We have reached the end of our seaside reverie. Time to wake up, with the twisted kiss of reality. I got out of bed early this morning to make the most of our final hours. One last breakfast on the terrace, one last recline by the side of the pool. Out at sea, a single white sailboat flecks the blue and drifts slowly across the horizon. A woodpigeon’s mournful hoots mingle with the sound of distant jackhammers and mechanical clinks—Cyprus’s very own Smoke Beast. I will not miss all the blatant construction, or the tacky bars in central Paphos. But I will miss the quieter places, the lagoons and village squares, where I was afforded a true glimpse of this island, untouched by Western influence.

This week has been kind to me. I have eaten well (perhaps too well) and acquired a natural golden glow. I reconnected with the aunt and uncle I hadn’t spent much time with in the past and made a new friend in Goran, their neighbor. Read two and a half books, sampled a wide selection of fruity cocktails, and felt the Mediterranean swirl around my ankles.

Blessed am I: from Cyprus to London I go, for three more weeks in the city I love.