
Much-loved European holiday island to join Schengen Area next year and why it's bad news for Brits
Alice Penwill, Travel Reporter
Published: Invalid Date,
CYPRUS has revealed plans to join the Schengen Area - but it won't be good news for British holidaymakers.
The popular island that sees around 1.3 million Brits visiting each year has announced it hopes to join the zone in 2026 meaning that holiday rules will change.
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The Schengen Area consists of 29 European countries that have abolished border controls for other EU countries.
These include 25 EU member states, as well as four non-EU countries; Iceland, Liechtenstein, Norway, and Switzerland.
Essentially, the Schengen Area is a passport-free travel zone, which allows people to move between participating countries without border checks.
But there are strict rules that Cyprus will have to adhere to when they join. And for Brits, that means a limited time to stay there.
The rules state that a total stay in the Schengen Area must be no more than 90 days in every 180 days.
It does not matter how many countries you visit as the 180 day period keeps rolling.
Currently, a visit Cyprus does not count towards your 90 day limit.
So any time you spend in the Schengen Area does not affect the number of days you can spend in Cyprus - but this will change when they join.
President Nikos Christodoulides of Cyprus recently announced that the island will "enter the Schengen Zone in 2026.'
He added: 'A huge effort is being made, we will complete all the technicalities we need."
All the free activities Cyprus has to offer
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Cyprus joined the EU in 2004 but unlike other countries, did not join the Schengen Area at the same time.
This means that Cypriots face border checks and visa issues when travelling to surrounding EU countries.
For Cyprus, joining the Schengen Area will mean locals can access the country with more ease and without extra border checks.
For Cypriots, the move will be beneficial for trade as it allows goods to flow more easily between countries without custom checks at internal borders.
The timing will coincide with the launch of the European Travel Information and Authorization System (ETIAS).
The new system is being introduced as part of enhanced security measures for travellers.
The new system that will require non-EU travellers to get approval beforehand.
For Brits, you will need one of these to go into any of the Schengen Area nations.
Currently, the only EU states that aren't members of the Schengen Area are Ireland and Cyprus.
And the European destination that is warmest in May with 26C highs and 'wine villages'.
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The Guardian
an hour ago
- The Guardian
‘I worried I might start finding it normal. But I never did' – what I learned as the Guardian's Jerusalem correspondent
Three days before Hamas's 7 October 2023 attack on Israel, I was helping friends who live in Gaza City gather armfuls of guava in their orchard in Beit Hanoun, in the north of the Strip, when something strange happened. Hamid and Rania* had bought the small plot the year before. It was overgrown, but over the changing seasons they'd worked hard on their expensive acquisition. I called it the secret garden, a tiny oasis in the midst of the dry, dirty misery of Gaza. As well as guava, there were apple, fig, lemon, orange and olive trees. The couple planted grapefruit and pomegranate saplings, and dug vegetable beds for tomatoes, herbs and spices. Rania also put in yellow and red chrysanthemums in flowerpots made out of stacks of worn-out car tyres. The couple bought a water tank and fixed the broken outhouse. The existing shack, originally little more than breeze-blocks, a dirt floor and tin roof, was refurbished, complete with a bed and a shady roof terrace. From the terrace, you could see the Mediterranean sparkling in the distance. To the north, usually only half visible through the mist, were the towers of a desalination plant in the Israeli city of Ashkelon. The plot was surrounded by Gaza's biggest area of open, flat agricultural land, which mostly amounted to a few other small walled orchards and strawberry fields. Teenage boys often herded scraggly goats and sheep through the area. It had been a day like any other until the sound of men's voices, shouting in unison, carried to us over the wind. It sounded like a military drill. We went up to the roof terrace, from where we could see several dozen men, standing in formation, in a fallow field. Even from a distance it was clear they were wearing the bright green insignia of Hamas's armed wing, the Qassam Brigades. None of us had ever seen so many fighters in Gaza out in the open before, let alone training in full view of the farmers around them and Israeli drones above. Outside wartime, that uniform was usually reserved for funerals and rallies. Along with the rest of the world, we found out the purpose of the drill soon enough. I left for Jerusalem the next morning, through the border fortress the Israelis called Erez, and went to Shabbat dinner with Jewish and Arab Israeli friends that night. How was Gaza, they asked, always curious about a place they could never visit. Quiet, I said. So quiet, in fact, I'd been able