Bar and Restaurant, sited on Poseidon Avenue, about 200 metres from our hotel. We frequented this on a few occasions, especially on the second Sunday when we were limited by a short, sharp storm. They never stopped the complimentary drinks, they seemed endless.

One night, my word, we had a little too much to eat and drink. Compared to English prices we felt it was great value; I do know, however, that if it is compared to a tavern in a more rural setting, it is probably a tad pricey. Nonetheless, we both had three courses, a couple of pints and shared two bottles of wine. When I say shared, I mean I had a bottle and a half and Jane had a half a bottle and she claims that is an exaggeration. Maybe it was, I don’t know, I wasn’t counting. Then there were the ports, for me, and the Baileys for Jane. Then, as it was still drizzling, they topped our glasses up without charging. Very friendly folk. Look them out when you are in their neck of the woods. Just remember the rule about calories and units of alcohol; sorry doctor!

One story I have to retell happened when we visited a hostelry down at the harbour. We got talking to a couple of expats from Liverpool, although where they originated from isn’t important. I don’t think it is anyway? Always interested in learning peoples heritage I, not unreasonably in my mind, asked some questions. For example, how long have you lived here? Do you ever go back? What made you move here? I call it inquisitive, Jane says I am being nosey. Interested to know what you think? The answer to the last query, given that we, I mean I, had already gleaned that they had been in Cyprus for over 30 years, took me by surprise. I expected them to say it was the weather or something like that. No, they had said, they couldn’t stand all the foreigners coming into England, taking all our jobs, and changing the culture enjoyed for thousands of years. Umm, I thought!

Alas, it is goodbye to Cyprus but we’ll be back.