The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
Love island – and they want us back!
With Cyprus keen to welcome vaccinated British tourists as soon as possible, Mark Easton celebrates the birthplace of Aphrodite
If “Love in the Time of Covid” was a novel, it would surely be set in Cyprus. Cyprus is the original love island, the ancient settlement at Paphos on the western coast celebrated as the birthplace and home of the goddess of love herself. Here, my map informs me, I might take on the Aphrodite nature trail and Aphrodite water park, beautify myself in the Aphrodite hair salon and Aphrodite jewellery store, before finishing my day at the inevitable Aphrodite gift shop. Love is everywhere.
In the time of Covid, we all need a bit of love. So, when the restrictions allowed last autumn, I set my sights on the sanctuary of Aphrodite, taking the path followed by countless pilgrims across thousands of years.
With its subtropical Mediterranean climate, Cyprus promised a bright patch of summer as Britain became enveloped in misty gloom. As we emerge from our Covid winter, this always hospitable island is now offering the million UK visitors who normally visit the island a genuinely warm welcome once again.
A pilgrimage requires an element of jeopardy and a global pandemic was quite enough for me. I paid for a private coronavirus test two days before my October departure and was thankful the result came back both in time and negative. Covid paperwork remains a requirement of travel, an expense and a hassle, but boarding the four-and-a-half-hour flight to Paphos International Airport it was comforting to know that all my fellow passengers had also obtained their Cyprus flight pass.
Paphos is in two places, old and new. Old Paphos, now the village of Kouklia, is the sacred site of Aphrodite’s temple surrounded by a settlement founded in the third millennium BC. New Paphos, draped along the beach further north, is a port that grew to serve the needs of the Aphrodite cultists. Established by the Romans 300 years before the birth of Christ, the new town positively bustles today.
I checked into the Asimina Suites Hotel, a charming and tranquil place nestled among the string of resorts that stare out at the clear waters beyond the new Paphos sands. The place has a personal feel with customer service overseen by Aristos Diomedous, general manager of the Constantinou Brothers hotel group for more than a quarter of a century. “At this time, the confidence of our guests is the most critical thing,” he reassured me over a distanced Greek coffee in the hotel gardens. “This is the safest place you can be.” Aristos explained how Cyprus responded to the arrival of the virus with strict curfews and the threat of huge fines.
“You had to get an SMS message giving you permission to walk your dog or go for a swim. The island shut down from March until May.”
An evening stroll along the front revealed that half the hotels were closed, black gaps in the town’s normally cheerful smile. During lockdown, hoteliers developed Covid protocols to satisfy the government, tour companies and their own directors. A statutory regime of masks, sanitisation, distancing and testing was agreed. The Cypriot government recruited an army of spies to check the rules were being obeyed, inspectors posing as guests or arriving unannounced, with potentially ruinous financial penalties for any business which failed fully to comply. “Staff and guests hLooking for lurve: Aphrodite’s Rock is where the goddess, inset below, was said to have been born j Safe space: the tranquil Asimina Suites Hotel must wear masks in the elevators and indoor public areas, but we operate at half capacity so there’s plenty of space for people to lie in the sun or drink at the bar,” Aristos explained.
A warm sea breeze dispersed any anxiety in my mind, and I was reminded of my mission.
“I want to find Aphrodite,” I said. Aristos smiled. “Go out of the hotel on to the seafront and turn left,” he replied.
Next door to the Asimina Suites Hotel is an area of waste ground ringed by an ineffectual fence. This, it turned out, is disputed territory, a place where the future is squaring up to the past. Developers had planned a new hotel, but during early building work they unearthed ancient ruins which halted construction. Historians reckon the workers may have stumbled upon the place where Aphrodite pilgrims came ashore on their way to her sanctuary on the hill. I peered at the exposed stones, imagining the excited crowds of tourists thronging through the old port, and resolved to follow their ghostly trail.
