Cyprus Cats

Calling all cat lovers! πŸ˜€ *meow*


Cyprus is full of cats, and I love it. Protaras is a bit of a sleepy place in the winter, when it definitely feels that the local population consists of considerably more cats than humans! Even when you think you’re alone… quite frankly you’re not! A super stealthy clowder of cats and kittens will be watching you and following you close by.

No problem, it’d be my honour to feed you and play with you sweet kitty! πŸ™‚

They are such a colourful and characterful bunch, providing you plenty of entertainment and affection if you let them… and how can you not? Obviously, I love our feline friends. Spending so much time with them during my time in Cyprus this time, got me thinking about how they got to the island in the first place. And a little research resulted in the following;

– The oldest example of a domesticated cat is found in Cyprus!

– The Cyprus Cat is athletic, energetic and adaptable. They need to be able to deal with the island’s various terrains and climates; mountainous, coastal, humid, arid etc.

– St. Helen brought cats from either Palestine or Egypt c. 4 AD in order to rid the island of venomous snakes and vermin.

‘That’s the Cape of Cats ahead,’ the captain said to me,
pointing through the mist to a low stretch of shore,
the beach deserted; it was Christmas day β€”
‘. . . and there, in the distance to the west, is where
Aphrodite rose out of the waves;
they call the place “Greek’s Rock.”
Left ten degrees rudder!’
She had Salome’s eyes, the cat I lost a year ago;
and old Ramazan, how he would look death square in the eyes,
whole days long in the snow of the East,
under the frozen sun,
days long square in the eyes: the young hearth god.
Don’t stop, traveller.
‘Left ten degrees rudder,’ muttered the helmsman.

. . . my friend, though, might well have stopped,
now between ships,
shut up in a small house with pictures,
searching for windows behind the frames.
The ship’s bell struck
like a coin from some vanished city
that brings to mind, as it falls,
alms from another time.
‘It’s strange,’ the captain said.
‘That bell β€” given what day it is β€”
reminded me of another, the monastery bell.
A monk told me the story,
a half-mad monk, a kind of dreamer.

‘It was during the great drought,
forty years without rain,
the whole island devastated,
people died and snakes were born.
This cape had millions of snakes
thick as a man’s legs
and full of poison.
In those days the monastery of St Nicholas
was held by the monks of St Basil,
and they couldn’t work their fields,
couldn’t put their flocks to pasture.
In the end they were saved by the cats they raised.
Every day at dawn a bell would strike
and an army of cats would move into battle.
They’d fight the day long,
until the bell sounded for the evening feed.
Supper done, the bell would sound again
and out they’d go to battle through the night.
They say it was a marvellous sight to see them,
some lame, some blind, others missing
a nose, an ear, their hides in shreds.
So to the sound of four bells a day
months went by, years, season after season.
Wildly obstinate, always wounded,
they annihilated the snakes but in the end disappeared;
they just couldn’t take in that much poison.
Like a sunken ship
they left no trace on the surface:
not a miaow, not a bell even.
Steady as you go!
Poor devils, what could they do,
fighting like that day and night, drinking
the poisonous blood of those snakes?
Generations of poison, centuries of poison.’
‘Steady as you go,’ indifferently echoed the helmsman.

Wednesday, 5 February, 1969

George Seferis (Nobel Laureate – 1963)

Cy Cats



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