“Come to Cyprus,” They said

The wildfire did not arrive as a single event, but as a series of moments—some lived in action, others only felt much later. These pieces belong to that unfolding.

Come to Cyprus, they said.

It’ll be lovely, they said.

Sunshine. Sea views. A slower pace of life.

No one mentioned the bit where, six weeks in,

you’re legging it out of your village

with your granddaughter, a dog,

and absolutely no clue where you’re sleeping that night.

Peak season, of course.

Because if you’re going to have a mild life crisis,

you may as well do it when every hotel within a 50-mile radius

is fully booked and “doesn’t accept pets.”

There we were,

two villages over,

parked up like displaced nomads,

frantically ringing hotels:

“Hello - do you have a room?”

“No.”

“Do you allow dogs?”

Also no.

“Do you allow slightly frazzled grandmothers on the brink?”

Still no.

Meanwhile, I’m holding it together.

Because that’s what you do, isn’t it?

You stay calm.

You keep your voice steady.

You pretend this is all perfectly manageable.

Because there’s a child watching you.

But I remember the moment.

Running back.

Turning around.

Looking at the house.

Our house.

The one we’d just moved to.

The one that was meant to be the start of everything.

And thinking:

“I might never see this again.”

And here’s the thing no one tells you -

It’s not just about losing a house.

It’s about:

• losing the dream

• losing the fresh start

• losing the “we made it” feeling

All in one breath.

And yet…

We didn’t lose it.

We drove.

We searched.

We figured it out as we went.

Messy.

Uncertain.

Completely unplanned.

But we handled it.

And that’s the bit my mind keeps forgetting.

It likes the dramatic version:

“What if everything had gone wrong?”

But the truth is far less cinematic and far more reassuring:

Even if it had…

we would have found a way.

Because when it actually mattered -

we got our $hit together.

Come to Cyprus, they said.

It’ll be an adventure.

Well.

They weren’t wrong.

There are moments when truth arrives softly,

and others when it slips in sideways, disguised as humour.

The Watcher sees what is.

Sage makes it easier to bear.

Between them lies a shared knowing -

of what we carry,

and what, in time, we may learn to release.