In 1982, as an 18 year old, I spent a month in Cyprus.  I took with me the grief of loosing my mother two years earlier, the pain of a broken relationship with my father, and the burgeoning freedom and responsibilities of adulthood.  It wasn't an idylic month, but I fell in love with the country, the heat, dust, stillness of the landscape, the people, the history.  Since then Cyprus has changed out of all recognition.  It's gone from underdeveloped, wartorn, largely agricultural country to a major tourist destination with a sophisticated economy and insfructure.  My return there in 2019, then was going to be a bit of a shock.  Would memories be dashed on the concrete of promonades, high street stores, and amusement arcades?  Where was 'my' Cyprus.  Largely in my mind, it turns out, and yet, search a little, off the beaten track, and there still lies the stillness, the intensity, and the turquoise and sand.