With the help of official tour guide Alexia Christodoulou, my love quest began in a dusty car park overlooking the beautiful rocky coast, 15 miles south. “That is Aphrodite’s rock, where people say she was born,” Alexia said, pointing to a large boulder a few yards off shore. According to Homer, it was here that the moist breath of the western wind wafted Aphrodite over the waves of the loud, moaning sea in soft foam. To Botticelli, this is where the perfect Venus rose upon a scallop shell, naked and fully grown. Looking down, I realised her myth and magic were still alive. There were heads in the water, people swimming around the rock three times, a ritual they are convinced will guarantee they find true love.
We followed the pilgrim’s footsteps to the shrine on the hill and the sinuous black basalt stone that became the embodiment of Aphrodite. This icon was also an altar, rubbed with oils and set alight to glow gently in the temple. Even now, among the sun-baked ruins, one can imagine the effect of this: blue and gold flames agitating the shadows of the faithful upon the sanctuary walls.
As Alexia drove me to the Troodos Mountains, I asked about another powerful woman who holds this part of Cyprus in her spell. “Ah! You are talking about Regina. I will ring my mother to get the facts,” she said. We retreated to an old stable that is now the Stou KirYianni restaurant in the village of Omodos. As Alexia made the call, I devoured loukaniko sausages that had spent a fortnight steeped in red wine. “The same rocks where Aphrodite was born are part of the story,” she explained, “but my mother is unsure about the details so I will contact the mayor.”
Slow-cooked pork with perfect crackling in a local commandaria wine sauce provided the culinary backdrop for this next conversation. “Oh gosh!” Alexia exclaimed. “The mayor says the queen poisoned her husband’s mistress, moved to Paphos with her lover Dhiyeni, murdered all the workmen who had constructed her castle and then left in a ship, Dhiyeni chasing her. He hurled a boulder to slow the ship and she retaliated by hurling her spindle at him.” The boulder and the granite spindle are said to be among the rocks which also mark Aphrodite’s birthplace.
This violent courtship, according to the mayor’s story, was enough to inspire true love and the couple lived happily ever after in a cave. “A women’s organisation has just unveiled a statue of Regina in a fishing port on the edge of Paphos forest,” Alexia told me. “Is Regina a version of Aphrodite?” I asked through a mouthful of halloumi, sesame seeds and honey. “They are both strong women,” Alexia replied with a smile.
A 15-minute stroll from the Asimina Suites Hotel is the Amavi Hotel, a luxurious addition to the Paphos boardwalk, designed for couples. “The hotel is about shared experiences,” general manager Charis Stylianou told me. “Cyprus is the island of love and we don’t want to have it just for ourselves.” There were couples of all kinds draped on the sunbeds: young and old, gay and straight, honeymooners and what Charis called “people rekindling the love that may have run out after a few years of marriage”.
Deprived of foreign travel for so long, I marvelled at the sparkle of the sea, the honesty of the sunlight, the authenticity of the hospitality. It is easy to fall in love here.
The goddess’s protection was not enough to save Cyprus from a tough winter with the virus, but the island’s government is hoping testing and vaccine certificates will mean they can safely welcome British holidaymakers from this spring. After our year of confinement, we could all benefit from a bit of Aphrodite and Regina’s unrestrained passion on love island.
I marvelled at the sparkle of the sea, the honesty of the sunlight. It is easy to fall in love here
When a large dingo comes trotting down the beach it takes us all by surprise. Even though the “what to do if you see a dingo” leaflet was thrust into our hands the moment we stepped off the ferry and on to Fraser Island, we never expected to actually see one. We freeze, remembering to stay calm, eyes firmly fixed on this handsome male, with its almond eyes and sleek coat that glows burnt orange in the sunset. I also note the strong jaw (no doubt containing strong teeth) as it saunters confidently up to within a few metres of my three teenage sons, who like castaways have made football posts out of driftwood and have improvised a ball from a coconut. “Back away but don’t turn,” I shout to them. “And if it comes any closer make a lot of noise but remember not to wave your arms.” I hold my breath until the moment I see it turn away to continue on its search for a crab supper. Dingo drill over, my heartbeat returns to normal, and I knock back a Queensland Bargara beer. “That was awesome,” is the general consensus.
