The three island tour. Sardinia.

In which we start walking further than we’ve walked before. 

In which the great floral display of Sardinia blooms supreme.

Channel crossing.

Cruising out of Bonifacio the town towers over the sea. Houses perched so crazily close to the edge, many at risk of collapse. Every storm brings fear and danger.

Only 12kms away, Santa Teresa Gallura on the Sardina has low cliffs with cottages built into its hills that you’d not see with the sun behind them.

A good road to Olbia and a planned stop at an Agroturismo, except the owner didn’t show up so we moved on. We didn’t regret it – €35 to park in his olive grove, no toilet, no shower, no thank you.

Further down the road Uwe welcomed us into his garden. After 16 years living on their boat, Uwe and Anke finally bought land in Telti. They built their house. They started adopting cats. They have 20 roaming their large space and it’s easy to relax into some dream where the cats are big game in some safari world.

Near the house he showed us three baby tortoises he’d rescued from the grass before the first mow of spring. Each the size of a goose’s egg.

Uwe still spends summer on his boat, avoiding gardening duties.

Torralba.

Then motorway. Such a surprise. It seems like we weren’t the only ones surprised – there was no one else on it. The miles to Torralba slipped by in a fashion we’ve long forgotten. And more joy – a sosta (Italian van stop), all you have to do is weave your great big van through tiny alleys that were built for donkey and cart. 

Old town streets paved in basalt (black volcanic rock) with decoration in white limestone. A spring of fresh mountain water. And birds, more birds than I’ve heard in Europe. There’s little pesticide spraying here, and plenty of scrub landscape. It shows what’s possible.

The town has many crumbling houses, but then others that have recently been restored. Succulents in pots around most doors. Proportion is skewed by the street being wider than the houses are tall. It makes the houses seem tiny, they’re not. The town is quiet, but it’s alive, it feels real after many obvious tourist towns where few live. 

Best feature has to be the old men necking fine wine at 10.30 in the morning. In the time we had a coffee they’d reordered twice. And fine the wine is too. Every glass we’ve had.

Second best feature has to be Il Mejlogu, the little restaurant seats just 16. 16 who are in for a treat. Yes, there’s great pizza, but it’s Italy, there’s usually great pizza, here too there’s pasta as you’ve never eaten it, all made in the back by the boss. Small grain like pieces with good bite, or large wrapped pasta funnels with the texture of squid. Huge ravioli. 

On our second visit to Il Mejlogu (couldn’t resist) we were greeted with salt pizza – like a garlic bread with just enough salt to help the wine flow that little bit faster. At the end of the meal the boss presented us with his speciality myrtle liqueur. 

After all we have heard about the rip off prices on Sardinia, our meals there were both cheap, and extremely good. Our coffees in the town came at prices Britain hasn’t seen in years. Great coffee. €1.50.

Stank. Stank 2.

Up the hill there are features that speak of ambitious and successful funding applications.

You’ll have seen those abandoned outdoor gyms in UK parks with the weeds growing over them because they’re too difficult to mow around. There are two on our walk. Not two machines, two series of many machines. There’s no one here to use them.

Then there’s the cycle lane. On a near deserted road there’s a 1000m long cycle lane cut into the roadside. All signs and icons painted on the road. It starts nowhere and finishes nowhere plus a thousand metres. There is absolutely no point in it being there.

New street names, house numbers, and direction signs. Stuck over the perfectly functioning old ones.

“Hey Guissepe, this EU rural funding lark. What shall we go for next?” “How about a giant fish tank?”

At the monastery of San Pietro di Sorres the church is delightfully cool after a long walk with no shade. As so often the church is a work of art, but here it’s simple. The art is the layering of the two local stones, the black basalt and white limestone. Down the road a mausoleum echoes the style. The jolly monk on duty in the icon and booze shop greeted us again in the Toralba café on Sunday morning. Not recognising him in his civies, he brought his hands together to gently remind us of his day job.

On stank 2 we braved the tiny bar in Borutta. Inside there’s the barmaid, and two seasoned drinkers, there’s hardly room for more. They’re all intrigued to see Santa walk in. 

