When mum died, this tiny village in Cyprus helped me find myself again

I wanted to see where my grandfather had come from, to see if finding out more about my roots gave me a deeper sense of belonging. I have nephews but no children. I wondered if looking back and pinning my leaf on that family tree might help me anchor my existence to something solid at a time when the deaths of so many elderly relatives, including that of my mother in August 2023, had left me feeling as if my life could simply blow past with no legacy or sign that I had even existed.

Xenia’s surname name, Taliotis, came from her grandfather who originated from Tala

I am part of a growing trend: a 2023 report by the travel trend forecasting agent Globetrender and the tour operator Cazenove+Loyd shows an increase in people travelling to learn about their heritage and the places their families came from.

And so, prompted by the death of my Uncle Andreas, the last of Nicolas’s children, I return to Paphos, where I had been many times, to do something I had never done before: retrace my grandfather’s footsteps to the village of Tala.

On arrival, memories, heat and familiarity rise from the tarmac to greet me. I recall my last family holiday here in 2014 — our unit of four, my brother pushing our father in a wheelchair, my mum still upright and strong, walking behind with me. I should remember with fondness how great that week was but the loss of both my parents is chokingly raw.

In the cab to my hotel, the galloping speed of change in Paphos almost outpaces the driver. There are screeching signs that beseech tourists to visit new clubs or buy lavish mansions in unimaginatively named developments such as Aphrodite Hills or Thea. While there are many resorts and Insta-glam all-inclusive hotels on the Paphos coast, I decide to stay in Axiothea, a small, family-run hotel in the old town. It’s close to the touristy hullabaloo and prides itself on philoxenia, a Greek word that describes a way of welcoming a xenos (a stranger or guest) that makes them feel valued.

Axiothea is a small, family-run hotel in the old town

Axiothea, with its long views over the rooftops, is minutes away from where many of my cousins still live in Yeroskipos, just 1.5 miles from central Paphos. It’s an area that, without a beach, seduces with other attractions — among them the fascinating Ethnographic Museum; numerous excellent tavernas such as Agora and Koutourou, where the meze is excessive; and fine examples of traditional 19th and early 20th-century Cypriot architecture. Some of these, including the old school, were built by my grandfather. When I was a child, I would walk down those roads holding my father’s hand and he would point out all the buildings his father had constructed, brick by brick.

Honey-coloured stone, picturesque arches, sea and sky-coloured shutters, and Grecian columns typify the architecture of Cyprus, and though many of the fine villas that once filled the landscapes of my childhood have been replaced by blocks of flats that were built to maximise profit, I still find some wonderful examples on walks through Yeroskipos’s backstreets. For an almost-native like me, this little urban village is a perfect base near Paphos, with lots of beloved local restaurants — although those who want the sun-and-sea Cypriot experience should aim to stay on the beachfront for more immediate holiday fun.

I meet my cousin Yiannakis in the double-entrance house our grandfather built a century ago. Yiannakis has rented it for decades and, though it needs attention, it still retains its grace and finesse. Looking at the quality of the workmanship I understand why so many of Nicolas’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren — my nephew included — are architects or accountants. There is precision in his work, as there is in theirs.

Yiannakis knew our grandfather. He remembers a left-leaning, principled man who refused the last rites because the priest who came to administer them had reported communist neighbours to the authorities at a time when the movement was illegal in Cyprus. I love this story — and the fact that our grandfather considered forfeiting his integrity to the priest a bigger penalty than not being absolved of sin.

Tala is just six miles to the north of Paphos

ALAMY

The next day I drive to Tala. Just six miles to the north of Paphos, this handsome village has proved irresistible to Brits. Visitors come for the clichés of the weather, the charm of the people and the desire to stretch their pensions, while tourists are drawn to the beguiling serenity of times past, of being able to stay in a café for hours without the pressure to move on, and for the chance to simply sit and daydream. Though Tala does have a modern amphitheatre and some beautiful churches, its main attraction is the effect it has on the spirit — how nice to feel there is nothing to tick off a to-do list beyond watching lemon trees swaying in the summer breeze.

I take the stony path — just wide enough for a donkey and cart — to the 15th-century church Agia Aikaterini. This is where my great-grandparents were married and where my grandfather was baptised. I had hoped to light candles for them, for my parents and for all my dead relatives, but the church is closed so I sit outside by the bell that must have rung on my great-grandparents’ wedding day. With no photographs of them as reference, my imagination creates two gentle-looking people in their early twenties who know nothing of the world and even less of each other.

Their marriage would have been arranged through broxenia — a way of introducing two people from similar backgrounds who share values and hopes. They would have spent hours greeting their guests, who would have included everyone their parents had ever passed on the street, before finally being left alone to spend their first awkward night together.

Old Tala is tiny, yet I manage to stay for hours, poking my head into the derelict, squat one or two-windowed houses, and comparing them with their still-occupied neighbours, which dazzle in white and show-offy geraniums and succulents. Even without a family connection, it’s a lovely place to wander.

Latchi is a former fishing village that now has a pretty marina and a few fish tavernas

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My great-grandparents worked the land but they had their own smallholding so I seek clues of where they might have lived among what remains of the larger properties. It’s pointless, of course, but I succumb to the sentimentality and fancy of it. My grandfather could have stood just here …

Back at the town’s square I look for buildings he might have recognised. Perhaps some of the cafés. There are a few that have retained a glimmer of their original purpose as kafenia, where men congregate to chat, play backgammon and drink coffee so thick they could chew it. I talk to the owner. He’s a xenos too. By family accounts, my grandfather was a progressive man. I get the feeling he would have relished the changes that are happening in Cyprus.

I leave Tala for the Akamas peninsula, an untouched part of Cyprus that holds precious memories for me. My father taught my nephew to swim in the warm shallows of Latchi, a former fishing village that now has a pretty marina and a few fish tavernas. When my brother was doing his military service in Cyprus, he and I would escape to this far northwest part of the island, which is less than 30 miles from Paphos. We would walk the wilds of Akamas — one of Cyprus’s greatest natural treasures — and then descend to Latchi for a swim, a light meze, and the silence and calm he so craved.

My next hotel, the Aphrodite Beach Hotel near Polis Chrysochous, is a mile and a half west of Latchi, and punches so far above its three-star weight that I feel smug that I chose it above ritzier alternatives. It overlooks a pretty pebble beach and the deep blue Med, but what I love even more than its location is the fact that it provides sanctuary to rescued animals. At breakfast, which starts with huge white hunks of halloumi lying across red wedges of watermelon and progresses to eggs, pastries and much more, I enjoy the company of the hotel cats and the chicken who have found lifelong care here.

On my last night I take a short walk east to the luxurious Anassa in Neo Chorio to meet my cousin for dinner. We raise a glass of gorgeous Amphora Promara — one of Cyprus’s finest white wines — to Nicolas Nicolaou, who became known as Nicolas Taliotis, the man who gave us our name, our parents and the foundations on which they raised us. Tala is where my family’s roots lie. But the trees that have grown from them cross continents and span generations, and will continue to do so for all time.
Xenia Taliotis was a guest of Sunvil, which has four nights’ B&B at Axiothea and three nights’ B&B at the Aphrodite Beach, including flights and car hire, from £948 (sunvil.co.uk)

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