to interview people for a feature about the revival of beekeeping there. I thought the fact that the bees could travel further than their Palestinian owners, flying over Israel's border fence to greener pastures, would make a good story. But, of course, I never wrote that article. Instead, I was soon on the other side of the barrier from Beit Hanoun, running from incoming rockets, getting caught in crossfire between Hamas and the Israeli army still fighting in a kibbutz, and retching at the smell of the bodies of murdered families decomposing in the unseasonal heat. I took the job as the Guardian's Jerusalem correspondent in 2021, although I was reluctant about it. I was happy living in Istanbul as the paper's Turkey and Middle East correspondent, from where I got to travel widely – and the Jerusalem gig was notoriously thankless. Every single word published under my name would be forensically examined for signs of bias. Plus, I found the holy city difficult – tense and unfriendly. Jerusalem is a place that attracts fanatics and zealots; one American man with Jerusalem syndrome was always wandering the streets of the Old City, barefoot, staff in hand, convinced he was Moses. I had visited several times before, but what did it say about me, I wondered, that I was willing to move here, and take on this challenge? My partner was encouraging, even though we knew holding an Iraqi passport would make it difficult for him to join me. Any outsider or journalist who wants to truly understand the Middle East should spend some time in Israel and Palestine, he said. In the end, I took the job – and now, four years later, I am leaving Jerusalem and returning home to take up a post in the UK. I have learned a lot, and the experience has changed me. Before I arrived in Jerusalem, I thought the Israel-Palestine story was an old one: a cycle of attritional violence and a slow march towards inevitable annexation because of Israeli settlement building in the West Bank. The Abraham accords, diplomatic agreements brokered in 2020 in which several Arab nations agreed to recognise Israel, seemed to suggest that the rest of the Middle East had lost interest in the question of Palestine. The conflict had also been pushed down the global agenda by the regional wars and crises triggered by the Arab spring, the war in Ukraine and China's increasing power. Even so, during my time there, it was becoming more likely that something big was going to happen. Many years ago I interviewed a pilot who explained that plane crashes don't happen without warning signs first: system A fails, or is faulty, and then B, and then C, and then D. It's always a series of events, rather than a one-off incident, that leads to a plane falling out of the sky. Israel and Palestine before October 2023 felt like that – like the dominoes were being lined up. Before 7 October, 2023 had been a difficult year. In December 2022, Israel's pugnacious prime minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, had returned to office as the head of a new coalition that was the most far right in Israeli history. It proposed an overhaul of the judiciary that would essentially give the government full control over the courts, which critics said undermined democracy. In early 2023, there were mass protests in the streets and by July military reservists were refusing to report for duty. Israel's enemies and friends alike warned the government it made the country appear weak. Meanwhile, in the West Bank, 2023 had already beaten 2022's record as the bloodiest year since the close of the second intifada, or Palestinian uprising, of the 2000s, and I spent much of the year driving back and forth to cover massive Israel Defense Forces raids in Jenin and Nablus. It's strange to say this now, but in comparison with Jerusalem, Tel Aviv and the West Bank, Gaza had been relatively quiet. After the last major war in 2021, Israel had gradually increased permits for men from the Strip to enter for agricultural and construction work, an incentive for Hamas to keep quiet by doing something to alleviate the besieged territory's dire poverty and accompanying social unrest. The money was making a huge difference. Every time I visited the Strip, new shops and cafes were opening, and the rebuilding from the last war had almost finished. Friends, sources and people I interviewed told me that the cash had helped them clear debts from failed investments and business ventures – a common story in a place where the economy could not function normally. There is now a tendency to wax lyrical about how wonderful Gaza was before 7 October, but life there was still very hard. One elderly friend of a friend went blind because Israel did not consider cataract surgery a valid reason to be allowed to seek medical treatment abroad, even though the treatment was not available in the Strip. Another woman I interviewed needed chemotherapy for a recurrence of breast cancer, but nine travel permit applications were refused. Permission only came through after I wrote a story about her. I never felt that I properly understood the reality of the Strip until I visited it. None of the reporting I'd read or watched could adequately convey the claustrophobia, the busyness, the dirt, the suffocation, the feeling of being trapped. It was a struggle in my own