Hideaway > Articles > Cyprus – Back to Nature in Aphrodite’s Back Yard

“You’ll find the largest fruit in the middle of the tree,” advises Sofronis as he plunges headfirst into the thick citrus branches. He emerges seconds later clutching fistfuls of plump mandoras, a type of mandarin. We follow his lead and even though it is late May – towards the end of the orange season – we soon plunder more juicy fruit than we can comfortably eat or carry.

We’re on a farm near Kalavasos in southern Cyprus from where Sofronis Potamitis is pioneering agrotourism and stays in traditional village houses. Such tourism is unveiling the real Cyprus, which remains sequestered a world apart from the island’s more famous beach resorts. Cyprus may boast sun, sea and sand aplenty – and the birthplace of Aphrodite, Goddess of Love and Beauty – but it is by venturing inland that you discover her untouched soul. Here you stumble upon sleepy villages, orchards and olive groves, lifestyles little changed over many centuries and a friendly people celebrated for their warmth and hospitality.

Rural Cyprus is the perfect setting in which to enjoy the soothing pace of village life and get back to nature through traditional agriculture. As the southernmost island in the Mediterranean, Cyprus enjoys year-round sun and warm temperatures that maximise its farming output. Fertile orchards of oranges, lemons, limes and grapefruit abound throughout the island. Plentiful olive trees yield oil considered so fine and healthy Cypriots guard the output for themselves.

Laden with mandoras, we arrive at the isolated farm where (in between bringing up seven children) the charming Loula Evthemou makes traditional halloumi cheese from the milk of goats tended by her husband. Operating from a cramped single room next to the farmhouse, Loula shows us the process. Some modern factories use cow’s milk, which is cheaper and produces a milder flavoured cheese, although Loula continues the time-honoured method using only goat’s milk. We watch keenly as she skims and sieves the boiled milk into moulds, although it’s the tasting we are waiting for. Cypriots use halloumi in many dishes although it’s hard to beat eating it at source, with just fresh tomatoes and olives to balance the saltiness of the cheese.

After the citrus and goat farms, we head for Tochni, a tiny village hewn from the same design blueprint shared by many Cypriot villages. Tight, sometimes tiny, stepped lanes weave between old stone houses with painted wooden doors and shuttered windows. The rich texture of their terracotta-tiled roofs is best shown off in the warm glow of the evening sun. Lanes, gardens and porches explode with colour. Terracotta pots overflow with cactuses and red, pink and purple flowers, above which spread expansive palms and orange and lemon trees. A church marks one side of the main square. On the opposite side is a welcoming taverna with a shaded outdoor terrace, at which men sit passing time over a coffee or game of cards or backgammon. When the small human cast disappears for the afternoon siesta, all is stillness and peace.

We are surprised to find Tochni a hive of activity. Market stalls are strung out along its narrow streets and music breaks the expected silence. We discover that today is the festival of Saints Helena and Constantine, to whom the local Holy Cross Church is dedicated. Villagers are out in force celebrating. Stalls brim with local produce: dried figs, chickpeas, apricots and papaya; roasted pistachios, cashews and salted almonds; and the local delicacy of sotzioutziouko – toffee-coloured sticks of nuts and grape juice, shaped like candles onto strings and dangled from the stalls.

By chance, we are travelling with a Helen who soon becomes the reluctant focus of attention. By tradition on her name day, she would be expected to hand out gifts of cakes, sweets and pastries to villagers. Helen looks slightly concerned and is relieved when a local dignitary merely congratulates her on her name day without a hint of expectation. At a nearby stall, we’re soon indulging in gifts to ourselves of deliciously light lokmades – deep-fried dough balls flavoured with honey and cinnamon.

Stallholders offer us tempting nibbles as we pass by. “I’ve already tried some,” I admit to one as I retrace my steps in search of the island’s fabled olive oil. “Try some more,” she smiles as she cuts me another piece of sotzioutziouko. Cypriots have a warm, generous spirit. Even in an age of mass tourism, many Cypriots still regard visitors as honoured guests and offer hospitality to total strangers. Giving is in their nature, possibly dating from the fact the island was itself once a present, gifted by Mark Anthony to Cleopatra.

Having found no olive oil in the street stalls, I resort to the small village shop. In no time, Christos the chatty owner is offering me a local coffee. I remind myself not to call it a Turkish coffee, which would be insulting. Cypriots remain bitter over the Turkish occupation since 1974 of the north of the island. Stay off the subject of the Turks, and Cypriots are very easy to get on with. As if to emphasise the point, three more strangers enter the shop and Christos soon offers them drinks too.

Armed with my prized olive oil and market purchases, it’s time to escape the heat of the afternoon sun by retreating to my small cottage on the village outskirts. Two tiny kittens emerge nervously from beneath the shade of an old car at the foot of the path leading up to the cottage. Even the cats, which are populous throughout Cyprus (having been introduced centuries ago to control the snake population), are forced to seek shade on long sunny afternoons.

Solid stone walls and shuttered windows help keep the interior of the cottage comfortably cool. A small balcony looks out over the village, beside which stands an orange tree laden with fruit just too high to pick. Fortunately, I already have my own supply.

The taverna is a highlight of any Cypriot village. Tochni has three, each individual, charming and tempting. Housed in ancient solid stone buildings, each is decorated with ploughs, harnesses, ceramic pots, long wooden baking trays and olive oil presses that evoke bygone rural life. Outdoor tables beneath a shaded terrace are difficult to move from on long summer evenings. Warming log fires create a cosy glow in winter.

The aroma of meat sizzling over an outdoor barbecue can make it difficult to venture far beyond the souvlaki (kebab) options on the menu. Despite being an island, meat is more common than fish on most taverna menus and is often the better choice. Most meals come with a refreshingly crunchy salad, pitta bread and tasty dips. After a fine dinner at Nostos in the heart of the village, the friendly owners (who I discover were once almost neighbours of mine in London) offer me a local brandy as we chat into the balmy night.

Early next morning, I wake to the faint sound of bells. Peering sleepily past the shutters of my window I can see nothing and think I must be dreaming. However, the bells gradually get louder and I eventually see some goats coming towards me. The rest of the herd soon arrives and before long, the dried riverbed beneath my window has become a jingling chorus of grazing goats in every shade of brown, white and black. The herdsman controls them with his voice as far as the small footbridge opposite my cottage, before turning them around and once more restoring the dawn to silence.

After another sun-drenched breakfast on the terrace of the Tochni Taverna, I return to Sofronis’s farm for some leisurely horseriding over nearby hill tracks. We pass orchards and olive groves as we climb to a good view over the Dam of Kalavasos, with the Troodos Mountains shimmering in the distance.

Back at the farm, we enjoy a refreshing iced coffee in the shade of the stables. A man arrives in a car carrying a couple of bags and is soon surrounded by friendly farm dogs. I assume he has returned from the butcher, but instead he brings out a large watermelon. The dogs get more and more excited as he cuts them thick slices of juicy red fruit. It seems that whilst the cats were hard at work dealing with the island’s snakes, the dogs were quietly helping themselves to the island’s fruit. Who said cats were more intelligent than dogs?

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