I’m a little obsessed with beaches. No matter where in the word you are, the season you’re in or who you’re with, I think a trip to a beach will always cheer you up. Not just the lure of ice-cream or topping up your tan but the way that being near water, the soothing sound of waves licking the shore, can put you in a sort of meditative trance. For most people, their happiest childhood memories involve beaches; playing in the sea or sand with their relaxed parents, skimming stones, chucking around a beach ball or even engrossed in a book.
When I lived in France I used to run along the pier that jutted out over the frothy waves, oil slicked by the many fishing boats spluttering out to sea. I loved the feeling of standing next to the lighthouse, as far out from the town as I could get without diving into the water and looking over at the glassy grey pebbles stacked up over time. The shriek of seagulls, the smells of sun cream, sea salt, or greasy chips, never fails to put a smile on my face. I just love being by the sea.
I’ve been to beaches where there’s been no-one around, usually because most people are sane enough not to want to get their hair whipped into a frenzy, and face wind-slapped by unforgiving salty spray. But I’d never been to a beach frozen in the past; simply forgotten about. Until now.
A beach that was once the bustling life and soul of a pretty seaside resort, that attracted hordes of holiday makers, including celebrities (Bridgette Bardot and Richard Burton were regulars) to bathe in the warm, bath-like temperatures of the water and lie on soft, golden sand. A beach that is now boarded off with intimidating wire fences, threatening signs and ghostly, abandoned hotels.
I was on the edge of Varosha, literally peaking in. This beach area of Famagusta is stuck in the 70s, well, 1974 to be precise. During the division of Cyprus, the inhabitants fled hoping to return once the troubles calmed down but it was fenced off overnight by Turkish military and has never re-opened. A shell of its former self, the once booming beach town is now a macabre tourist attraction.
What should be a prime spot of real estate has fallen into a 40-year battle over who owns what, and what to do with it, the imposing hotels just left to rot in the meantime. You can imagine the spectacular views that guest would have had, now the concrete has collapsed, glass shattered from windows and exposed pipes, bricks and crumbling fixtures are the mementos of how this place used to be.
Visiting the border of the beach was kind of like a car crash; you couldn’t not look. The place being so out of bounds made it exciting in a way, as if I’d stumbled upon a secret. However, the reality is that people lost homes, businesses and had their lives ripped apart overnight.
Amazingly, at the far end of the stretch of sand on the right side of the fence, a modern hotel has been built in an attempt to bring some life back to this area. But you can’t help but wonder if the guests staying there may regret their choice when they throw back their curtains to look out on this wreck of a resort. Hardly a picture postcard scene they were expecting. I could imagine couples arguing over who’d booked the accommodation and how the brochure failed to mention the depressing ghost town staring back at them.
Who knows what will happen to Varosha in the future? There are talks of turning it into an eco-city, seeing as Mother Nature has already staked her claim. Whatever happens, it’s certainly a day at the beach that I won’t forget any time soon!
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