Australia’s borders are likely to be closed to foreign tourists until the end of 2021, but now is the time to plan for an epic family trip; a stay on rugged Fraser Island, a Unesco World Heritage site, is one of the country’s most exciting wild experiences. Listed for its ancient coastal rainforests and freshwater dune lakes, it lies 160 miles north of Brisbane and nine miles off the south-east coast from Hervey Bay. It is the largest sand island in the world – 75 miles long and 14 miles at its widest. Clad in lush vegetation that knits together a unique ecosystem (the only place on Earth where rainforest grows on sand), the local Butchulla people call the island “K’gari”, meaning paradise. The island, though, is not without its dangers. There are sharks aplenty in these waters and dingoes roam on land. But it all looked pretty idyllic as we disembarked, walking up the jetty towards a powder-soft beach fringed with bushland, with the shadow of a green sea turtle gliding in the water beneath us.
Kingfisher Bay Resort is a 50-minute ferry trip from the terminal at River Heads, and the low-rise timberframed wilderness lodges blend unobtrusively into a forest of cypress pines and Pandanus palms. There’s a hot tub and barbecue on our deck, cockatoos perched on the roof, and the presence of dingoes adds a frisson of danger, making it a little like Center Parcs with an edge.
The island only recently reopened to tourism after an illegal fire, lit by campers in October 2020, created a blaze that scorched around 87,000 of its 184,000 hectares. The good news is that the ecosystem is recovering well, with minimal damage to the rainforest and cathedral-like tall forests of satinay and brush box that sit in the gullies of the high dunes. Pandanus palms now sport new green crowns and the mangroves are regenerating quickly. The fire moved slowly, giving animals such as dingoes, swamp wallabies and echidnas (an egg laying mammal a little like a platypus) enough time to escape.
So important are the island’s unique biodiversity and complex ecosystems that, just last week, the K’gari World Heritage Discovery Centre was opened within Kingfisher Bay Resort, offering visitors the chance to learn more about the environmental initiatives and conservation efforts on the island.
You can explore the unsealed roads of Fraser on an organised tour, but the real thrill comes in going solo – you can rent your own four-wheel drive from Aussie Trax, located at the resort.
After a 45-minute briefing on the intricacies of driving on a sand island, we’re sent off with a “Good luck, mate. No worries if yer run into strife, but try not to”. I get the distinct impression that the affable Aussies are used to scrambling out on rescue missions.
With bottoms bumping off seats in our Toyota Hilux, we make noises usually associated with roller-coaster rides as my husband, Neil, navigates the ups and downs of the slippery, sandy slopes. We traverse scenery so wild that it inspires me to whip out my phone and play the Jurassic World theme tune.
The first stop is a lookout over crystalline Lake Wabby, with an immense sand blow on one side and a thicket of gum trees on the other.
From here, deep sandy grooves lead to the island’s main highway – the windswept 75-mile beach, slashed with freshwater streams that trickle into the ocean. We park at Eli Creek, a natural lazy river that pumps 96million litres of fresh
QUEENSLAND AUSTRALIA
Fraser Island
50 miles
water into the sea each day. Armed with rubber rings, we walk upstream along the boardwalk and then hop into the creek to float back to the beach.
The immense rusting skeleton of the 5,300-ton SS Maheno shipwreck is visible long before we reach it. “Can we climb on it?” asks my youngest son, Freddie, but the carcass is not a safe frame. Launched in 1905, the Maheno enjoyed an illustrious career, setting a record ferry crossing time from Sydney to Auckland, then, during the First World War, she carried 16,000 wounded soldiers from France to England. She was being towed to Japan for scrap when a cyclone hit, and the ship was washed up on Fraser in 1935. Only two of her rusting decks are visible, but below the sand there are a further five.
