Henry V. Morton

In late 1935, Britain’s foremost travel writer and journalist, Henry Vollam Morton (also known as HV Morton and Harry Morton) arrived in Cyprus to conduct research for a new book he was writing about Saint Paul. He was forty-three years old. Just over a decade earlier, in 1923, Morton gained international fame as the journalist who won the scoop to report on the opening of the tomb of Tutankhamun. Four years later in 1927, his book ‘In Search of England’ became an instant best-seller. Morton arrived to Cyprus by steamer from Syria. Once the vessel dropped anchor in the deep waters outside Larnaca, the port doctor came out in a small boat (motor-launch) to examine the eyes, throats, chests, and under arms of all the crew and the steerage passengers on board the ship. From the deck, Morton noticed the bleak and barren landscape before him. “This island has changed its appearance since classical times,” he remarks. “No longer do dense woods cover it and no longer does the brushwood come to the water’s edge.” Morton blames the goats for decimating the landscape. “Nothing, except, possibly, earthquakes, has altered the appearance of the ancient world so much as the goat.” Satisfied that there are no fever-stricken or infectious persons on board the ship, the port doctor gives his approval for them to come ashore by rowing boat. On the hot sea-front of Larnaca the passengers are approached by a number of carriage drivers cracking their whips and speaking in a bewildering mixture of Greek and broken English. Morton is surprised that although Cyprus has been under British rule for over half a century, only a few locals have managed to learn English. He approaches a saloon car that is standing for hire under the shade of a date palm. “I want to go to Salamis,” he tells the driver. “Certainly!” the driver replies in an American accent. “Step in, boss. I’m the best driver in Cyprus.” Morton is relieved that the driver can speak English. Apparently, he had lived in America for six years before returning to Cyprus with enough money to get married and buy a car. They drive over a flat road, past fields of sweet-scented broad bean flowers and past oxen yoked to ploughs turning the rich earth. Every now and then they pass through mud-coloured villages where houses with flat roofs and wooden balconies stand huddled in narrow lanes set about with sesame fields and pomegranate and orange groves. They pass through the ancient, walled town of Famagusta and after about five miles finally arrived at their destination. According to ancient writers, Salamis was once one of the most important ports in the Mediterranean. In fact, it was the commercial capital of Roman Cyprus. In ancient times, it was the port where Saints Paul, Barnabas, and Mark had disembarked. In fact, it is said that the Jews had settled in Cyprus centuries before Christ and were engaged in the export of oil, fruit, wine, and copper, primarily through the port of Salamis. Apparently, they were there long enough to become rich and powerful. At Salamis, Morton walks through a dense wood that has emerged amongst the ruins. He soon stumbles across the stump of a marble pillar and then another hidden under the shade of the acacia and eucalyptus trees. Brambles grow over them. Further along is a flight of marble steps half-covered with grass and shrubs. He is starting to wonder if the whole wood is haunted by the ghosts of Salamis. “When I look to find the once splendid harbour, I see nothing but sand-dunes,” he remarks. “I find the remains of three market-places, three enormous squares which had once been paved with marble and surrounded by marble temples. I find the remains of a splendid Roman house with many bathrooms in it and a complete system of central heating. Here and there in the undergrowth are broken pillars and scraps of Greek inscriptions. I tear away weeds and exposed some steps on which Saint Paul may have walked upon for this was once the main square of the city.” After Salamis, Morton goes to Famagusta where he books a room in a hotel. He remarks that his bed is enormous and resembles something that was built for either a wedding or a funeral. The mosquito-net that covers the bed has holes large enough that even the laziest mosquito could pass through. As he sits in a large basket chair on his balcony, Morton spots two rare Cypriot camels walking towards the town and a middle-aged inhabitant in Turkish dress, riding a bicycle. Below his balcony he hears someone ordering two gin fizzes and talking in a confident, booming voice about moisture, pests and square acres. As the sun sets behind the eucalyptus trees, he hears the baying of a mule in the distance. “What a lovely place to settle down and write,” he declares. “It’s so quiet here. So peaceful, with nothing to distract you.” The beauty of Cyprus is not lost on Morton. He describes