We went to the mountains last weekend to breath fresh air, fetch spring water and perhaps see some lovely folks. At a café with a spectacular view a man came up to our table and wanted to talk. He looked out the window and explained how he and his wife uses to drive up to the mountains as often as possible.
But really where he wanted go, was back to his home in occupied Famagusta area. For a long while he dwelled in this subject. He said, even if he has children and grandchildren, he will never stop waiting to move back to his house. I really can't imagine how traumatising it must be to be driven away from ones home over night, not being able to return.
He said he would live up to 200 years waiting to return. I felt sadness over how strong his love for his land seemed, occupying almost all his heart. Later we made "a peripato" (a promenade) up to my aunts house. She seemed in good vigour. We managed to have interesting conversation in Greek, dispite my poor vocabulary.
After filling our water bottles we returned back to Limassol, elevated and sad at the same time.