Some years ago, while standing outside the Imperial Beach Hotel in Paphos, Cyprus, my wife and I were waiting for a taxi to take us to Nicosia, which was about a one and a half hour drive. Instead of the normal taxi arriving, one of those big American stretch limos
turned up, with four people already in it. There was plenty of room, and the people were very friendly.
Before we got very far, a lady of about seventy years young, all dressed in black and very obviously Greek, started to ask me a few questions about whether we liked the Greek food, and so on. She was very easy to talk to, with a smile and outlook of a much younger woman.
“Where do you come from in England?“ she asked.
“You probably wouldn’t know it. It’s a little village called, Potters Bar, in Hertfordshire,” I said.
She put her hands over her mouth as she gasped in surprise. Her eyes lit up like Roman candles as she said, “I don’t believe it, not Potters Bar.”
My wife and I had to chuckle, as we asked her, “Why, what’s so strange about Potters Bar?”
She leaned over towards us saying, ”I’ll tell you what’s so strange,” and she started to tell us this story, which by now had caught the attention of the other people in the limo.
During the war, her family lived in Paphos. She was a twenty year old nurse, working at the local hospital. There were always British ships coming into the ports of Cypress, leaving behind their wounded to be treated and patched up ready for the next available ship back to the UK. One young man in particular that she had really taken a shine to, was a twenty year old with some of the most severe wounds she had ever seen. He was almost blind and needed the care, comfort and reassurance from someone nursing him, so that he could regain his confidence and to give him the will to live.
She said, “I was given that job by the chief surgeon that saved his life. I spent almost a year with that young man, getting to know every part of his mind and body, and I must tell you that by the time he was ready to go home, I was very much in love with him. He did go home eventually and I must have cried for a week or so. He was my very first love, and I have never forgotten him. We kept in touch about every month or so, but I never had the courage in those days, to let him know just how much I loved him. We are both in our late seventies now and I still send him a card every Christmas and he never forgets to send one to me.”
By now I guess you don’t need two guesses at where he lives. Potters Bar!
turned up, with four people already in it. There was plenty of room, and the people were very friendly.
Before we got very far, a lady of about seventy years young, all dressed in black and very obviously Greek, started to ask me a few questions about whether we liked the Greek food, and so on. She was very easy to talk to, with a smile and outlook of a much younger woman.
“Where do you come from in England?“ she asked.
“You probably wouldn’t know it. It’s a little village called, Potters Bar, in Hertfordshire,” I said.
She put her hands over her mouth as she gasped in surprise. Her eyes lit up like Roman candles as she said, “I don’t believe it, not Potters Bar.”
My wife and I had to chuckle, as we asked her, “Why, what’s so strange about Potters Bar?”
She leaned over towards us saying, ”I’ll tell you what’s so strange,” and she started to tell us this story, which by now had caught the attention of the other people in the limo.
During the war, her family lived in Paphos. She was a twenty year old nurse, working at the local hospital. There were always British ships coming into the ports of Cypress, leaving behind their wounded to be treated and patched up ready for the next available ship back to the UK. One young man in particular that she had really taken a shine to, was a twenty year old with some of the most severe wounds she had ever seen. He was almost blind and needed the care, comfort and reassurance from someone nursing him, so that he could regain his confidence and to give him the will to live.
She said, “I was given that job by the chief surgeon that saved his life. I spent almost a year with that young man, getting to know every part of his mind and body, and I must tell you that by the time he was ready to go home, I was very much in love with him. He did go home eventually and I must have cried for a week or so. He was my very first love, and I have never forgotten him. We kept in touch about every month or so, but I never had the courage in those days, to let him know just how much I loved him. We are both in our late seventies now and I still send him a card every Christmas and he never forgets to send one to me.”
By now I guess you don’t need two guesses at where he lives. Potters Bar!