Fine wine. Cheap as chips. A glass on a walk is a good thing. Two glasses become dangerous and make the third so much more likely. We were disciplined, I went to pay after two. But on hearing my accent, drinker number one ordered another round for us, and took me by the hand to share their lunch. For the next 30 minutes there was much chat, little understanding, but constant laughter. Brilliant. This is what small town travel is about – fear, apprehension, reward.

In spring travel to where the flowers bloom brightest.

While we’re busy absorbing the curious street furniture in a space where no one goes we’re also absorbing the incredible colour. Now it’s the turn of the blues – tiny irises, borage, those little ones that are smaller than forget me not, eyebright perhaps? The scent is bluebell, but I haven’t seen one. Sweet peas and their wilder cousin vetch climb over everything. Suddenly mimosa. It wasn’t there two days ago, now every other tree that disguised itself as a willow has burst into copious bright yellow bloom. Gaudy? Yes. Welcome? Definitely. 

Many of the flowers I mention we see at home – but never in such profusion, there are times when you have to walk on flowers because there is no space in between.

Trailer park?

I have never been to a trailer park. I have never been to America. But driving into our current refuge I had a feeling we’d found the Sardinian version.

There are so few people anywhere in Sardinia. The roads are empty. The towns are empty. The only life seems to occur in the cafés and pizzerias. We’d left Cabras a few miles behind us and were heading down a dusty road to the coast. Off that road we took an unmade track for a mile or so. Great clouds of dust now rose behind the van. Then, a complete surprise as a campsite rose before us, full of Italian camper vans and motorhomes. It’s Sunday afternoon and they’re all having lunch. Several families meet in their various rigs and use the vans to corral the cooking arena against the breeze.

It’s the first time on this tour that the Germans have been outnumbered, anywhere.

They’re Italian and so the noise is tremendous. The chatter is constant. Thinking back, even in the bar in Borutta our new companions chatted at us non-stop despite the barrier of language. This is exciting. This is where the life is. 

Beyond the sea of vans – a strip of white sand and the Mediterranean blue.

By eight in the evening every Sardinian van had left and the Germans reigned again. I guess if the sun shines at the weekend everyone with a van heads to the sea for a great big lunch with family and friends. Brilliant.

Cheeseman.

On Monday morning Cheeseman arrives in his beaten-up Punto. He does the rounds of every van, dragging some innocent traveler to his car boot where he offers samples of his wears. “This cheese is a ricotta I made yesterday. This is a month old pecorino. This is the best, it’s a four month old pecorino.” Alongside maybe a dozen cheeses he had a variety of cured meats. Almost everyone bought something. Even on a quitet spring morning he’d made his day’s money in an hour. In summer he probably sells out.

Walking adventure.

Here’s complete change.

For my 60^th I had the crazy idea that I wanted to walk across Crete.

Amanda, being far more sensible, suggested we start easy and do an assisted tour.

In Cornwall we’re used to such things as many nations come to walk the coast path. The numbers will no doubt increase when The Salt Path is released as a film. As a taxi driver I help many people on their walks.

Here’s what happens: A travel company plans an itinerary including routes, hotels and baggage transfer (that’s the important bit). It means you can concentrate on being fit for the distance but otherwise have little planning to do. Most important – you carry your day sack with food and drink rather than carrying everything you might need for a week.

Santu Lussurgiu.

The benefit of doing something organised was immediate. We would never have seen what was to come if we’d travelled in the van.

Having abandoned ArchieVan on a roadside in Cabras (yes, we were worried, but we’re happy where it is), a smart taxi whisked us up into the hills to the ancient village of Santu Lussurgiu. Our driver dived into the impossibly tight, steep cobbled streets to park outside an ancient wall with imposing gates that he announced was our albergo for the next couple of nights.

The Antica Dimore del Gruccione is a beautiful 17^th century mansion that would be tagged an art hotel at home. It houses the collection of the family that has run the establishment for generations and focuses on ceramics, with subtle decoration everywhere. 

I could dedicate a whole post to the place. The wonky wide board floor in our room with its huge nails smoothed by centuries of boots. The bracketed 2m marble slab that’s our little balcony with a view over the terracotta pantiled rooftops. The different decorative tiles on every reception room floor. The public entrance in mossy granite flags. Simple touches such as the delicate glass lightshades – each is a work of art. The shady courtyard has a lemon tree and a persimmon tree. And everywhere there’s evidence of their dedication to slow gastronomy. 

