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The west coast of Cyprus hides its scars surprisingly well. There is little evidence of the disruption and heartache caused to Greek Cypriots by the Turkish invasion of 1974 which sealed off the northern, and reputedly most beautiful, part of the island and created 200,000 Greek Cypriot refugees in their own country. Instead the casual visitor is more likely to find himself thinking what a pity it is that the ravages of mass-market tourism could not have been better contained.

Cyprus is a confusing place to visit for a number of reasons. For a start, it is Greek but not Greek. Those who naively imagine Cyprus to be a sort of sub-Greece or in any real way comparable to the Greek islands are in for a disappointment. Cyprus has none of the prettiness of, say, the Cyclades - it is much larger and a country in its own right. (The Greek Greeks tend to reserve rather the same contempt for their Cypriot brethren that the English do for the Welsh or Irish and the French for the Belgians and the two countries, though sharing a common language albeit with a somewhat different pronunciation, have a very different character.)

The confusion is further compounded by the fact that Cyprus is both awful and wonderful at the same time and one is never quite sure whether the awfulness outweighs the wonder or the other way round. Thanks to unrestricted building (sometimes it seems as if Cyprus is one huge construction site - if, as an American writer once said, there should be a cement mixer on the Greek flag, then there should be at least two on the Cypriot emblem), low prices and the long-term presence of the British on the island, Cyprus, particularly the coastal regions, often seems like a great sprawling mass of hideous - and enormous - hotels, discotheques, pubs,all filled to bursting point with sunburnt - as opposed to suntanned - Brits out for a laugh and a cheap holiday in the sun.

But - and this is a big 'but' - the sea and the beaches are wonderful, the little inland villages full of charm and the people astonishingly (given what they have had to put up with) friendly and polite. And, for those with in an interest in such things, there are a number of important archaeological and historical sights.

Let us take, as our starting point, Páfos (Paphos) where there is an international airport - you will either land there or at Larnaca. Páfos is the district capital and an equal blend of old, Ktíma, and new, Káto Páfos. The new, which is concentrated down by the waterfront, is a garish strip of neon lights, burger bars, souvenir stalls and truly horrible restaurants where for a small-ish fortune you can eat badly. It also has a diminutive castle which looks attractive but is surrounded by foul-smelling stagnant water. Children love the strip for its cheerful vulgarity but it can have little charm for discriminating adults.

The town centre at Ktíma three kilometres up the hill was first settled by the Byzantines as a haven from coastal attacks and still retains considerable charm. It has a number of fine neo-classical buildings set in gardens, including the Town Hall, which you pass as you walk to the Ethnographical and Byzantine museums, and these lend an unexpected elegance to the town. There is also a covered market selling fresh produce (including local honey scented with thyme) and souvenirs. If you can be bothered to sift through the dross, the local embroideries are very pretty.

But undoubtedly the main attraction of Páfos are its Roman mosaics. Unearthed by a farmer out ploughing in 1962, they are in an extraordinarily good state of preservation and considered to be the best in the eastern Mediterranean. Comprising an extensive complex of Roman buildings, fitted with exquisite floor mosaics showing scenes from ancient mythology, there is a particularly lovely Leda and the Swan, as well as cameos from the lives of Apollo, Poseidon and Theseus.

Just south of Páfos, in the little village of Yeroskípou (meaning 'sacred garden'), where loukoumi, or what they insist on calling Cyprus Delight, is made and also local unglazed earthenware pottery at an increasingly ridiculous price, there is the byzantine church of Ayía Paraskevi (St. Friday) whose frescoes date from the ninth century and which provides the impetus for an annual summer fair. And it is in the Páfos area that the cult of Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, originated. The goddess was supposed to have emerged from the dazzling sea just below Koúklia and the ancient city of Palea Paphos. Today, less than a mile inland, there is a sanctuary of Aphrodite but there is little to see and any visit is more in the way of a pilgrimage.

The Baths of Aphrodite are in the opposite direction away from Páfos to the north where the landscape becomes much wilder and it is still possible to discern the beauty that must have been widespread in the island before the British army and British tourists made their presence felt. In legend the goddess retired here to bathe before - and after - entertaining her lovers. Further along that same coast, as you approach the so-called Attila Line which runs through the whole country and marks the division between Turkish-occupied Cyprus and the rest of Cyprus, the countryside is increasingly sparsely populated and the warm air is scented with that mixture of wild thyme, garlic and ozone that, were it to be bottled, would immediately evoke the Mediterranean.

One hot day I drove along that road with my friend Eleni Meleagrou, whose mother Evi is Cyprus's leading novelist. As the Attila line grew nearer, Eleni began to describe Kyrenia where, as a child, she would spend three months every summer. When the Turks invaded, her family lost the house and everything in it. They were, however, among the lucky ones; they still had a home in Nicosia. Others, 200,000 others, were less fortunate.

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