output, too. There is – or was – nowhere else like it. The Strip was the first place I went to when I started the job – and from there, I went straight to Tel Aviv. I remember sitting on the beach in nearby Jaffa early that morning and feeling a maddening cognitive dissonance. How could people be out and about, doing pilates, walking their dogs, as if everything was fine – when just 50km down the road, on the same stretch of the Med, was an open-air prison? I was worried that I too would start finding the situation normal. But it never happened. Another time, I stopped off at an Ikea on my way home from Gaza, a mistake I didn't make again. My brain couldn't handle the switch between the slum-like Shati refugee camp and a world of well-lit, flat-packed plenty in the space of a few hours. I had to go outside to get some air. Still, everyone clings to their memories of the before times: Gaza's spicy food and fresh fish, the bountiful orchards, clambering around Ottoman ruins, late night nargileh (hookah) sessions – and most of all, the beach. In the summer of 2022, Israel allowed more electricity to reliably reach Gaza's sewage treatment plants, and for the first time in years, most of the Strip's coastline became clean enough for swimming. On the busy beaches, children ran in and out of the waves, begging their parents for camel rides and candy floss. It was a glimpse of what a different Gaza and a different future could look like. Now, all of that is gone, replaced by an apocalyptic moonscape so unrecognisable that friends tell me they get lost in their own neighbourhoods. A long time ago, I ran out of things to say in messages and voice notes to the people I know there. My pleas for them to stay safe became meaningless. Instead, we don't talk about what they are going through, mostly reminiscing about old times, or we make plans for the future. No one acknowledges that we can't be sure they will materialise. If I think about the first few weeks of the war now, what surfaces first is the prickly, uncomfortable memory of the heat. The semi-desert western Negev, which makes up Gaza and southern Israel, is totally different from high-altitude Jerusalem, and for much of the year the landscape is so barren and harsh it feels as if the sunlight bounces off it with a vengance. It was such a warm autumn, far too hot: still over 30C at the end of October. Then comes the feeling of chaos, the fear and panic, rather than specific incidents – the Guardian's hotel in Ashkelon getting hit by a rocket, or stumbling across the headless corpse of a Hamas fighter. (To this day I still don't understand where it could possibly have gone; he was otherwise in one piece, and so were the bodies around him.) I told my family and editors, all far away in the UK, that I was OK – which, to an extent, I was. I was still in shock, so I focused on the work and adrenaline carried me through. I was far more affected by the stories that traumatised 7 October survivors told me – and about what was going to happen to Gaza – than by what I saw first-hand. Nothing was clear at that point except that many, many more people were going to die. The dam broke about three weeks in, when I went to report on the funerals of a British-Israeli family: mum Lianne, and teenage daughters Noiya and Yahel. Their father, Eli, was taken hostage. He didn't find out his wife and children had been killed until he was released during the ceasefire earlier this year. Watching the grief of those gathered to mourn loved ones taken away by such senseless and shocking violence, I began sobbing uncontrollably and had to leave the graveside to sit in a corner of the cemetery where I wouldn't disturb the eulogies. A member of the family came over to ask if I was all right, and whether I had known them; I didn't know how to explain what I was feeling. I just cried on her shoulder instead. I am leaving the Holy Land at a strange juncture. I never planned on staying much longer than three years, and I never signed up to cover a war like this. Unlike my Israeli and Palestinian friends and colleagues, I have the freedom and ability to leave. Fundamentally, I feel the same as when I arrived – that the occupation is wrong, and it doesn't make Israelis safer. For decades, Israel told itself a lie that the conflict could be contained and managed, sustaining a perpetual occupation and suppression of Palestinian rights without any major diplomatic, financial or security cost. That myth was shattered in the early morning of 7 October 2023. I understood what was at first a blinding Israeli need for revenge, even if I didn't agree with it, and I knew that they needed to make sure nothing like that bloody day could ever happen again. But since then, the last hope anyone I know had for a diplomatic solution to the conflict has been extinguished. Israel has doubled down on force. The slow suffocation of Palestinian hopes of dignity and statehood that was unfolding when I arrived has accelerated at a pace no one could previously have imagined. When I started out in journalism, as an assistant at the London offices of the Associated Press, I'd spend all day fielding phone calls, copy and video files from our correspondents around the globe; I used to note down their locations and loglines enviously, eager to get out and see the world