the island as a perfect blend of mountain and plain. “The hills that slope down towards deserted bays are half-screened by olive trees and the crisp insistence of the cicada and the sound of the waves create a lovely peaceful duet in the heat.” Many travellers who had visited Cyprus in the nineteenth century had described Cyprus as a wasted island in which ‘neither life nor property was safe’. They wrote how the Christian Greeks were oppressed by the ruling Moslems and the Moslems were oppressed by their own tax-gatherers. Harbours were inadequate, roads were non-existent, and irrigation had been neglected. One of the most fertile islands of classical times had degenerated into an unproductive wasteland. Morton was pleased that in just over half a century, Cyprus had been transformed into a more inhabitable island than it ever been during the Ottoman era. “The law courts, hospitals, schools, the splendid roads, the agricultural enterprises and the police force, reflect the greatest credit on the handful of British administrators who have ruled the island.” By the time Morton had visited Cyprus, Kemal Ataturk had introduced his hat law which aimed to abolish the wearing of the fez or any Ottoman-style dress. However, in Cyprus, Morton discovered that quite a few older Turkish Cypriots were still wearing the fez along with pleated trousers. He also discovered that the local Turkish Cypriots spoke a form of Osmanli Turkish that was free from Persian and Arabic words. The Greeks on the other hand, spoke modern colloquial Greek except in the rural areas where the dialect contained many words of French, Italian, and Turkish origin, obviously a relic of the various foreign occupations of the island. Just before sunset, Morton decides to go for a stroll into Famagusta. He soon comes upon a moated high wall built with large brown stones with bastions at the corners and a splendid fortified gate. Upon entering the town, he is amazed that Famagusta has changed little since Turkish guns ceased fire in 1571. “I do not think that students of architecture realise how remarkable the survival of this completely walled city is,” he later writes. “With its towers, land gates and sea gates, its great Romanesque Cathedral, and its magnificent churches, many of them still bright with frescoes. No description of Famagusta can adequately convey the feeling of surprise with which one walks through the streets of this mediaeval Pompeii.” Morton declares that Medieval Famagusta is one of the most remarkable ruins in the world. He declares that it could be made one of the wonders of the world by one millionaire in search of immortality. “Now that Cyprus is a British Colony,” he states. “We should prohibit building within the walls of Famagusta and we should reconstruct the churches and preserve the frescoes. The preservation of these antiquities is as much our responsibility as the provision of roads, hospitals, and irrigation. Surely it should be possible to set up a British School of Archaeology at Famagusta. I regret to say that when I remembered Rhodes and the money that Italy has lavished on the antiquities of that island, I looked at Famagusta with a feeling of shame.” In Famagusta, Morton meets a polite Cypriot man who agrees to take him inside the church of St George which was also once known as the Cathedral of the Greeks. The guide tells Morton that the church had recently been restored and is the only ancient building in Famagusta that is used as a Christian church. “It was once a Turkish stable,” the guide remarks. “However, one day St. George came down from the mountains and was so angry to see camels stabled in his church, that he projected a camel out by the rose window, as a sign of his disapproval.” Morton is curious to see that the icon of St. George is covered and surrounded by offerings made of wax. There are tiny wax legs, arms, feet, ears, fingers and even little moulded human heads of wax. He notices a complete human figure made of wax with the word Mehmet scrawled upon it. “Do the Turks also venerate this icon?” he asks the guide. “Of course,” the guide replies proudly. “All Cypriots know that St. George is a great healer.” A few yards away is the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul. Morton hears the sound of hammering inside and is shocked to discover that the fine old Gothic church is being used as a storehouse for oranges which are piled up to the roof in crates and boxes. “Even if Great Britain cannot afford to put Famagusta in order,” he laments. “Surely we can prevent a firm of orange-growers from using this beautiful building as a warehouse?” About four miles from Famagusta is the Monastery of St. Barnabas. The next morning Morton decides to pay a visit. He is told by one of the monks there that no saint in heaven that has a more tender regard for the Cypriot as St. Barnabas. Inside the