Just beyond the Pinnacles (immense sand spires of coloured sand), we arrive at Indian Head. The scramble to the top rewards us with spectacular beach and ocean views, and we soon spot a fountain of water gushing on the horizon, sprayed by a humpback whale. It travels close to the shore, breeching and slapping the water with a mighty fin, while three manta rays glide companionably by at the foot of the rocks and a pod of dolphin ripple through the ocean just beyond. There isn’t another soul around and we whoop at the sheer luck of the sighting.
The ethereal Lake McKenzie is our last stop of the day. Its colour, a menthol blue, is a result of the white silica sand bed. At sunset, pink clouds are reflected in the lake to create a perfect mirror image that is disturbed only when my sons wade into its icy water for a swim.
On our return to Kingfisher Bay, we join a ranger for a bush-tucker talk, sampling bite-size pieces of crocodile (predictably chewy) and kangaroo (which surprisingly melted in the mouth). We also learn about the indigenous plants that are used for both culinary and medicinal purposes – such as Carpobrotus glaucescens, known more commonly as pigface. This dune plant, with bright pink, fleshy flowers, has a deep purple fruit that tastes like salty strawberries, and leaves that can be used to take the sting out of midge bites. But this is just a foretaste of dinner at the resort’s finedining restaurant, Seabelle.
Opting to eat al fresco, with blankets tucked around our knees (in winter, evening temperatures can drop to 12C), we listen to a rhythmic playlist provided by frogs and cicadas, while enjoying tea-smoked kangaroo loin and crocodile “calamari”, followed by local barramundi (Asian sea bass) wrapped in paperbark. “Bear Grylls would love this,” sighs Freddie.
The next day, my oldest son Josh is keen for us to take to the water, arguing that “we are much more likely to be killed by a dingo than eaten by a shark”. Reluctantly, I sign a disclaimer and we head off for a guided canoe trip through Dundonga Creek.
“No need to worry about sharks here,” our guide tells us without a hint of irony, as we pass a sign that warns of saltwater crocodiles. We paddle through the narrow channel, bordered by a tangle of eight species of mangrove, with brahminy and whistling kites circling overhead, calling for attention with a distinctive high-pitched “seeeeeo”.
There’s a bit of excitement when Freddie spots a white-bellied snake curled in the mangrove’s twisted branches, but for the most part it’s a relaxed, gentle glide through crystalclear water; the highlight of which is catching sight of the distinctive, iridescent blue and orange plumage of the bird our eco-resort is named for.
Freshwater explored, we decided to take to the sea. The Pacific Whale Foundation is a non-profit organisation that makes room for tourists on their twice-daily research trips. From late July through to the end of October, some 8,000 whales pause to rest and feed in the waters around Fraser Island during their migration to Antarctica from the warmer shallower waters of the Tropics, where they’ve been to breed and birth.
We’ve been out on the water for less than 30 minutes when “whale at 11 o’clock” is hollered by Sarah, an onboard marine naturalist. Two large female humpbacks are heading our way, and everyone reaches for their cameras hoping for “the tail shot”.
They come within 20 metres of the boat, near enough that we can see the knobbly, rough barnacles attached to their heads and hear their blowhole snorts as they send sprays of water to the sky. “They take a mini-break here because it’s such a calm, sheltered, safe environment,” Sarah tells us. “In fact, they love it so much that underwater you can hear them sing.”
As we disembark, I thank the captain for taking us out. “No worries,” he says. And after four days cast away on Fraser Island, I realise that this Aussie idiom is for once true. I have no worries, no worries at all.
‘Some 8,000 whales rest and feed in the waters around Fraser Island when they migrate to Antarctica’