... in Sardinia

Adventures of the Anonymous Four in Sardinia

 

 

The alarm went off at 3am. Husband and I, having got back from seeing Robbie Williams at Knebworth at 4am only 23 hours earlier, were starting to appreciate the full meaning of tired. I crept around the bed in the dark with a sudden yelp of ‘ouch’ as I stubbed my toe on the suitcase that we had put by the bedroom door. Husband started chuckling as I limped off to turn on the light in the girls’ room, both of whom briskly and uncomplainingly got up and dressed, perhaps too sleepy and dazed to bother moaning. 

We drove to the airport – Child the Elder and Child the Younger managing to get some sleep during the drive. When they woke I was able to shift some the of the breakfast snacks in the foot well by my feet. 

We arrived at the airport, queued to check in, queued for passport control, had no time to spare airside, and headed off for the boarding gate with barely time to buy a sandwich before getting on the plane. As soon as the air hostesses came round Husband and I got a much needed coffee, but still slept for much of the flight. 

As we left the plane at Sardinia the heat was oppressive. We walked to the terminal building, passed heavily armed soldiers, and collected our bags – which were processed remarkably quickly. But then there are very few flights in and out of Alghero, so the baggage handlers probably get quite excited when they actually have something to do. 

Husband had arranged to hire a car, and went to collect the keys for this. We wandered to where the hire cars were parked, and walked around the whole car park before finding our allotted vehicle – an Opal Signum. Air conditioned. Fortunately the air conditioning converted the car from an incinerator to a fridge within seconds, and we were barely conscious of the temperatures outside – which were in the upper 30’s. 

There are two airports in Sardinia, Alghero at the northern end of the island, and Cágliari on the south coast of the island. We landed at Alghero, and were staying just outside Cágliari. Hey – we booked it only a few days ago having seen Ryan Air doing flights to Alghero from £17.00. We did intend to stay at the north of the island, but after a few days of internet searching hotels Husband had found nowhere. After five minutes of searching the internet for hotels I found several that could take us – we went for the first one to confirm they could accommodate us, who also happened to be the cheapest, and could give us a suite which consisted of a room for Husband and I and a second room for the girls both of which had a balcony, and we shared a bathroom. 

This is of course the up side to the three hour drive to the south coast of the island. Another upside was getting to fully appreciate the island as a whole. Sardinia is surprisingly big and the landscape is harsh and inhospitable, dry and arid. The soil dries to dust that is never moved on as the burning air hangs heavily over it, without any suggestion of a breeze. 

Sardinia is not mountainous by European standards, but it is satisfactorily hilly. Rolling slopes of the central ring of Gennargentu Mountains intermingled with sharp, spiky edges; flat topped hills slopping down to huge dry plains, the heat shimmering above the scalding surface. You can see for miles across the awesome and forbidding terrain. 

The road snakes through the plains or hugs the steep mountain edges. As a measure of the heat and dryness we passed a forest fire on a hill that the road curled around. Dark orange flames devoured the stunted trees while a helicopter flew to and fro, ferrying hopelessly small buckets of water in an attempt to quench the flames. 

The buildings are utterly uninteresting. Beige. Low. Square. Monotonous. Despite the heat and dusty soil there are several sprouts of green in the form of small stunted bushes rising from the burnt, golden ground and acres of vineyards bulging with bright green crops. 

To break the journey, we had planned to stop off at Tharros on the way. This is about half way down the island on the west coast and the site of a Roman settlement that rivals anything found on mainland Italy. It also made a convenient lunch stop.

I should perhaps mention that Husband had bought a Rough Guide to Sardinia which we were heavily relying on. In this it stated that you should not under any circumstances visit Sardinia in August due to the intense heat as well as the massive influx of tourists. What it failed to mention was that these tourists were primarily Italian. Very few English seem to venture much beyond Alghero, and other ‘hot spots’ on the northern coast. Consequently, in restaurants the staff speak very little English and there are no English translations on menus.

Personally I prefer this. If I wanted to be surrounded by English people, and select meals from menus all beautifully written in English then I would holiday in England. It also gave Husband and I the change to brush up on our Italian. As Child the Elder was remarkably good at languages I passed her the Italian phrasebook and she busied herself learning a few phrases. The plot thickened slightly as the language spoken in Sardinia is a variant of mainland Italian. 

Another indication of how Sardinia is unprepared for non Italian tourists is the very limited signposting. Tharros is an ancient, well preserved site and yet there is very little assistance to get the traveller there who will have difficulty asking for directions. Actually that isn’t strictly true – we could quite easily ask how to find it (dov’è Tharros), but wouldn’t necessarily understand much of the answer. There were signposts off the main dual carriage way taking us onto the smaller roads heading out west. But these signposts rapidly dry up and our excuse for a map did not mark all the tiny tracks that we started to follow. We picked another place near to Tharros and followed signs to that instead. Once we are almost there, the signs for Tharros again appeared.