for myself. I used to think journalism could help right wrongs, and I could play a role in that, but covering the wars in Syria, Yemen, Iraq and now Gaza over the past decade has taught me that is not necessarily the case. My coverage didn't do anything to stop those horrors unfolding, but at least it showed the rest of the world the reality on the ground. Martha Gellhorn, one of the greatest conflict reporters of the 20th century, wrote about feeling like a 'war tourist' in her work. In Gaza – where Israel has blocked access for international journalists – I haven't even been that. Thanks to the sacrifices of my brave colleagues in Gaza, no one with an internet connection can say they don't know the truth of what has happened in Israel and Palestine over the past 18 months. There is no silver lining here, only lessons we may not fully understand for years to come. The late Pope Francis, who called the congregation at Gaza's sole Catholic church every night until the day before he died, used to comfort his flock by reminding them that all wars end. I remember a Gaza where hope of a better future was still alive. As soon as it is possible, I will return to the Strip to sift through the rubble of ruined lives and help reclaim what has been lost. * Names have been changed


Spectator
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Portrait of the week: Liverpool parade crash, Starmer sacrifices Chagos Islands and an octopus invasion
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Daily Mail
6 hours ago
- Daily Mail
EXCLUSIVE Bayesian's watery grave: Wreck where billionaire Mike Lynch, his daughter and five others died is pictured... and the hatch that was initially blamed for disaster
Clearly visible through the murky depths 150ft below the surface, this is the first time British superyacht Bayesian has been seen since it sank beneath the waves last August. Captured in astonishing detail by a renowned photographer, it shows the gold letters of the doomed vessel's name still proudly displayed on the submerged stern. After just nine months at the bottom of the Mediterranean, the images also show how the wreck is already being reclaimed by nature, with seaweed colonising its once-pristine deck as fish explore the new habitat. As investigations continue into how the 'unsinkable' £30million yacht could sink so suddenly - with the loss of seven lives, including those of British billionaire Mike Lynch and his 18-year-old daughter Hannah - the images appear to rule out one theory. According to photographer Massimo Sestini, who captured these exclusive images, the Bayesian's stern hatch remains firmly closed. That is despite the initial claim by shipbuilders that it had been left open on the night of the tragedy, allowing water to surge in when a freak storm struck. His photos also show how the wreck lies largely intact on the sea bed off the coast of Sicily as a £20million salvage operation continues to raise it to the surface. The Bayesian - famous for its trademark 236ft mast, one of the world's tallest - took just 16 minutes to sink in the early hours of the morning. Although the Bayesian's tragic sinking with the loss of seven lives happened just nine months ago, Massimo Sestini's images show how the wreck is already being colonised by seaweed and fish It had been hit by a fierce storm with 100mph winds while at anchor off the fishing village of Porticello. Earlier this month an interim report by British investigators highlighted 'vulnerabilities' in the yacht's stability which meant its crew were unable to prevent the 184ft luxury sailing boat from tilting violently on its side. The captain and crew would have been unaware as the information was not laid out in a safety booklet onboard, the Marine Accident Investigation Branch said. Earlier this month the vessel – which locals say is cursed – claimed the life of an eighth person, a Dutch diver who was working on the £20million salvage operation. In response, all manned diving operations were temporarily suspended, with exploration instead carried out by undersea robots. Diving the wreck before the latest tragedy, Mr Sestini said conditions on the seabed were treacherous. A lack of sunlight at that depth combined with sediment swirling in the current combined to reduce visibility to as little as one metre. 'When I connected my camera to the computer and saw the images of the wreck on the screen, my heart sank,' said the photographer, who himself almost drowned while diving beneath a frozen Italian lake earlier this year. Divers can only spend ten minutes at a time on the wreck - with the dangers of the unforgiving conditions and poor visibility 150ft below the surface underlined by the tragic loss of a Dutch diver on May 9 during recovery efforts Sicilian fishermen say the benign waters of the Mediterranean on a calm day belie the fearsome winds which can be whipped up by sudden storms His photographs of the Bayesian's wreck shows its sinking was 'truly a great mystery', he told Italian publication Oggi. 