Cypriot Delight

Being a bone idle sort who takes great pleasure in watching other people enjoying themselves malingering on holiday, I rarely go on holiday myself.

I’m a short break specialist myself. I don’t pop on a plane to Barcelona equipped with the Rough Guide and a yearning desire to immerse myself in Catalonian culture; I book into a 4 star hotel within easy driving distance and seek out the nearest kebab shop. It’s the simple pleasures that appeal to me; albeit augmented with a monogrammed bath robe and some superior toiletries.

This year I’ve decided to go on a proper holiday. I briefly toyed with the idea of a four centre experience encompassing Baghdad, Kabul, Beirut, and Pyongyang. Thankfully my pathetic physical coward tendencies kicked in and I’ve decided to spend November in Cyprus instead.

It makes sense. The Cypriots all speak English, drive on the (proper) left hand side of the road, sell 12 year old brandy at five quid a pop, and have been known to rustle up the odd splendid kebab.

Maybe I’ll drive up to the Green Line and shake my fist at the Turkish soldiers (before running away very fast).