It all began when Harry wanted to draw a charcoal portrait of a man whom he had heard would make an ideal subject.

He lived in a village not far from us and a mutual acquaintance, having mentioned the idea to him, assured us that he was extremely flattered by the attention and keen to be drawn. Moreover he would be at home all day the following day. This was really good news – no messing about. We telephoned ahead to say we would be there early the next morning. We awoke to a beautiful, warm April day filled with birdsong. Following the instructions we had been given, we left Latchi and Polis behind us and turned off the main road to follow a narrow track winding its way through lush green fields strewn with scarlet poppies.

Eventually, and much to our surprise, we found the house quite easily. Located on the edge of the village in open countryside, it was as picturesque as it was functional. As we got out of the car we heard a woman’s voice calling loudly over and again. ‘Ella mora, mora, mora.’ This was accompanied by the sound of a spoon being banged against an enamel bowl.

We went in through the gate to see a small woman holding a container of food. Hurtling towards her across the field, at break-neck speed, were nine or ten small black piglets. She placed the bowl on the ground and they fell upon it in a heap, tipping it over and trampling through the contents. A huge black sow came lumbering over the horizon towards the mayhem caused by her progeny. Dressed in faded blue and wearing a black mandila, the woman told us her name was Athinoulla. Smiling she invited us into the house, chatting away non-stop as she prepared coffee and served the traditional glyko. Another woman came walking slowly along the path to see who the strangers were.

This was her close neighbour, Melpomene. She too had an interesting face, full of character, and Harry was in his element right away as he sketched and photographed them both. Andreas, the man we had come to see, was not there. He had gone to his orange grove in the river-bed below the main Polis-Paphos road. Athinoulla described his vehicle, however, and said we would be able to find and photograph him on our way home. We sat outside the house, sipping our coffee and watching brown hens scratching busily in the dust.

Yard cats washed themselves and stretched lazily in the warm sunshine. A small, fluffy dog sat on an old chair and a hunting-dog, tied on a long running lead, slept with its nose resting on its front paws. Pigeons burbled soothingly from an overhead loft, and a few sheep bleated occasionally as they waited patiently to be led out to pasture. Athinoulla took us around the side of the house to a darkened room where, on future visits, we were often to find her.

Here she made anari, heating milk in an old copper cauldron and stirring in the clotting enzyme with a sprig of small sticks. Several talaria, small reed baskets for moulding the cheese, stood on a low table. Before we knew it an hour had passed. It was time to take our leave and drive back down the mountain. The pick-up she had described stood by the roadside above the river-bed. This was our chance to photograph Andreas. We went down into the orange grove and called, walking along the rows of neatly planted trees. There was no sign of him. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air. That seemed to set some kind of precedent. From then on, every time we set up a rendezvous with him we’d arrive to find we had somehow managed to miss him by a matter of minutes. I’d speak with him on the telephone to be told he would be at the house all day.

Then we’d arrive to find he had ‘gone to Paphos.’ Sometimes he’d ‘gone to the coffee- shop.’ We’d dash off there to find he’d just that minute ‘gone to look at some olive trees with a neighbour.’ We tried going on a Sunday. Surely he’d have a day off then? He had and he’d gone hunting. This went on for months. It was like trying to find the Invisible Man. I actually saw him one day. He was loading crates of oranges into his vehicle as I passed his river-bed orchard on my way to Paphos early one morning. I was on my own and had no camera with me, but I stopped and introduced myself. He made a great fuss of me and insisted on putting a crate of oranges in the car. “When are you going to paint my picture?” he said. We arranged a date. That failed too.

Eventually we managed to set up a meeting on a Wednesday. We arrived early to find no one at home. I enquired at the coffee-shop, where they told me Andreas and Athinoulla had gone to their olive fields in Steni village. Steni was some distance away, but this time we were determined to track him down. We drove to the village and asked at their coffee-shop if they knew the whereabouts of the olive fields owned by Andreas from Arkoudalia.

They did, and eventually we bumped down a rough track to see Athinoulla at the top of a wooden ladder propped against an ancient olive tree. Predictably, Andreas was nowhere in sight. She greeted us with an animated welcome, almost falling off the ladder in the process, and said her husband had gone to the olive press at Ghoudi village. There were two presses there, so we were to make sure we went to the right one. We drove all the way to Ghoudi. He was not at the olive press and Agapios, the proprietor, hadn’t seen him all day. We drove to the other olive press where they told us he had been in the village earlier and was now on his way back to Arkoudalia. We returned to Arkoudalia. Of course he wasn’t there.

There were a couple of hunters sitting at the coffee-shop. ‘Andreas? Just passed him with his gun - he’s gone hunting.’ I counted slowly to ten as we got back into the car. That was ages ago and nothing has changed. Harry did say he was going to illustrate this article with a drawing of the Invisible Man, but he hasn’t seen him around anywhere.