Alfred Westholm writes to his parents from Cyprus:

If Mother could only imagine what an odd life I have begun to lead. At the excavations, my presence is usually rather superfluous. We are not finding anything anyway, and the workers dig their deep trenches without my having to stand over them. My longing to be alone is just increasing and therefore I mostly lie over here beneath the tamarisk on the beach, writing about the palace at Vouni. I do not need to speak many words in a day, and I do not have to fear being disturbed for nobody comes here. I am completely alone with the flowers, the trees and the stones, which I already know, each and every one. When work is done for the day I leave the workers, who are staying down here at Mersinaki, and I go up to Vouni. When I get there, the sun sinks in the sea behind Petra tou Limniti, the wind dies down and everything becomes so wonderfully vast, quiet and still. Only Eleni lives up there to clean the house and cook meals, but she can hardly be noticed. In reality I am completely alone on Vouni, as alone as never before up there. The quiet night engulfs the Mountain as I sit in the moonlight under the haroupia tree smoking my pipe. That is when I live my peculiar life, so far away from everything else.  ----Perhaps my subconscious longs for something else but I am nonetheless so happy up on Vouni and I agonise every time I must show myself among strangers. I know that Mother does not like it when I isolate myself, but it is in any case certainly the best thing at the moment.