Tharros is right on the coast at the end of a peninsular. We drove down this and parked above the beach at the end, not understanding what the car park signs said but decided to eat first – cafes conveniently lined the edge of the car park - and worry about that later. 

Husband ordered our drinks – in Italian of course but made slightly easier by the international understanding of Coca Cola and Sprite, and we set to trying to identify things off the menu. As Husband are and I hugely adventurous, particularly when abroad, we tend to take the ‘close your eyes and randomly point at the menu’ approach to select things. Child the Elder is also happy to try most things that Husband and I end up with, but we needed to ensure that she and Child the Younger had meals that they would actually eat. Fortunately there was something along the lines of bolognaise that fitted the bill perfectly.

We made use of the toilet, paid the bill and headed to the car to establish the procedure. No sooner had we arrived at the car when a car park attendant came over and with the few words of Italian we knew, the few words of English she knew and the occasional use of sign language we got a ticket for 2 hours – this was a bargain as we had already been there for well over an hour completely free of charge.

We walked along the spit of land to the Tharros site.  The spit lies in the Golfo di Oristano and ends at Capo San Marco. It is the perfect vantage point for a military installation as well as providing safe anchorage on either side in the calm, turquoise sea. On one side the sea lapped up onto golden white sands that rose to dunes, peppered with grass rushes that led up the car park. On the other side, there was not only the unblemished sand, but also outcrops of rocks.

The Phoenicians settled on the site around 800 BC and it was still used following Carthaginian occupation. The Romans maintained its importance after 238 BC building baths and streets in the form that are still visible now. It was finally abandoned in 1070 in favour of Oristano, a little further in land, which was considered to be more secure. 

The site is remarkably well preserved, and apparently much of it is submerged beneath the sea. The grid of streets is still clearly defined as is the deep open sewer which runs from the main street at the top of the hill, through the town and down to the sea – clearly designed before the days when pumping raw sewerage into the sea was an issue. There are remains of houses, as well as remnants of a Roman amphitheatre up the hill, overlooking the sea.  

Due to the variety of people who inhabited the site there are a mixture of ruins which include a burial ground from the earlier Punic settlement, a Carthaginian acropolis, remnants of a Roman temple of which two Corinthian columns still stand as well as the Roman bath house and thermal complex. 

At the top of the hill above the site, over looking the sea and bays either side, are the ruins of a Spanish watchtower. 

 

We strolled relatively quickly around the site as the soaring temperatures prohibited a long and involved exploration, and there was no relief or shelter from the remorseless sun. 

Child the Elder maintained an interest in the site until the heat became too much to bear. However, her excitement was maintained when she found a lump of marble – which we let her keep. Child the Younger was enchanted by the lizards scurrying along the scalding stones, and went in and out of the crumbling ruins pretending to be going shopping – just like Roman women would have done centuries earlier. 

We headed back to the car to start the remaining leg of the journey. Child the Younger needed another visit to the toilet, and I was starting to realise what it meant to be in the company of children having never in my adult life been with children for the length of time I was about to spend with Child the Elder and Child the Younger. 

We drove south and after another hour and half of driving we passed Cágliari and stumbled upon the hotel completely accidentally. Unsure if we really had found the right one, Husband went in to check if they had a booking for us.

After very quickly unpacking we headed off for the hotel pool where we spent a few minutes swimming, and about an hour playing around.  

The hotel suite was air conditioned and in the interests of keeping heat out as much as possible the bedrooms had black out curtains, and a thick blind outside the balcony doors controlled by a pulley cord inside. Both bedrooms had TV’s which did include some English things if you could be bothered to search the channels looking for it. Child the Younger wanted to watch her favourite cartoons – in Italian, and hence incomprehensible, but she enjoyed them nonetheless, while Child the Elder preferred the music channel which played several UK hits. 

As it had been a long day with much of it spent in the car we decided to have dinner in the hotel and an early night.

The menu was helpfully semi translated into English – but we still ordered in a state of almost virtual ignorance about what was actually going to appear. What did in fact show up was not too bad, and Child the Elder and Child the Younger bravely tried some of just about everything that we were served, which included clams in some sort of pasta arrangement.

They tried the pasta rather than the clams themselves. Although the pasta did have the clam flavour. They didn’t like it. I’m not totally sure I did either, not being a massive fish eater. Husband, however, can always be relied on to finish things off and didn’t let us down on this occasion. 

For main course I had raw beef, thinly sliced. Being someone who likes my steak only just this side of still alive I choose raw beef whenever I can – it is not commonly served in England. Husband opted for a whole sea bass. When the waiter brought it out there was a small incident of being lingually challenged – Husband thought he was asking who the fish was for, I realised (but not quickly enough) that he was asking if Husband wanted the waiter to fillet it for him. As Husband kept frantically pointing to himself the waiter therefore gave him the fish and a side plate for bones and left with the appearance of a disgruntled, unwanted man. 

