Sardinia on holiday

You can feel it here: it’s Easter. Saturday evening, as we popped into a pastry and sweets shop just before closing, I could sense it: the end of a busy baking period. Time to pack up and go home to the family. Everything will be closed tomorrow. It’s a holiday.





By our standards, Sardinia hardly gives the holiday any attention at all. There are no Easter bunnies in store windows, no foil covered chicks, no Easter baskets on display – really, if you're out and about, it’s hardly noticeable. A few small chocolate Easter eggs in the sweets shop. That’s it.

But, oh, you feel that it’s a special day.

Of course, there is also a palpable air of week-end-ness. Of families and friends taking time off from work on a gorgeous spring day.

And it is a gorgeous spring day.





Hard as it is to leave La Lucrezia's garden, we need to get moving: we borrow David and Clara’s country bikes. Meaning, these are the well worn bikes you leave in your country place: the wheels are out of true, the brake pads can’t keep their hands off the rims, the seats tilt, the chains heave. But I’m determined. I have a trip in mind and the bikes fit well into the plan. Ed takes some time to make any possible adjustments to the bikes. I ask Paolo (David’s cousin) for the key to the safety lock.

Oh, I can’t imagine where it is – he says with a shrug.

But how do I leave the bikes for our hike? What if someone takes them?

Oh, that would be wonderful! These guys need to get new bikes! If that happens, just call me, I’ll pick you up.

We set out.Through the village...




And immediately we take a wrong turn. I mean, we’re not really stupid. The sign says Putzu Idu. We want to go to Putzu Idu. Who knew that Putzu Idu is a secondary destination. That really, this is the road to San Giovanni. And along the way you can also make a couple of turns and wind up in Putzu Idu. But don’t kid yourself. Pitzu Idu is an afterthought here. Pitzu Idu is better reached by another road further down.

Who knew.

We start out at a leisurely pace. I proclaim the virtues of biking even as Ed wiggles in his seat. But it is good to be out of the car. To stop frequently without worrying about cars going into ditches. To admire the different growth patterns of grape vines. And of course, the olive trees.












And the lambs: to admire the spring lambs.




The road is very quiet. We amble along enjoying the breeze, the brilliant skies, the gorgeous landscape. But after more than an hour, we seem to be nowhere near Putzu Idu.

We continue pushing (heaving?) at the pedals.

Twenty kilometers later (more than twice the conventional distance) we see it.  Right at the edge of the village is the grocery store. With my name.


 


We cross over the peninsula on a rough stony road (this is where Ed gets off and walks the bike, claiming that his rear end can only take so many knocks), past trees of gold and tall stalks of fennel, past another crumbling tower (2000 B.C? older?)...









...and finally we see the beaches before us.




We leave our bikes and walk along the coast.

I imagine that this place sees quite the number of summer visitors. I'm told that Sardinia in July and August is unrecognizable. But now, the beaches are nearly empty. A little girl is trying to play soccer with her dad and brother...





Further down, we encounter another group cleaning sea urchins...





And a boat, with two napping Sardinians. (On our return walk, they were in the same spot, still napping.)





We walk along sandstone cliffs, passing by yet another tower...





...and we take in the coastal flora – the fragrant rosemary, the rock plants in gold and burgundy...





Around the bend, we come across a quiet cove. We climb down, take off our shoes and stretch out on the rocks. Ed wades in, looking for sea urchins.






 


If you were to ask me what defines a peaceful moment, I’d say this: the tranquil hour spent in a private cove, wading through the shallow waters, looking out for sea urchins, and finally reclining on a rock, as the sun warms your back and the nape of your neck. This is the tranquility that I think about when my day is just too full of work.







Later in the evening, as we walk along the quiet main street to our village pizzeria...





....I think about tranquility again. Of a different kind. Where your mind is not racing because you are in the company of others you know and care for. We’re at the local pizza place now, and it is extremely busy. Tables of ten, tables of six, mostly younger people (or at least younger than us).

Next to us there is a small boy. Giacomo. I ask about his age.
Eight months.

Oh! I thought he was younger!

That’s because he has too little hair! – his mother laughs. Of course she would think that! Sardinians have uniformly very dark, full heads of hair.
What a beautiful smile – I comment.
But his cheeks – they are so fat! – she protests, as only the proudest mother could protest. Her sister (at least I think it’s her sister) reaches over to play with Giacomo’s hand. We do this for about three minutes – admire Giacomo’s every move, respond to his every gurgle. Ed watches, amused.

And this scene is replayed again and again. The waitress who is so very busy, will pause for a greeting and will especially pause to smile at a baby. And there are quite the handful of babies and children even as the hour grows very late.

