MORNING SERIAL

WE pulled further up toward the car park and there I could see a compound of several windowless concrete buildings positioned around a huge white dome.

“It’s the military radar station,” Lou said. “Nothing to be worried about. It’s British, I think. Keeping an eye on the Turks.”

I pulled up in a bay and we got out of the car. Despite the promise – which I assumed to be an exaggeration – I was surprised by the image of the sea, distant across the horizon like a celeste ribbon.

“Told you,” Lou said. “Two thousand metres up gets you quite a view.”

“Hence the radar,” I said. Now giving the military complex a little more attention I could see armed guards casually patrolling inside the fence, and then in my eye-line I could see another, smaller complex on a neighbouring peak. Lou noticed my preoccupation.

“You come across things like this here,” she said.

“What do you mean?” “Military presence. Obviously the British have their feet in the door, but then the Cypriots down this half of the island are very wary of the Turks.”

I put my hand up to my eyes to shield the sun. There was some serious kit up on these mountains, or at least somebody wanted to give the impression of serious kit. It was on display for every tourist who went up there. And even with my poor knowledge of Cyprus’s history, I could spot such posturing a mile off. The Turkish invasion in ’74 had been known as something of a bloodless revolution, with reporters walking with the Turkish soldiers, interviewing them as they stuffed away their parachutes. There had been chaos, but not much of a fight. All this looked like a defiant gesture of work unfinished on the part of the invaded nation.

“They have it pretty easy here,” Lou said. “If you think Cyprus is almost Africa.”

She pointed south. “It’s almost Europe.”

She spun and pointed north. “And it’s almost the Middle East.”

> The Golden Orphans by Gary Raymond is published by Parthian www.parthianbooks.com