A Case of forewarning?

Part one, Famagusta.

I have one of the most traumatic episodes in my life to thank for a most uncanny set of coincidences.

In one of my bleak moments, I had set off on a months vacation in Cyprus for the express purpose of writing a novel.

I guess that I chose Cyprus because of its history, and because it had been split by the invasion of the Turks in the year of my divorce.

The hotel was clean, new and anonymous. It perched like an outcast at the end of a dusty concrete road, and looked awkwardly towards the sea, which gnawed at the sand of an artificial beach, that in the making, had uncovered an ancient underground burial site, carved into the solid rock, totally unprotected and robbed of its contents.

That night I woke at about 2 am. I needed coffee. The hotel room did not possess the means of making one, so I dressed and walked down the stairs to the lobby, where I found the night porter talking to a small elderly gentleman with the face of someone who had lived long, and the eyes of someone who had seen much.

I apologised for interrupting them, and asked if there was any way I could get a cup of coffee. The night porter got up and went off to make one, leaving me with the elderly gentleman. "I can't sleep either" he said resignedly, then he pointed to a large, black and white photograph of an attractive seafront, the focal point of which was a beautiful ornate hotel, with smartly dressed gentlemen escorting elegant ladies, and grand automobiles parading along the road. It could've looked like Paris by the sea between the wars. "That hotel" he said, pausing to look through the photograph, as if into a distant, happier past, "was built by my grandfather"

The night porter set two coffees on the table and retired. Then, the old gentleman told me the story of how he grew up in the family hotel in Famagusta, the life of his family, and then the Turkish invasion and his escape, leaving all his family's treasures behind. "This new hotel" he said quietly, sweeping his arm, "is what the government gave me for my loss", adding sadly as he got up and turned to leave, "they were very generous".

I had arrived in Cyprus with the germ of an idea, a story of a man's search for a new life. I was sure that with no distractions I could complete a novel in twenty one days if I just put my mind to it.

Each day after breakfast, I would walk, and think, and visualise the story in my head.

In order to remember the various places in the story I had drawn a map. The village was on the eastern side of an estuary, a ferry ran from the village to the nearby town. The road, not much more than that track, ran over a creek before entering the village. All around the estuary were thickly wooded hills.

The mouth of the estuary was to the south.

The hero of my story was escaping his past. I decided to make him a sculptor. As the story unfolded, I posted a copy of the previous nights work to my daughter for safekeeping (in those days, I had no laptop, and smart-phones had not been invented).

The process of writing was very simple, each evening after dinner in the hotel, I went up to my room, sat at the dressing table, picked up my pencil and wrote on the lined pad. It was so simple, all I had to do was see the story unfold before my eyes and write it down. That was how I had written my first two books, and I had complete faith that the system would work again and again.

My optimism carried me through the first 50,000 words until one morning I woke up, looked at my diary and saw that tomorrow would my last day. I visited the little shop in the hotel and saw on the bulletin board that I was due to fly home that day in a few hours.

It is strange how one tries to reconcile a mistake by going over it several times, as if a fresh look will make everything right.

I didn't panic or curse, it was just that somehow a day gone missing, which was a disappointment. On the flight home to Gatwick, I thought about the story I was writing, about a young man who finds himself travelling to a little coastal village.

It was rather exciting, journeying through this in the world, watching my hero as he explored his new environment, met friends, and built his new life.

By the second page, he had found lodgings at the top of the long narrow road that led to the quay. He walked all around the village, and the surrounding hills and cliffs, soaking up the magic of the atmosphere, and experiencing the sights of the artisans of bygone years.

He took an interest in everything about the village, and made himself useful as best he could using the skills he had acquired in his past life.

Very soon, he started to help out in a little bistro. He enjoyed waiting at the table, talking to the diners, gathering ideas and living in the moment.

After a few months, the owners of the bistro told him that they had to return to their home in the north for six months, and asked him to look after the place for them. Of course he agreed, it was his salvation.

At this point of the story, a woman appears. She has a child. There is much friction and sadness. The child goes to him, but the woman takes the child away.

This, was as far as the story went. Upon my return to the UK, I had the manuscript I had written typed, and fully intended to finish the story. But, events conspired to turn my life upside down, and the story became reality.

To be continued.