The next day is Easter. Today, many in the village want to forget about cooking. Today we eat pizza.






Easter Sunday will be our last day in Sardinia. In the evening, we'll fly north to Milan and on Monday we make our way through Paris, so that I can be back in Madison by Tuesday. As usual during these complicated return trips, postings will be at a day’s delay. By the time I’ll be writing about Easter here, we’ll be in Paris. By the time I write about Paris, I’ll be back at work in Madison.

all things Sardinian, continued

The men chanted and the women repeated a prayer. Traffic stopped. The procession wound it’s way up the narrow streets of Cuglieri.





It’s Good Friday and the air is, for once, crisp and clear. The landscape is defined. Harshly beautiful.

David (the proprietor of La Lucrezia) tells us – head out to one of the hill towns that does a full Good Friday service. It’s quite touching, actually.

It’s a morning service and as usual, we have a late start.

Driving out of our village I notice that the older women are in longer dark skirts. Dark shawls cover their heads and shoulders. Is it just today? Or is it every day?






Cugliari is north of where we are, but just barely. Maybe twenty kilometers. It's a lovely village, spilling out in a ribbon halfway up the mountain. The Basilica dominates; we think we’ll have no trouble finding it.






We park the car at the outskirts and make our way up, reaching the church just at the final stages of the ceremony. Christ has been taken down, the cross is being raised again. Most of the congregation files behind a small procession of white robed men, but a few stay behind. The older generation. Men sitting on one side of the church. A few women on the other.









And still another group of white robed men -- mostly boys, actually -- leaves the Basilica.






I join Ed outside and we spend a while sitting on the stone wall looking down at the sweeping reach of the valley below. How many people leave this place for work? How many return?









We walk back to find the car, but it’s not easy. Finding a dominating church is kid’s play. Finding a side road near the perimeter where you parked in a hurry is a challenge. As we walk up one street and down another, people are curious and friendly. A woman stands with her hands clasped, peering after the departing postal scooter...





I ask her if I can take a photo and she is surprised. Pleased. Rewarding me with the finest smile.





We do locate our car and we look for signs of the road heading north. But before we even exit Cuglieri, we’re stopped by a police officer. There is a commotion ahead.

Amazing how luck plays into our viewing of the procession. Because right in front of us, we see the men (in the distinct robes of the village churches) carrying the cross, the Virgin Mary, and finally, the body of Christ. Chanting, moaning really, in somber, nearly atonal strains.





The sound of their voices, the wave of prayer from the followers and the onlookers (there aren’t many; it appears to be a contained event; not all Sardinians are devout, not all devout are present for this, and we are in a very small town) – it all moves in somber stealth as the cars now wait behind us until the procession makes a sharp turn away from the main road and we can move forward again.


The road is curvy and as usual, I whine about the speed of our little Renault. Ed pulls over. I drive. Peace is restored.


We head up further north to Bosa. We’re now some 40 kilometers outside our village, but the scenery is completely different. Rugged. Dramatic.

Bosa itself is at the mouth of Sardinia’s only navigable river. Perched at the base of two mountains, it looks squeezed (you'll see this in a later photo from up high). Its medieval heart rises up to the castle. Its riverside houses look colorful. Simple, but well tended.













We leave the car and walk through the narrow streets. The sun is so gorgeous now that you cannot help but grow lazy with it. It’s early afternoon and we pause at a small piazza where café tables spill out toward the fountain. It’s unusual to see this: unlike other Mediterranean people, Sardinians do not appear to have the habit of meeting outdoors over an espresso. We’ve not seen many cafes in the towns and villages of this island.

We order a shared lunch: a bowl of pasta with spicy tomato sauce. With a glass of local white wine. Absolutely sublime.





Needing a walk, we head up the winding narrow streets toward the castle.










It’s closed for lunch (of course), but we don’t mind. We just want to walk. Picking a road that appears to scale the mountain, we start the climb up. The scenery is predictably stunning.






Eventually the road ends. The summit is still a little bit away, but we cannot find a way to it and so we turn back.

It’s late afternoon and we cannot let this day end yet. The sky is too sparkling, too demanding of our attention. We drive along the rugged coast, looking for a place to leave the car and walk along the cliffs that line the waters edge. We cannot find a path. Sheep, yes, we see sheep. And donkeys. Wild looking donkeys. But no place where we can safely walk.

The area is remote, but there is one roadside pizzeria where some men are moving about. We pause to ask about places to admire the scenery. We’re closed, but you can come to our terraces and look around. Always the warm welcome. Always.

Looking north...





Looking south...





South, yes, time to retrace our steps.

