They lied to me.

Not maliciously, you understand. More in the same way people lie about dogs not shedding hair, or about a “quick look” in Lidl.

They said Cyprus was warm.

And it is.

At lunchtime.

In July.

At 5am in Paphos, on a winter morning in January, Cyprus reveals its true personality. It becomes a damp, shivering reminder that the Mediterranean has a sense of humour and that it enjoys using writers as punchlines.

This morning, I woke before dawn, as writers do. Not because we're disciplined, but because our brains decide that now is the perfect time to rehearse every plot hole, dangling subplot, and unfinished sentence from the last twenty years.

I shuffled into my writing room wearing:

• A jumper
• Another jumper
• A fleece
• A scarf
• Socks that are now resigned to being on my feet for two more months 
• And a look of betrayal

The room was cold. Not dramatic snow-on-the-windows cold. No, this was Cypriot cold. The kind that doesn’t announce itself but seeps into your bones like an unwanted backstory.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, refusing to type until negotiations were complete.

“Perhaps,” they suggested, “we could wait until the sun is up?”

I explained that deadlines do not respect hypothermia.

Outside, Paphos was silent. No tourists. No scooters. Just the distant sound of the sea and the faint sense that somewhere, a Brit had said, “You won’t need a coat in Cyprus.”

The trouble with cold weather in Cyprus is that nobody is prepared for it. The buildings are designed to release heat, not retain it. Which means the walls politely usher warmth outside while inviting the chill in for a cup of tea.

I made coffee. It went cold almost immediately.

I wrapped my hands around the mug like it was a cherished childhood memory.

The coffee did nothing. It knew it was outmatched.

And yet… something magical happens at this hour.

The world is quiet.

The page is blank.

The cold sharpens the mind in a way comfort never does.

Stories creep out while the rest of the island sleeps. Characters whisper. Plots click into place. And somewhere between the shivers and the second cup of coffee, the words start flowing.

By 8am, the sun will rise.

By 9am, I will complain that it’s too hot.

By noon, I will deny all knowledge of this morning.

But at 5am, in a freezing Paphos dawn, a very cold writer sits at his desk, tapping away, proving once again that creativity does not require comfort.

Just determination.

And possibly another jumper.

Copyright © Tom Kane 2026