cool, white church, whose domes are held up by marble columns taken from the ruins of Salamis, Morton stands memorised in front of the gilded ‘iconostasis’. The wooden structure is covered by so many icons that he fears it will collapse under its weight. There are no statues to be found in any Greek Orthodox Church. The ban dates back to the remote times when sculpture was associated with pagan worship. The Church however celebrates the use of icons. No matter how poor or small a Greek church may be, it nearly always has a good display of these sacred pictures, to which the locals sometimes attach all manner of miraculous qualities, often piously kissing them to the bare wood. Coming to a half-open door, Morton notices another Greek monk sitting at an easel, painting an icon. The monk was so focused on his work that he failed to notice Morton looking at him. “He sat there, his knot of hair drawn under a brimless hat, his hand steadied on a bamboo guiding-rod and his attitude was one of intense concentration as he added little touches of red, blue, and gold to the figure of a saint. When he saw me, he smiled in embarrassment, wiped his hands on his cassock, and came forward. While we talked about icons, I discovered that his technique was rooted in the Byzantine Age. He had been taught to paint by a monk of seventy, who had learnt his art from a monk of seventy; and so on right back to the dim ages of iconography. Like all people who love the work they do, there was something pleasant and poised about this Greek priest.” That evening Morton visits a grocer’s shop in Famagusta and is presented with a most astonishing meal. On a table amongst bars of soap, blocks of goat’s-milk cheese and baskets of bread, the grocer sets down a jar of pickled birds. “They are small birds,” notes Morton. “No larger than a sparrow. I think they are blackcaps. I was told that they fly over from Syria in enormous flocks and settle on the fig trees of Cyprus. The Cypriots salt, spice, and pickle them, and the effect of this is to harden the flesh and soften the bones, so that you eat the complete bird, bones and all.” Morton is also offered a glass of ‘Commanderia’ and is told by the grocer that the wine was made by the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem who came over to Cyprus in 1294 and set up a Grand Commandery at Kolossi. The next morning, after consuming a simple breakfast, Morton travels to the ancient town of Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus. He discovers that the wall of Nicosia was completed by the Venetians in 1570 in a mad panic to hold off an imminent Turkish attack by Lala Mustafa Pasha and his troops. After a siege of seven weeks however, the Turks captured Nicosia and slaughter around twenty thousand Christian inhabitants. As Morton wanders through the narrow streets of the town, he sees Turkish bazaars where store holders in traditional dress exhibit a maze of redundant items (as he puts it). He visits a museum, where a large black, cone-shaped stone is on display reputed to represent the Goddess Aphrodite. Apparently, the basalt stone was found some years earlier in a cow-shed in Paphos. From the museum, Morton pays a visit to the thirteenth century cathedral, of St. Sophia, now a mosque. He stands in front of the glorious Gothic building, mesmerised by the three superb doorways and its enormous, whitewashed interior. After a short stay in the capital, Morton heads for Mount Troodos. “As the sun fell towards the west,” he writes, “we climb up out of the plain through vineyards and past villages clinging like wild bees’ nests to the ledges of mountains. We enter a cool world of bracken and hushed woods, where every footfall is silenced on yielding paths of pine needles. Towards evening we come in sight of a group of buildings perched like an eagle’s nest on the ledge of a mountain. It was strange to see this cluster of chimneys and roofs hanging over an abyss, with the open sky above them.” Here, Morton is describing Kykkos, the most famous of all the ancient monasteries of Cyprus, which lies some 3,800 feet above sea level. The monastery of Kykkos, Morton discovers has not altered its appearance (or its daily routine) since the thirteenth century. The monastery however, has been destroyed by fire and rebuilt many times. The first fire was caused by a villager who was smoking out wild bees’ nests in the year 1365. Another fire broke out in 1542, a third in 1751, and a fourth in 1813. After each fire, the haphazard group of wooden buildings rose again, each new monastery exactly like the one that had been destroyed. As Morton and his guide drive through the great gateway of Kykkos monastery, they are transported back in time. “There is a crowd of muleteers gathered about tying the bridles of their beasts to posts and iron staples. A pungent smell of wood smoke and cooking pervades