John Dolan: Retire to a place in the sun? I couldn’t cope with the expats!

The quote ‘Hell is other people’ is one that often comes to my mind whenever I am in an airport.

You’re stuck there in clammy, packed spaces surrounded by queue-jumpers, drunks, weary travellers, crying brats, and selfish idiots who don’t have a clue where they should be, jabbing bags and elbows in your face. And that’s just members of your own family.

Everyone wants to be somewhere else - right now, dammit!

You often hear the ‘Hell is other people’ line about major tourist attractions swarming with an excess of visitors - think the Eiffel Tower or Temple Bar.

But, up till last week, I hadn’t thought I would attribute the quote to a relaxed holiday in sunny climes in the Mediterranean off-season.

We were on a family break in Paphos, Cyprus, well away from the island’s rave spots, and although the weather was glorious - like the best week of an Irish summer - and the towns and beaches were far from busy, I did develop the sense that hell really is other people.

Let me hasten to add that this was nothing to do with the Cypriots themselves, nor with the other tourists of different nationalities I encountered in the hotel, and in bars, cafes, and beaches.

For me, part of the fun of a holiday is getting to know a little about the locals and mingling with other tourists from other nations, sharing conversations about the things that unify us, like families and sport.

Oh no. The hellish people to whom I refer are a specific type: Expats. Even more specifically, I am slightly ashamed to say, expats from my own homeland of England.

Paphos was teeming with them. A veritable explosion of grey and wrinkly pensioners amidst the blue hues of sun and sky.

I guess the fact it was November meant they were far more visible and far easier to hear. And this is the time of year many of them will relocate to Cyprus for the winter warmth, having summered in their homeland.

Like many people in their mid-fifties, I have idly contemplated the possibility of retiring like them to a place in the sun, at least for a chunk of the year when Cork is either very wet or very chilly.

That day would be at least a decade in the future, probably longer, and would depend on a range of factors: Have the kids moved away? Can we afford to do it?

So when we went to Cyprus, that thought was in the back of my mind. Could I make the move? Then I saw the type of expats who have already made that move... and it was a wake-up call.

For some reason, almost every person on the bus - excellent service, cheap as chips, one every ten minutes - seemed to be an English expat of a certain age. They all appeared to be either from the north-west, where I am from, or from the southern counties.

And, my gawd, did they annoy the hell out of me.

For a group of people supposedly living the dream, they took misery and rudeness to new levels. And moan? They never stopped!

Let me tell you about my experience of one English expat in particular.

I first spotted this lady barging in front of me with her friend at a large queue for a bus, which for once was running late.

Typically, two buses then turned up together, so me and my family headed to the second, emptier one, and the lady cut in ahead again.

As she boarded it, she castigated the ticket operator in cut-glass tones about the tardiness of the service.

“I’m sorry, there was an an accident on the road,” the worker pointed out in perfect English.

“Well, you should still have got the buses here earlier,” said the lady, abandoning all sense of logic and demonstrating an admirable ability to have the last word.

Reader - she got on the bus and sat right behind me, and the spite, delivered in a loud voice, continued unabated as she vented to her friend.

The bus service had gone to the dogs since they had built the new bus station, she cribbed.

She tutted as two men ran to the packed first bus ahead of us, then realised our one behind was a better option, delaying us by, ooh, maybe three seconds. The lady must have had a very urgent appointment.

When the bus ahead pulled out in front of us, she tutted again when our driver waved him through.

Appallingly, as we passed the scene of the accident, the lady surmised the crash had been a suicide, based on precisely zero evidence.

Luckily for me and my poor ears, I was getting out with the kids a few stops before my wife, to play a game of footgolf.

When I exited, my wife said the lady had exasperatedly told her friend I should have left via the middle doors instead of the front ones.

Later that evening, over a bottle of wine as the sun set, I told my wife how the holiday had discouraged me from pursuing any idea of retiring to a place in the sun.

Then I had another thought.

“My god, what if you bought your dream holiday home and turned up on the first day to see that woman on the bus living in the next balcony!”

I shuddered. A nightmare prospect. Hell truly can be other people.

So, my retirement dream has been confined to the dustbin, and I can’t say my wife minds, being more of a home bird.

You might say I made a snap judgment based on one unpleasant person - but I did really get the general vibe of being surrounded by the type of people I would normally run a mile from when I pay a visit home to England.

The thought of spending months on end forced to hear gripes from some of the most fortunate pensioners the world has ever known, is not worth all the sun in the universe.

However, it’s clearly a viable option for many older people. There were literally dozens of estate agent offices all over Paphos, even though it is an industry you would think has mainly migrated online.

Glancing in their windows, the prices of apartments even seemed reasonable compared to our own hellish housing costs.

A couple heading for retirement could downsize in Ireland and have enough money to buy a place in Cyprus outright, while renting it out at peak season for extra money.

Oh, and don’t let my rant put you off Paphos. It’s a lovely place, and the weather at this time of year is perfect for folks like me with Celtic skin.

It’s a place I would visit again - but live there? Thanks, but no thanks.