The peasants’ cottages were built of bricks dried in the sun, and, apparently, were comfortable enough. I could discover no antiquities or inscriptions.
Early in the afternoon, we remounted our mules, and, partly retracing our steps, proceeded in a north-west direction to the monastery of Chrysostomus, up the side of Pentedactylus, at the summit almost of which is built the monastery. The foot of the mountain is of a barren argillaceous soil, producing nothing but a few stunted firs, and some oleanders in the watercourses. This whitish gray coloured soil ceased, and after it came the upper chain, which was of a reddish coloured rock.
We arrived at St. Chrysostom’s about sunset. The spot was not devoid of beauty, being a semicircular flat, indented in the side of the mountain. In front of it was a miserable hamlet. Two or three cypresses, with some vines and lemon trees, made up an orchard, which could not fail of being an embellishment to the place in the summer season: at present, it was robbed of its verdure. We found in the monastery one monk, an old woman, and a boy. Some rice, which I had with me, a little leben, procured from the hamlet, and some rammakins, dressed in oil, afforded a comfortable supper: and, after the priest had entertained me with a description of the milordi who had been there, my guide, the muleteer, produced from his wallet a violin, which he played on in a manner by no means disagreeable—yet he was but a rough peasant. I was then left to repose, wrapped up, as was my custom, in my lambskin pelisse, and without bed or covering. In this way no fleas molested me.
The following morning, at sunrise, I visited the ruins that overhang the monastery, and which go by the name of τὰ σπητια της ρεανος. The ascent was difficult, and, for nearly the whole way, impracticable to mules. On reaching the summit, which here was a peak, I enjoyed an extensive prospect both to the south, over the land I had traversed, and to the north along the coast. Between the mountains and the sea, to the north, there was a sloping plain from one to three miles in breadth, and running east and west as far as the eye could see. Towards the west it appeared to be well wooded; and it had already been described to me as affording the most beautiful scenery in the island. From this point was seen Lapithus, whose true name is Lampua. It is called, by the Turks, Lapta. The high mountains seen to the west are called Τρυγῳδὸς, pronounced Truothos.
Having satisfied myself with the view, I turned to the ruins. They consisted of four or five stone houses, of tolerably solid but modern structure, built one above the other, and which once were connected by steps in the rock, now crumbled away. The uppermost was a church, and those beneath seemed to have been parts of a monastery; both because such places were commonly built on the most elevated spots, and because there was nothing castellated in the walls. The situation was certainly as well fitted for a place of strength as for a monastery; but ruins, in Syria at least, of the nature of a fortress always showed crenelated battlements, loopholes, or something appropriate to defence, of which this had none.
We descended to the monastery, where I breakfasted, and then departed for Famagusta. Cytherea lay in my route; and, in passing through it again, as I beheld its verdant foliage and its purling rivulets, there seemed to be nothing but the hand of love and refinement wanting to make it yet one of the most picturesque spots in nature. Its situation, at the foot of a mountain, on a slope, with an extensive plain in front, is not unlike Bâlbec, but in more diminutive proportions.
We kept along the lower chain of hills, in an easterly direction, and passed through two Turkish villages. Round one of these the land was cultivated with the utmost neatness. In Cyprus the husbandman’s annoyance is the squill plant, which springs up amidst the corn almost every where. Here it had been so carefully destroyed, that not one was to be seen. My guide lost his road, and it was necessary to make inquiries at one of the cottages; but, wherever we knocked, a voice from within cried out either—“There are no men at home;” or, “The men are at plough;” and, as Turkish women do not appear before strangers, we were considerably embarrassed. At last, however, we met an obliging peasant, who, taking me for a Mahometan Arab, walked nearly a mile to put us right, and excused himself that he could go no farther, on the plea of having his cattle to drive in.
About one league farther on, in a south-easterly direction, we reached a Christian village, called Marathon. The sun had set, and there was a gleam across the landscape, just enough to give to every thing around an illusive appearance. The women were returning from the well with water on their heads; and their white dresses, as they floated in the wind, gave them a look not unlike what my imagination pictured the maidens of earlier times to have been on this once happy island. Alas! an unseemly reality soon dissipated these visions of fancy. I was led to the house of a Greek papas, who, seeing the guest with whom he was about to be burdened for the night, bawled, in a stentorian voice, to a dirty wife and half a dozen children, and, by his rough hands, uncombed beard, and the dexterity with which he housed his cows, showed himself to be more of a labourer and husbandman than of an ecclesiastic. His lodging, nevertheless, was commodious, and, when he found that he should be paid, his welcome was hearty.
As it was now full moon, we took advantage of its light, and departed next morning two hours before daylight. We passed several little villages and hamlets on our way: and, keeping an easterly direction, we reached the sea-shore about eleven o’clock, near to a large red brick monastery, called St. Barnabas. We then turned short to the right, towards Famagusta, compelled to take this circuitous route, owing to the swamps made by the River Pedias in this season of the year. These were so extensive, that the former possessors of the country had constructed a long causeway and bridge over the extremity of it, where the water of the river discharged itself by an outlet into the sea.
When we were safe over the bridge, we arrived, in about half an hour, at the monastery of St. Luke, which is abreast of the city of Famagusta. It belonged to the Greeks, and was a sort of spacious cottage, kept by a single monk, who received us with a forced smile, not having the most distant idea that I was a Frank. Nor could I, for some time, persuade him that I was one, so much did my dress, my tanned face, and the language I spoke in to my servant, disguise me: for the priest did not understand Arabic, and therefore was not able to detect my foreign accent.