Picking up a tourist map in southern Cyprus one could be forgiven for thinking that the Isle of Aphrodite lies in the realm of a contemporary Middle Earth. Substitute "Here be Dragons" for "Inaccessible due to Turkish Occupation" and the myth would be complete. Since 1974’s Turkish invasion North Cyprus has been in the shade of its southerly neighbour, despite the Mediterranean sunshine.

Kofi Annan’s 2004 UN plan for reunification under a federal framework failed after the south returned a resounding ‘no’ vote in twin referendums. The goal of an undivided island was effectively kicked into touch for the foreseeable future. In the same year, Greek controlled Cyprus joined the EU, whilst the singular existence of the Turkish Republic of North Cyprus (TRNC) effectively black balled Turkey’s application to be the first secular Muslim state in the so far Christian club of Europe.

However, these days despite international political isolation the reality for apolitical tourists dispels the myth of dragons. Since April 2003 the north/south border has been open and now five crossing points exist across the island. The Cypriot capital Lefkosa (also known as Nicosia) has a tourist attraction in its own right, Ledra Palace gate, which lies beneath the fortress-like walls of the eponymous one-time top hotel, now a UN barracks.

Here a steady trickle of Greek and Turkish Cypriots together with curious EU nationals cross to "the dark side", whichever side that may be, in a mundane process that belies diplomatic deadlock. Indeed rumours that the world’s only remaining divided capital holds a peculiar, if not healthy fascination for former East German visitors, nostalgic for the days of the Berlin Wall, have more than a ring of truth – dark tourism indeed.

In the context of North Cyprus, Lefkosa isn’t marketed as a tourist destination. The city lies on the flat, featureless Mesaoria plain, and away from any cooling sea breezes can claim the island’s highest summer temperatures and levels of humidity. This superlative aside, the city also excels in an immediate concentrated dose of the otherness that permeates North Cyprus and highlights the rebel republic’s enduring exoticism, an attribute long-since eschewed by the south.

During my recent visit I heeded the advice of others and upon penetrating the old town’s substantial 16th Century Venetian walls, utilised eight storeys of 1960s concrete, the Saray Hotel, to get the best city view. With one’s back to the huge Turkish and TRNC flags of painted stones, provocatively flown above the slopes of the Kyrenia Mountains, the Green Line of division traces a twister-like path of corruption across the city.

Scarred carcasses of buildings, some in partial collapse, others pockmarked by gunfire abut wasteland sutured by barbed wire and grey metal sheeting. Perhaps more surprising is the other visual line of demarcation formed by Greek Nicosia’s high-rise development, for better or worse an indicator of the North’s relative economic as well as political isolation.

Emerging once more at ground level, the immediacy of street life quickly displaces thoughts of sentry posts and watchtowers. Walking from the Saray through the cafe tables to Ataturk Square and the landmark Venetian Column, the honey-coloured stone and fine facades of the British-built Post Office and other government buildings seem almost too fine to be functional. Taking a quick orientation using thoughtfully placed street maps, heading south soon brings Rustem’s bookshop into view. Lefkosa’s premier emporium for the written word, Rüstem’s is a proper bookshop.

In a mildly untidy antiquarian manner Turkish and foreign-language titles are stuffed on shelves of all levels – it smells of books. I’m sure JK Rowling is here somewhere, indeed Dumbledore himself would not be out of place. A conversation is in full flow between a young man halfway up an unhealthy-looking ladder and a woman at the counter, no doubt bemoaning the effects of online retailing on high street book sales. So then, a magical place for a happy half hour rustling about, after which I buy my exit with a local guidebook. Leaving, I spy a pile of turgid-looking English-language titles protesting the reality of the Armenian holocaust, just a little too much – and the spell is broken.

The half-sunken entrance to the ancient Buyuk Hammam (Great Baths) is just round the corner, its semi-subterranean entrance a measure of the 14th century street level. I poke my head inside and am greeted faintly by a very large man with a thick black moustache befitting his stature. He launches unstoppably into an eclectic menu of vaguely unsettling and most definitely sweaty hammam-type offerings: “Everything for £15, no extras”. I’m not a little relieved. “Can I have a look?”; “Look? £1.50 Tamam OK?” Time to move on, it’s been 40 to 44 deg C for the last few days and I don’t feel the need to buy a look in a steam bath when I’ve been living in one.

Lunch seems a more welcome prospect and as a bona fide commercial traveller I feel it’s time to visit a travellers’ inn – fortunately Lefkosa has an outstanding example in the Buyuk Han (Great Inn). Originally built in the 16th century and seeing service as British prison, even then overcrowding was a problem, the Han has lately been restored to encompass within its walls a tranquil courtyard of calm. Upper and lower cloistered rooms are now populated by art, craft and curio shops, and at the centre of things there’s even a scaled down traveller-sized mosque.

In one corner the family that runs the Sedirhan cafe has shifted food prep al fresco. A woman of generous smiles is rolling out a sheet of fresh pasta, almost a metre across, on a cool marble tabletop. Her mother and daughters appear and the sheet is cut into squares, everyone joins in to pinch them around morsels of spiced meat – et voila, Turkish ravioli or more properly manti is on the menu. I order some immediately.

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