In March Santu Lussurgiu has a crazy carnival with three days of fancy dress horse racing through the cobbled streets. The pictures that we saw of the event make a return visit essential.

But right now, like so many places, it’s pretty empty. Empty, that is, until you explore and begin to understand the village. This is medieval. It still works in a similar way to how it did so many years ago. Businesses tend to be at the bottom of the business person’s house. So the knife maker is way up the hill, the boot maker (yes, there’s a boot maker. I’d love to have a pair of boots made for me) is down this alley, and down that alley there’s a baker and a great pizzeria. Neither supermarket was obvious as a shop, until you got inside. The beautician was another house. We went to a bakery – but they don’t bake bread, only very fancy cakes, except on a Saturday when they make pasta too. 

This little place grew on us, from apprehension on arrival, to something close to love on departure. It’s a special place the like of which is dying in mainland Italy to the extent that there are generous grants available to encourage people to move to villages and keep them alive. Tempting!

Walking.

The first day’s walk was labelled as a warm up. About 12km in total, it was up the hill to a village known for its sweet pure springs (closed), and back down. The main event for us was being accompanied by a little dog from a farm on the route. He was determined to do the whole walk, so we scrapped the return route and doubled back to take him home.

On day two reality kicked in. We were dropped high above the village, beyond the tree line, from where we continued to climb for a couple of kms. After passing a few maintenance workers near the top we weren’t to see a single person for over five hours. 

The good thing was the 23kms was mostly down hill.

The bad thing was the 23kms was mostly down hill.

Down hill forces your toes into the ends of your boots, it takes its toll on your knees, you end up longing to climb.

Descending, the tree cover thickened from scrub oak to proper woodland, and then suddenly stopped again as we burst out into agricultural land. Lower down there were occasional bursts of scent from French broom, then lower still fields of white thistle buzzed with the constant drone of a few million bees. Fauna was in short supply. Lizards. A single snake. A lone eagle soaring in the distance. A goat, doing the goat thing of standing on the highest cliff looking unafraid. Scores of squawking jays. Songbirds lower down the hill. Crickets. Lizards. There are also lizards.

Rowena. And Ralph.

Rowena and Ralph were born within twenty minutes of each other. But Rowena was the oldest. Ralph held back, stayed in the shadows. Rowena went to see what was what. Sorted stuff out. Pink eyes. White coats. Albino donkeys.

Hotel La Baja.

It’s early April still and we’re the first walkers of the year. Tonight’s hotel at Santa Caterina on the coast only opened yesterday. There are just a handful of guests, but they treated us well and their food was fabulous.

The hotel has a great cliff top location. They’ve given us a third floor panoramic room. I’m not a lift taker. I’m taking the lift tonight. From the room we watch the house martins put Top Gun to shame, and build nests in the eaves.

Through until the end of May the numbers of walkers will increase though I’m not sure I’d like to do today’s walk if it was any hotter.

Dinner, and the view, made me question my conviction that, on the right night, the cliffs near Logan Rock are the most beautiful you’ll ever see. Don’t worry though, I’ll get my senses back. Of course nothing compares to the Logan Rock and its surrounds.

Keep walking.

My temptation is to see water and jump in.

But my walking weakness isn’t my legs or will power – it’s my feet. Stripping off and swimming would be exhilarating. Walking on with sand abrading my already tender feet might bring a swift end to the week’s walking.

Day 3. 22kms. Until a sense of humour failure from a too hot Minty brought about a detour via a bar with a view and fine white wine.

After 17 hot kms along the coast, then on into a middle of nowhere place we arrived at our accommodation to find it all locked up. Bugger!

A call brought Caludio over to La Mimosa where we’re the only guests at his Agritourismo. In the summer he caters for big events here and hundreds folk come for his fabulous local fare. Tonight he’ll serve just us two, but the setting, on the edge of a salt lake, suits us fine.

This walking thing. It could be OK.

Live long. Pack life in.

I often used to suggest when we were on our long tour that the best way to live long isn’t to stretch your years, but to pack your days.

Writing this post today it doesn’t seem possible that the ferry from Corsica was only a week ago. If someone suggested we’d been on Sardinia a month I could believe that.