The rocks became fields. Vines appeared. Dotted around them men, labourers who had left their construction jobs for a month or two, to harvest the grapes..

From Tala we headed higher still. The next clue was a poem. It told us to pass an orange grove and referred to gossip and letters.

We scratched our heads and let the road lead us. Up, the road wound, until we arrived at another village, this time with impossibly narrow streets, built for donkeys, not cars.

Ancient white villas clung together. Wrinkled men eyed us between puffs on their pipes.

Geraniums nodded from their window boxes. We abandoned the jeep and set off to explore. Letters. Maybe there was a post office. Seemed unlikely. Just maybe. We began to ask.

An old man pointed with the bowl of his pipe, wondering what the hell four English people were doing posting letters this far up and looking so damned anxious about it too.

He quickly settled himself back down and took a deep, relaxing puff. The day was too warm, too beautiful to worry about anything. Tomorrow. Worry can always come tomorrow in Cyprus.

Heedless of this infinitely sensible rule we scurried off, as fast as our sandals could take us and were rewarded with finding a tiny white, one-roomed building.