God bless 'em, our constabulary.

Byline: Hermes Solomon

THE MIDDAY thunder and several plops of rain failed to wash carob tree leaves clean in Limassol. The nights are drawing in; by 7pm the full moon was shining in a cloudless sky, the sea lapping gently on the shore and the world was at peace with itself. After our swim and evening walk, we were the last to leave the beach and climb the 60 steps leading up to the entry of the Kalymnos camping site.

Along the cliff edge path we were confronted by an artisan setting up a firework display; a line of steel tubes on stands angled at 75 degrees and out to sea. I asked him how long it would take to complete the job and what time to expect the show.

He told us he'd already been there an hour and it only remained for him to fill the tubes with dumpling-shaped fireworks and connect a fuse. The show would begin at 11pm and finish by 11.05am; reasonable disturbance in the neighbourhood, given it was a Saturday evening and there is a wedding reception or something equally exotic being held in the area most weekends from September until the nights turn cold around Christmas.

Is not a special licence required from the local Pentakomo Council or the police for fireworks displays? He didn't know about thatC*

The franchisee of the restaurant also manages the camp site. Residents contracts stipulate no unreasonable noise after midnight or between the siesta hours of 3-5pm. The franchisee recently affixed large signs to the site entry gates banning dogs.

Most permanent residents are elderly expats and take to their beds later on Saturdays due to the unbearably loud music generated by private functions at the restaurant. Things usually quieten down around 12am.

The firework display began at 11.35pm with the loudest bang I've ever heard; sparkling colourful starlight sprays lit up the heavens. My neighbours joined us to gawp from our elevated terrace as did 50 trembling resident dogs from theirs. The disco music then took over until midnight when the volume was turned down, we thought, in consideration of those not at the reception and in respect of the law.

I am a mild man, reasonable and civilised -- I think. But at 1.30am the disco volume was inexplicably upped to 200 watts per channel, enabling all residents to awaken suddenly and clearly identify the lyrics ('I am alive') at 500 metres inside their homes and in bed.

I sung along for half an hour then donned my shorts, T-shirt and slippers, collected my bamboo cane and made my way down the path to the restaurant. I met Alen, one of the Balkan waiters on his way back up to his lodgings carrying a plastic bag rattling glass.

I asked him what time he expected the reception to finish and he said somewhere between 3 and 4am.

"This is a high-class do, middle-aged rockers," he said, adding that he would drink a half bottle of vodka to help him sleep. I told him I was about to set fire to this Tower of Babel. He offered to help me, yet needed a drink first.

The pathways were candlelit. There were things hanging from trees and two kilowatt searchlights pointing up into the sky. A five-metre wide cinema screen had been erected on the restaurant lawn, displaying has-beens performing on the temporary disco dance floor to some James Brown track ("I Feel Good, der-er, der-er, der-er, de!"). The disc jockey looked older than Terry Wogan in the flashing disco lights. But God bless 'em, a constabulary 4WD motorway job was just arriving at the almost empty car park. The volume was quickly turned down.

In the same car park, I was confronted by two 'high-class' ladies in dE[umlaut]colletE[umlaut] evening dresses on their way to their car. One of them wished me a good night in perfectly enunciated middle lower class Cockney. I responded that it evidently had been for them but a nightmare for the 300 residents of the adjoining campsite.

She said it was their first visit to this nightspot-come-restaurant. I said that that was no excuse. She accused me of being a crotchety old goat. I retorted unpardonably, "Don't you mean old ram? I'm looking at the old goats!"

We continually read articles about our hooligan youth yet rarely -- if ever -- about their hooligan elders. My neighbour, who'd taken his son to see the AEL football match that evening, told me that not a single firework or flare was ignited at the stadium.

There was a noticeable police presence. God bless 'em, our constabulary; when they want to bring us under control, they certainly can.

You lead by example and little else.

Copyright Cyprus Mail 2008

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