Cape Greco is a low limestone headland at the southeastern corner of Cyprus, undercut by the sea into caves and arches. The rock is pale and soft, so the waves have hollowed the cliff base into caverns that locals call the Palatia, the Palaces, and punched clean through it in more than one place to leave a natural bridge. The water below runs from cyan to deep indigo for a plain reason: the seabed is white rock, the sea carries almost nothing to cloud it, and the light comes back up blue. By late morning the coves work as swimming pools, with people dropping off the low cliffs into deep water and snorkelling through the caves at the base of the white rock. It is 385 hectares of thin soil and low scrub, and there is no resort on any of it.
This is the easternmost land in the island's government-controlled south, so the sun clears the sea here before it reaches anywhere else in Cyprus. That is why people set an alarm for this cape instead of saving it for the evening, and why the rock everyone photographs is Kamara tou Koraka, the Crow's Arch, with the sunrise sitting inside the span. The arch is fenced now. A crack runs through it, and the sea that cut the hole is busy taking the rest, so the shape in your photograph is a temporary one. Turn inland and the interest drops to ankle height: around 400 plant species grow in this thin soil, fourteen of them found nowhere but Cyprus. In spring the headland works as a bottleneck for migration, and red-footed falcons, pallid harriers and honey buzzards cross here on their way north. Since 1993 the cape has been a national forest park, so the sky you scan for them holds nothing but rock, scrub and sea.