the air. As I glance beneath the archway, I notice a group of Greek monks carrying platters of food. Nearby, a man crosses the courtyard, driving a mule with a wine-skin slung across its back.” The monks of Kykkos have been entertaining strangers since the thirteenth century. Its rambling courtyards are encircled by buildings which contain more than seventy guest-rooms. Pilgrims come here from every part of the Greek Orthodox world. To Morton’s surprise, one of the muleteers pulls a bell-rope which summons forth an old monk with a black beard. The monk leads Morton along a dark stone passage, up and down flights of worn stone stairs and through a heavy wooden door. There, he motions his guest to sit at a formal, plush-covered French settee. The room is cool and dim. There is a faint aroma of incense and coffee. Photographs of heavily bearded Greek archbishops, sitting in their finest vestments, gaze down from the walls. Suddenly, a curtain is drawn to admit a bearded middle-aged priest with a twinkling eye. A gold pectoral cross shines on his dark gown. His clothes are of better quality than those worn by the ordinary monks and the hand out-stretched now in greeting seems soft and carefully tended. Morton knew at once that this was the Abbot of Kykkos, one of the most powerful church dignitaries in Cyprus. Morton discovers that the Abbot is a sophisticated and intelligent churchman. They sit together under candlelight and discuss the annual balance-sheet of the monastery, the records of the wheat and grape harvest, and the sheep and cattle statistics. After a while, a young lay brother appears with a tray of cherry jam and two tumblers of water. The Abbot, with a friendly smile, tells Morton that refreshments are always offered in a Greek monastery. Sometimes it is preserved quince, sometimes preserved figs or rose-leaf jam and sometimes sweet, pickled walnuts. Morton swallows a spoonful of the cherry jam and slowly sips the water. After refreshments, another lay brother appears, with an immense fuzz of black hair and a large black moustache. He escorts Morton to an enormous, vaulted apartment. There is a wash basin, a plush-covered sofa and in the middle of the room, a small round table with a few chairs. As Morton approaches the basin, the young monk rushes over with a pitcher of water and a towel. He does not pour the water into the basin however, but instead, he waits for his guest to hold out his hands so he can pour the water over them. This was always the custom in antiquity. After a short rest, Morton climbs up a flight of stairs that leads to a smaller room. There are several couches here. Next to the iron-barred window is a bed covered by a mosquito net. There are no carpets on the wooden boards and no pictures on the whitewashed walls. Looking out of the window, Morton can see a pine wood descending several hundred feet below the monastery. The moonlight appears like a silver mist covering the branches of the trees. The silence of the night seems to hypnotise the Englishman. The flickering of a bat that flies past his window every few seconds, cuts the air without a sound, which makes the silence seem deeper. When Morton returns downstairs he sees the lay brother there, setting the table for dinner. He has lit a paraffin lamp in the centre of the table, but the light hardly touches the corners of the room. “The lad has placed red wine before me, made from monastery grapes. There is also a loaf of bread made from monastery wheat. As he leaves to fetch my dinner I sit waiting in the large stone room, feeling like a wanderer in some medieval romance. The first course is a dish of beans and celery. The lay brother stands beside my chair all the time, with a napkin over his arm, silently anticipating my wishes, cutting bread and offering salt. He is an odd-looking figure, standing there in the dim lamplight with an enormous bush of hair that sticks out from under a black pot-shaped hat. He shuffles out of the room and returns with a dish of pilaf and boiled chicken.” After dinner, Morton is summoned to the Abbot’s office which is lit with candles. “So, you are writing a book about St, Paul,” the Abbot finally asks Morton with a smile. “Tell me, do you think St. Paul was whipped in Paphos?” “No, I don’t,” Morton replies confidently. “Nor do I,” laughs the Abbot. Morton is relieved that he has not offended the Abbot. They sit drinking coffee together, smoking strong Macedonian cigarettes and discuss St. Paul’s visit to Cyprus and how he managed to convert the Roman governor in Paphos. At 5am, Morton is awoken by the sound of dogs barking and church bells. “Someone in the tower is tugging the bell rope, sending out a series of triumphant notes over the mountain-sides. The monks, who have emerged from their quarters, smile and nod to me as they pass. I ask one of them if the bell indicated a feast day. ‘No,’ comes the reply, ‘the bells are in honour of you.’ I have rarely felt so embarrassed. I was horrified to think that a large portion of Troodos had been awoken so early in my honour.” As for the famous miraculous icon at Kykkos, Morton provides the following description. “It is a painting of the Virgin Mary which is said to be one of the three existing icons painted by St. Luke himself. It is set in an ornate frame with a curtain kept drawn to hide it from view. Several strips of tapestry cover the picture. When a corner is lifted, I can see that the whole icon, with the exception of a small square about the size of a match-box, is sheeted in embossed silver. A small square of original wood, visible through the opening, reveals a few inches of rather blistered-looking paint. No one has seen the actual painting beneath the embossed silver for centuries. In fact, disaster is said to descend on anyone who attempts to do so. The last attempt was made by a monk from Rhodes in the year 1776. They still tell his story at Kykkos how he persuaded the Abbot to allow him to spend a night alone in the church; how, consumed with curiosity, he stretched forth his hand to uncover the icon and how a hot blast struck at him from the picture, leaving him prostrate on the pavement. The Blessed Virgin of Kykkos is also revered as a bringer of rain. In the old days the icon would be carried in solemn procession, with candles and incense and then lifted towards the sky from which rain might be expected. And never, I am told, has the Virgin of Kykkos refused to bring rain to Cyprus.” When Morton enquires about a bronze arm that is sticking out near the icon he is told that the arm belonged to a Turk who tried to light his cigarette from a holy taper and was punished as a result. Leaving the monastery, Morton heads for Paphos. Along the way he stops at a wayside coffee-house to get water for the car. While he sits under a vine drinking coffee, the innkeeper comes out to greet him. To Morton, he is a remarkable sight, looking more like a brigand from a comic opera. Every garment on his body seems to have its own separate tragedy. He is dressed in a strange assortment of clothes. He wears baggy Turkish trousers, an ancient European waistcoat, a striped shirt, a sash, and a pair of sagging striped stockings that look like the relics of a violent Football Cup Final. In some odd and inexplicable way, the overall effect is rather harmonious. There is another man sitting nearby, drinking coffee and conversing with an ox-wagoner. He is wearing Turkish dress and playing with a string of amber beads as he talks. The innkeeper tells Morton that this man belongs to the ‘Linobambakoi’. “There are very few of them left now,” he explains. “In the old days there were many. These Cypriots are outwardly Moslems, but secretly they are Christians. It is said that in order to escape persecution when the Turks conquered Cyprus in 1571, many pretended to convert to Islam, but all the time they and their descendants bore secret Christian names, were secretly baptised by the Orthodox priests, observed in secret the feasts of the Greek Church, and received the Sacrament in secret.” Leaving the coffee-house, Morton drives to the ruins of the Temple of Aphrodite. “What a disappointing site this is,” he tells his guide. An old Turk, who owns a farm nearby, escorts Morton into a back-yard and brushing away the dust with a broom, reveals the faint colours of a mosaic and tiled pavement, probably the floor of one of the ante-chambers. The next morning Morton explores the mounds of ancient Paphos. “Here again,” he complains. “Just like Salamis and Famagusta, this is a place crying out to be investigated.” He soon comes across a temple known as ‘the Hill of the Forty Columns’. Legend tells the story of a Turk who had committed a murder and sought refuge in one of the vaults underground. When he re-emerged some time later about a quarter of a mile away, he is shaking with fear, stuttering that he had crawled through dark chambers full of skulls. A few minutes’ walk from the temple is a little Greek church built on the site of what must once have been either a large Roman temple or a market-place. There, Morton finds a broken Roman pillar surrounded by a whitewashed wall and covered with iron bands to prevent the locals from chipping off fragments as a cure for malaria. Local tradition states that this was the pillar to which St. Paul was tied and scourged. From Paphos, Morton returns to Larnaca and travels on to Turkey. A year later he publishes his book titled; ‘In the Steps of St. Paul’ which most of the information above has been sourced. After the Second World War, Morton and his wife move to South Africa perhaps to escape British democracy, austerity and taxation. The heyday of his success was over, but he managed to live comfortably until his death in 1979.