Cyprus, the most eastern island of the Mediterranean, must be regarded as belonging to Western Europe, if we are to class it by its architecture, its Gothic cathedrals, lordly castles, and ruined abbeys; yet its mountain ranges would seem to connect it with Syria and its open plains with Egypt. Of all the ruins of the age of chivalry, that of the castle of Buffavento, “the defier of storms,” is certainly the noblest and most interesting. Never, even in Spain or Italy, have I seen a finer combination of rugged grandeur and romantic charm than is to be found in this extensive ruin. Most ancient castles stand on an eminence of some few hundred feet, but the crest of Buffavento is reared as high as the Lion Mountain, a dark rocky pyramid 3000 feet above the level of the sea. Early on the morning of the 24th of April I rode forth followed by my dragoman, zaptieh, and other servants, to visit this interesting ruin, the foot of the mountain on which it stands being about four leagues from Nikosia. My dragoman and I carried our guns with us, and as we left the town were at once stopped by some soldiers who wished to take them from us, it not being legal, they told us, for foreigners to carry arms in Cyprus.

After a lengthened parley, and many assurances from my men that I was under the protection, and a personal friend, of the pacha’s, we were allowed to proceed, and went on our way rejoicing. Our road now lay through the broad and fruitful plain of Messaria: golden corn was waving in the breeze, and not a living creature was visible on the vast expanse; only the song of the lark was to be heard as it rose and fell in the blue sky above us.

It was still early morning, and the Cypriotes have an opinion that it is not safe to visit their fields and pastures till later in the day. The silence was so intense as to be almost painful, and the lovely landscape did not seem to coincide with the death-like quiet that reigned around.

We passed two small villages, which appeared deserted, but for the crowing of a cock which was perched on a mud wall. When we reached Manilia, we had to ride through the bed of the ancient river Pedias, the water of which, it being the end of April, was low enough to admit of our crossing in safety. As we landed on the other side, we saw, for the first time that day, some labourers in the fields. These were the four wives of an amply bearded old Turk, who calmly smoked his pipe, keeping his eye on his family meanwhile, to see they did not shirk their work, which consisted of lopping off the ears of corn with a small sickle—mere child’s play. As we approached the old man shouted out something to his better halves, and one of them, a negress, immediately threw part of her garment over her face, and turned away. With the other three, however, curiosity overcame their bashfulness, and their veils were only slowly drawn down after we had enjoyed a good look at their very ordinary faces. As we continued our way, the line of mountains that bordered the coast lay before us in an uninterrupted line, thirty leagues in length, forming a natural bulwark along the northern portion of the island, and terminating in the Carpasian peninsula. This range reminded me of the Vosges mountains, but is much more varied in form, and is far richer in its productions.

The highest peak of this range is only from 2000 to 3000 feet high, but passing as it does through an extensive open plain, the effect of its height is very deceptive, the mountains appearing very much higher than they actually are. The crests of this range display every form of rocky beauty, and its peaks, chasms, precipices, and bold bluffs are covered in some parts with tints of reddish brown, and in others with a purplish blue mist that gives them an indescribable charm which I have never seen elsewhere. As we approached these mountains, the ground rose gradually, and we perceived the rocks were quite bare, every variety of tint being produced by the play of the sunbeams on the rugged stones.

We now drew nigh the monastery of St. Chrisostomo, and very refreshing was the sight of its walls standing embowered in green trees at the base of bare and rugged mountains. Olive-trees were planted in some of its declivities, and oleanders, which had finished flowering, bordered a small rivulet. Everything around seemed to woo us to repose; the air was fresh and balmy, and from the mountain height we heard from time to time the tinkle of the bells of the sheep and goats browsing down below. Two old monks stood at the door to bid us welcome, and insist upon our dismounting and accepting their hospitality. These appeared to be the only inhabitants of the half-ruined pile. I have since learnt that the number of monks is steadily decreasing in all the monasteries of Cyprus. In the cloister garden were three lofty cypresses, and a fine palm-tree. Masses of ivy were clinging about the branches of the old apple and orange-trees. This garden is at the height of 1300 feet above the sea, backed by a wall of rock fully 2000 feet high. The eye turned with relief from this vast, lofty, and rugged expanse, and the dry parched plain beyond, to the soft green of the shady garden, and its rippling water.

The two old men appeared delighted to meet with an inhabitant of the outer world, and earnestly pressed me to remain for some days. My time was too valuable even for lingering in this delightful retreat. Our fare consisted only of vegetables. Cyprian monks would appear to be always fasting—one day they eat turnips and onions, and on the next pumpkins and beans. This fashion is none of the pleasantest in a country where the monasteries are the only houses of entertainment that are always open. As soon as my hosts learnt I was a Bavarian, they informed me that the celebrated Maria of Molino was the foundress of their monastery, and a Bavarian by birth. I think the simple-hearted creatures had a sort of vague idea that she must have been an ancestress of my own. Dinner over, I seated myself in a cool corner, but was at once entreated, with outstretched hands, to take another place, as I was still warm after my journey. This is always the way in the East. If you are tired and heated, you must not drink, you must not sleep, and above all, in Heaven’s name! never sit in a draught, without you want to have fever. The only thing you are permitted to do is to throw a covering over you and wait till you are cool.

These constant precautions are no doubt necessary in these climates, still they produce an impression that danger is always at hand. This monastery of St. Chrisostomo, which was, probably, founded at a very early date, contains an ancient picture of Panagia. Great additions have been made to the original edifice, including a fine entrance and portal. The church is formed by two chapels with cupolas. At the time of my visit the floors of the chapels were thickly strewn with branches of myrtle in celebration of the feast of Easter. It is probable that Mary of Molino only beautified this edifice and increased its revenues. Tradition says that the unfortunate saint being a leper, was advised by St. Chrisostomo to bathe in the rivulet in the monastery garden. She did so, and was healed; her gratitude being shown by munificent gifts to the brotherhood. Certain it is that two hundred years ago crowds of lepers visited this spot, in order to wash in the monastery stream, to be cured of their fearful disease. This pilgrimage is now never undertaken, either because the water is not as abundant as in days gone by, or because happily this hideous malady is comparatively rare. During my stay in Cyprus I did not see one leper except outside Nikosia. This same Mary of Molino, whose bones lie in these mountains, according to another tradition, built the castle of Buffavento, choosing this elevated situation, we may suppose, to remove herself entirely from the haunts of men. If she executed such an undertaking, she must have enjoyed the revenues of a princess. Looking up at this grand old pile one is struck by its strength and size, and when, on closer survey, one finds that two similar fortresses are situated on the same chain of mountains, at about four leagues right and left of Buffavento, called respectively Kantara and St. Hilarion, that these castles command the mountain passes and the roads to the city of Keryneia, and that this town had the best haven on the north side of the island, one is naturally led to conclude that these fortresses were in fact erected by some enterprising conqueror, in order to hold the whole island under his control. Buffavento, perched high upon the Lion Mountain, looks down upon its companion fortresses with the air of a defiant spirit gazing down upon the country that it formerly kept in check. On my inquiring of my hosts if any one ever climbed to the castle, they assured me the ascent was some thousand feet high, and that they had no guide to assist me. Their awestruck manner whilst speaking of such an attempt led me to suppose that they fancied the ruins were infested by evil spirits. They, however, informed me that ten years ago two Germans attempted the ascent, and that the younger of the two reached the top. This was no doubt the traveller Kotschy, an account of whose ascent is given by his companion Unger.[4] Encouraged by this report, I determined to make the attempt myself.