Our dinner pick is quite at the opposite, southern side of our village and so we head back along the curvy roads until we reach the region’s capital – Oristano. With a population of about 50,000, it feels quite urban and worlds away from the hill villages we’ve just explored. We find out dining spot on a small, intimate almost, pedestrian street.





We know to moderate our ordering. I ask for the plate of mixed appetizers, followed by pasta with local shrimp and mushrooms.









The food is delicious: salami, prosciutto – all Sardinian favorites. Pickled mushrooms, fried artichokes and eggplant. Outstanding. And slices of meat swimming in olive oil. I ask the proprietor – What meat? Oh, our very own donkey meat! -- She tells me, beaming. Ah.

The tiramisu is rich, satisfying. The day ends with a short drive back and a philosophical discussion that has no purpose, no answers, no finality. But that’s fitting, I think, for a Good Friday in Sardinia. With the taste of olive oil and a memory of the rugged cliffs and mountains.

all things Sardinian

Don’t ever mention food to me again. Ever. Not in any shape or form. Especially octopus. Please, avoid spelling out the virtues of octopus, in olive oil, in tomato sauce -- no, I don't want to hear it.


Even as the day started with a lovely breakfast of croissants, cakes and sandwiches and cups of yogurt and fresh fruits. And a cappuccino. And another – the second taken, as usual in the sunlit garden.

I talk to Paolo and David and later, David’s partner, Clara about our last days here. Because it’s Easter, they offer suggestions on how best to experience this holiday in Sardinia.

Much of the talk is about where to eat what. I tell them that we want simple foods (easy: Sardinian cooking is fresh and not fussy), eaten in joyous settings, with a preference for non-meat options. Normally in our travels I don’t need this qualifier, but in Sardinia, places often specialize. It will be all seafood or all meats. And if it’s all meats, they mean meats. The kind that you encounter in the fields and forests. The kind that pull at Ed’s heartstrings.

For reasons that remain unclear to me or him (as he really hasn’t thought much about it, it’s all rather intuitive), chickens and turkeys are okay on a platter, but rabbits and wild boar are not. And he’ll tell you that an octopus is way too charming to eat, but that he’s fine with mussels and okay with shrimp. How could one possibly explain any of this to anyone except to say – basically, let’s stay away from meats. That part about octopus I leave out because really, how likely is it that the menu will be all octopus. I mean, not very likely at all.

The plan for the afternoon and evening is to drive down to Cabras (some ten minutes away) to the store with Sardinian products, and then to swing by the coast, finally returning back to Cabras for a very simple seafood dinner. We are assured that there will be some limited choices, just in case we hit something that falls into a protected by the heartstring category.

The drive to the shop is known to us – we’re finally getting familiar with the twisting options in and out our village.

As usual, Ed offers to stop if I want a photo. And as usual, I cannot resist the olive grove. This one is a favorite of mine as it deftly conjoins olives and vines.





Oh, fine, the one across the road as well. With the every joyful flowers.





As Ed finds a spot that allows him to pull over (the road is narrow, with bands of grass at the side), I want to say “watch the ditch” but I choose my instructions carefully now, because the replayed conversation is getting slightly old. Ed tells me later that had I said it, it wouldn’t have mattered as he now tunes out sentences that begin with words like “watch” or “careful.”

This time, his wheel misses the small mud bridge and winds up in the ditch, so we hang almost suspended in a way that I cannot now properly describe.

There is a chance that the front wheel can catch solid ground out of the ditch. In the alternative, the car could miss it and slide further into the steep gutter.

You drive, I push. He tells me. As always, he is frustratingly calm. As if in the normal course of any day, we push cars out of tough spots and hope that they don’t roll into ditches.

I can’t. I’ll miss the spot and then feel terrible.

That’s silly. You wont miss. Drive.

But I know I’m likely to gun the motor with such force that it’ll send us flying to God knows where.

Okay, you push.

I do, with all my body strength. And we are saved. The car does me a favor and grabs the grass, then the road, and I hop in and we continue. Two occasional traveling companions, as mismatched as they come, as congenial as ever.


We reach the store with only a half dozen wrong turns. And let me explain – it’s not really a store, it’s a warehouse where Sardinian products are displayed and where buyers make commercial purchases, but you and I can shop there as well. Moreover, they have a few tables set out. If you want to eat a Sardinian lunch, they’ll prepare one for you.

We’re not extremely hungry yet, but we think it would be fun to nibble on something local.

The tables are all occupied by area workmen – from construction to police to mechanic – out on a protracted lunch break. And it becomes clear that once you sit down, you are committing to a meal.

The store manager is also the waiter and he explains the meat choices. They seem so abundant that I run for the protection of vegetarianism. I figure we’re on light ground here.