'The wreck seems intact,' he added. Mr Sestini said while it was 'said at the beginning' that an open stern hatch caused 'huge amounts' of water to inundate the yacht when the storm struck, 'my photos show that the door is closed'. Within days of the disaster on August 19 last year, the CEO of Italian Sea Group - which bought the Bayesian's constructors Perini Navi two years ago - blamed 'human error'. The stern hatch was 'clearly' open, Giovanni Costantino told Italian media. The firm has yet to comment on the MAIB report. Bayesian was legally owned by Mr Lynch's wife Angela Bacares, who survived the disaster. The other victims were banking executive Jonathan Bloomer, his wife Judy Bloomer, lawyer Chris Morvillo and his wife Neda Morvillo and the yacht's chef, Recaldo Thomas. The tragedy last August killed seven people including British billionaire and tech tycoon Mike Lynch and his daughter Hannah The moment the doomed Bayesian sank in the early hours of August 19 last year was captured by security cameras of a nearby villa on the coast Three crew members are currently facing possible charges of manslaughter and causing a disaster under an Italian criminal investigation. However Under Italian law the fact the men - captain James Cutfield, chief engineer Timothy Parker Eaton and deckhand Matthew Griffiths - have been placed under investigation does not imply guilt and does not necessarily mean that charges will be brought against them. Minute by minute, how the Bayesian tragedy unfolded August 18 - PM: The Bayesian was anchored at Cefalù on the northern coast of Sicily to shelter from the forecast weather and to allow for easy disembarkation of guests the following day. August 19 - 00.30am: Having checked the weather the captain and the last guest had retired, leaving deckhand (DH1) and the evening steward (S1) on duty. 01.00am: The second deckhand (DH2) took over the watch. The wind at this time was noted as being no more than 8kts (9.2pmh). 03.00am: DH2 noted the wind as being at 8kts (9.2pmh) from the west but thought that the thunderclouds and lightning seemed to be getting closer. 03.55am: The deckhand 'videoed the advancing storm and posted it to their social media feed' before closing the hatches and cockpit windows. 03.57am: The winds had picked up to 30kts (35mph) and the Bayesian was listing and dragging its anchor. 04.00am: The deckhand ran to wake up the skipper and the crew leapt into action and began preparing to manoeuvre the Bayesian by starting the generators and steering pumps. The rest of the crew, woken by either the captain or the yacht's change of motion, got up and made their way out of the crew accommodation. Chef Recaldo Thomas was spotted in the galley stowing cutlery, pots and pan and called out 'Good morning!' to nearby stewards. The Bayesian was lying with the wind about 60 degree off the port bow and moving at 1.8kts south-south-east of its original position. Two guests – a British couple – had been woken by the movements and decided to head to the saloon with their baby. 4.06am: Disaster struck as the wind suddenly increased to more than 70kts (80.5mph) ripping the awning away. The Bayesian 'violently heeled over' in less than 15 seconds to a 90-degree angle. The sudden movement sent people as well as furniture flying across the deck leaving five people including the captain injured while a deckhand was thrown into the sea. Two guests trapped in their cabin were forced to used furniture drawers as an improvised ladder to escape into the saloon area. The yacht's crew were able to push four guests through the cascading water up to the skipper on the flying bridge. The captain called for the guests and crew to swim clear of the mast and boom as the vessel sank. 04.22am: The crew had launched the Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacons (EPIRB). They noted that the wind had eased and that Bayesian was only a short distance from shore. In the water, a deckhand(DH2) improvised a tourniquet for one of the guest's gashed arm while a cushion was used as a flotation device foe the baby. Some of the survivors were treading water and others held on to some cushions that had floated free from Bayesian. One of the guests frantically searched for other survivors in vain using the torch from their phone - while the captain and chief officer frantically freed the life raft from the sinking wreck. 04.24am: The captain and chief officer frantically freed the life raft from the sinking wreck. It was was inflated and the survivors were able to get inside it where the crew began administering first aid. The skipper tried to raise the alarm by shouting at and then paddling towards the nearby vessel the Sir Robert Baden Powell. 04.34am: The Chief Engineer fired a red parachute flare from the life raft. Despite the winds being calm at the surface, the flare was carried sideways. He then used the life raft's torch to signal towards a hotel on the cliffs above them, passing cars, and Sir Robert Baden Powell. 04.43am: The Chief engineer fired a second parachute flare that was seen by the crew of Sir Robert Baden Powell. Responding to the flare, the skipper dispatched its tender towards the visible lights of the EPIRB and life raft. 04.53am: The tender carrying the 15 survivors returned to Sir Robert Baden Powell and a brief search was look for the missing seven people who were also on board. 04.56am: The tender from Sir Robert Baden Powell returned to the scene with Bayesian's Chief Engineer and skipper on board to search for other survivors. The local coastguard was called to arrange to transfer the survivors to shore.