Winter weather was sapping my spirits, so I escaped to an off-season gem

April might be the cruellest month if you’re a maudlin poet, but for sun-starved British cyclists, that title belongs to March. By mid-March – recall at your peril – the cold and wind had lingered so long it felt like spring would never arrive. Morale was low, work was busy as I adjusted to a new role, and the thought of gearing up in winter kit to brave the aggro drivers and potholes of south-east England seemed barely worth the hassle. Then I remembered an intriguing email that had landed in my inbox a few weeks earlier. Would I like a complimentary stay, it asked, “at a boutique hotel offering premium bike rentals and guided cycling trips in Cyprus?” At first, I dismissed it as too good to be true, but as another wintry squall rattled the window, my defences crumbled. Oh, go on then, I replied – or words to that effect – don’t mind if I do.

David Bradford

CW’s features editor David Bradford hopes to carve out a niche as a luxury cycling resort correspondent.

The trip was set for late April, but a few days before departure, I noticed strange irregularities in my heartbeat – runs of unsteady beats punctuated by thudding jolts like a cardiac kickstart. Having been investigated for arrhythmia before, I knew the drill and booked with the GP for an ECG. The results showed a few quirks typical of a heart adapted to endurance exercise, but nothing that troubled the doctor, and the cardiologist agreed: no further tests would be needed. The annoying ectopic beats, likely caused by stress or poor sleep, would pass, advised the kindly GP, I just needed to relax. What better way to follow doctor’s orders than a four-day getaway in the sun?

Having signed up on a nerve-frayed whim, I’d done minimal research on the destination. Noting that the average high in Cyprus in April was 22ºC was good enough. My photographer partner and I arrived late at night and made the 20-minute taxi ride from Larnaca airport to the Agora Hotel under cover of darkness. Dropped off on a narrow cobbled street, we stepped into the hotel’s marble-floored lobby, where the night receptionist swiftly brought us cold white wine and showed us to our room. Inside, we found a silver platter of fresh fruit, more wine, soft jazz playing on a retro-style radio, and a vast bed adorned with welcome notes tied with dried flowers. We had, very emphatically, arrived. Being more familiar with no-frills hotels and Airbnbs, I was out of my comfort zone – but also, as I let myself topple backwards into a sea of cushions, exceptionally comfortable.

Morning sunshine revealed the Agora in all its sparkly charm. ‘Boutique’ made sense now: just 18 rooms, arranged around a central, open-air pool. Such was the intimacy that it felt less like a hotel, more like staying at the seasonal residence of a fabulously rich friend – an impression that wasn’t so far from the truth, as I was about to learn. After a made-to-order breakfast – no elbowing around the buffet toaster here – I asked at reception about borrowing a bike. Moments later, a suave 30-something man in white chinos and a crisp, open-neck shirt appeared, and called out my name with such enthusiasm I thought he must know me. Who was this, I wondered – hardly dressed like a cycling guide, but surely too young to be the proprietor.