I am wrong.









They’re delicious platters: artichoke (we see them growing everywhere here – lovely full fields of green heads rising tall above the leafy mounds), eggplant, lentils, followed by beautiful bowls of pasta with asparagus.





And a delicious red wine that I wish I could pour into some small container and have at my side always, just for the comfort and the memory.

Ed says we should think twice about also eating dinner, but I tell him that for once I am holding a reservation, as the dinner place is small. I reassure him that we have before us still a nice long walk along the coast.

I purchase the fruity Sardinian olive oil and a bottle of local wine and hope that I am correct in my calculations as to what Ryan Air will tolerate from my little send-through suitcase.


We head north, with only a few minor pauses along the way.









Our walk is along a path that winds its way around another peninsula – the perimeter of which is roughly a dozen kilometers. The scenery is beautiful and the fields of flowers now, in full spring, take your breath away.




























Early on, we pass an older couple in a moment of joyous embrace...





...and then we are alone, sharing the walk with a few lizards, gulls, and for a brief while, a pair of mismatched dogs, also out and about for the sheer pleasure of being finally at the cusp of summer.


And now again we encounter a small group of people. They're working away at shucking sea urchins.





I watch for a minute and I wonder if these will make a Sunday appearance at someone’s Easter lunch.

At the end of the peninsula, there is a crumbling tower and a lighthouse and again you are reminded that Sardinia was forever defending herself from the outside world, even as it now so much depends on an influx of us, the outsiders to sustain economic progress in these complicated times.





As we round out the loop, returning now along the beautiful northwestern shore... another tower, another splendid view... another field of flowers...


















...I notice that the sun is again playing games over the sea. Glancing inland, I see that the mountain where we hiked yesterday is hidden behind clouds. The coastal skies are less gray, but there are definitely clouds moving in.

Within minutes, it starts to rain. A relentless cold rain that falls, then stop,s then falls again. By the time we reach the car, we’re mostly wet. We have no choice but to return home (where, nota bene, it has not rained) and dry off before setting out for our evening meal.

Clara is at La Lucrezia, along with her dog, Lora (which is completely amusing as my daughters’ second names are variations of those). She offers a typical Sardinian mixed predinner drink – a light combination of wine and soda (it’s called a bicicletta – it’s very common here)





And we talk about learning languages (she teaches Italian to immigrants from Morocco). She asks how is it that I come to speak Italian. That, more than anything, makes me appear so un-American. (Indeed, at the artisanal foods store, I got the usual question – where are you from? Maybe Germany?) I explain that as a young adult, I fell in love with Italy. France came later – the second and stable love, as it were. But Italy was my youthful fling. And so I tried to speak her language, learning it briefly in a class, then embracing it more completely through songs, movies and repeated travels here.

Clara of course, like everyone in Europe, knows more English than she will admit knowing and speaks it if pressed to do so. But like so many here, in Sardinia, she is delighted when the visitor stumbles along on the familiar ground of her home language.


At 8:30, we set out for our meal at Mare d'Inverno. We’ve been warmed. It’s very casual. They serve what they like. It’s seafood. There may be some choice. It’s cheap.

And hard to find. We were given detailed directions and still it’s well after 9 when we pull in.

The cheerful waitress does offer choices.
Mixed appetizers? - she asks.

Sure.

For the next course, spaghetti with clams or with octopus?

Clams.

Maybe one of each?

Okay, one of each.

Then fish: grilled with herbs or pan fried?

Grilled with herbs.

Easy.

Except that with the first course, we already feel overwhelmed. Vegetables, yes, there are those, Zucchini, tomatoes, onions, beans. And there are shrimp. And crab legs. And a plateful of mussels. And a heaping platter of octopus.





We try to eat it all, knowing that any one plate would normally constitute an ample dinner for us. People around us are eating it all and so we do not want to appear wimpy. We dig in. The burden of cleaning the octopus plate is, of course, mine and I almost succeed. But by the end, I have had enough octopus to last me a while.

Except now of course comes the pasta course. Mine has octopus and a light tomato sauce. And it is magnificent!





So that I dig in appreciatively, even as I know that I am rapidly reaching my limit as to what I can possibly consume in the next two weeks or so.

And of course, by the end of this course, we are ready to crawl under the covers and never come out again.

Except there is the grilled fish.





By the end, I feel I have the entire ocean’s offerings in my stomach. The jug of wine merely helps create a buoyant atmosphere for all that is within me. I am ready to collapse.

A wonderful meal. Even if I may join the club of those who regard octopus as too charming to eat. Ever. Or at least not for a few days.