For dessert we had what the menu described as seasonal fruits. I had expected some sort of fruit salad. Instead we were each brought a plate and knife, and a huge bowl of fruit was put on the table. This contained grapes, peaches, plums, oranges, pears and apples. 

We slept like logs that night, but the next day Husband and I were still tired.  

Breakfast was from 7 – 9.30am. We decided to go down at about 9.25am, which seemed perfectly reasonable given that we were on holiday and had been up ridiculously early the day before. 

Italians often breakfast in cafes and the event usually consists of strong coffee and a sweet pastry. I was not disappointed. We had jam filled croissants, bread rolls with every flavour of jam imaginable, and the added extras of banana yoghurt and peaches in syrup. There was also the expected coffee – disappointingly weak. Although Child the Elder rather liked the croissant there was initially nothing that Child the Younger liked. Until we found the chocolate spread. There were only a couple of sachets left, but Child the Elder asked the waiter – who was a quieter version of Manuel from Fawlty Towers – for some more. He brought a whole bowl. There was chocolate spread everywhere. Mainly on them. 

To keep the hotel room cool during the day, we turned up the air conditioning, shut the external blinds and closed the curtains.

I let down the blind in the girls’ room, but it seemed to come down quicker than the one in our room, and before I knew it the blind plummeted to the ground while the pulley rope had completely disappeared inside the mechanism somewhere. I called Husband to let him know that something was amiss. 

As we left the hotel he explained at reception that the blind in the girls’ room appeared to be broken, and pointed at Child the Elder and Child the Younger in order to make himself understood. The staff of course assumed that Child the Elder and Child the Younger were the culprits. 

Our plan for the day was simple – find shop, buy water, find beach, lie on it. 

We stumbled across a small supermarket. The entrance took us to a lift. Bemused, we got in. It was a two storey shop. You have to start on the top level – which had the water, and then got the lift down to the ground floor level. We bought some Cheese flavoured Pringles which were apparently a delicacy still unknown in England. Child the Elder and Child the Younger seemed to be Pringles connoisseurs, so we took their word for it.  

Although a small shop, the fruit and vegetables rivalled anything you would find in Waitrose. The peaches and plums still had leaves on them. 

Then we found the CD’s. The car we had hired had a CD player – but we had no CD’s. You can therefore imagine our excitement at the prospect of finding some half decent music to listen to. I’m not suggesting that the Sardinian radio stations were less than half decent. Well actually, yes I am. There were several UK albums – all wonderfully re-recorded by Studio 99 as cover versions. We found only two genuine albums – Tony Sheridan with the Beatles and Rock Classics. Armed with our supplies, we paid the fastest checkout lady in the West and made for the beach. 

Unsure about where to go we decided to head out towards Villasimius on the south east tip of the island which apparently contained some fantastic beaches, with our rock CD playing full blast. It was the perfect music for the roads and the weather. Nothing beats a bit of Radar Love. 

The road to Villasimius has to be seen to be believed. Lets just say that if you think Italian job (the end part, in the bus) crossed with Monaco you are kind of getting there. There are stunning views at every turn of turquoise sea lapping against white sanded beaches curling around the bays. The road s-bends forever around the coves. We then saw a sign warning of sharp bends for 3 kilometres. Although the road had been anything but straight until then, it now hairpinned its way up the sides of the hills, rising above the sea, with sheer drops away to the side, then hairpinned back down, passed the bay at the bottom before zig zagging up another slope.

 

We passed cactus plants covered with prickly pears. I was interested to see a prickly pear. Once upon a time, many years ago when I was at University, one of our assignments was to prepare an authentic foreign meal. One girl chose somewhere Mediterranean, and her meal required prickly pears for dessert. However, despite searching London high and low – for about 2 hours – she could not find prickly pears anywhere. Ever resourceful, she used normal pears instead. During the discussion afterwards the lecturer asked about the differences between prickly pears and ordinary ones. Oh, she said, they’re almost exactly the same. Now looking at a prickly pear for the first time since then I could clearly see that are not the same at all. I have yet to try one, however I have a suspicion that the lecturer was not fooled  

But I digress.

Having passed dozens of stunning beaches we finally settled on one that we could park near, along the Golfo di Carbonara. 

It was then that we realised we had no sun shade. There were trees at the top end of the beach, so we established base camp there and all liberally applied factor 45 sun cream. I was determined not to end up silly colours – in sun my shoulders will turn slightly brown, but the rest of me is liable to burn. Except my legs, which stay completely white. So I end up looking like a Neapolitan ice cream in wedges of brown, pink and white. 

As we walked down to the sea we discovered that the sand was burning hot. Seriously take the skin off the soles of your feet kind of hot. And being at the top end of the beach, we had a lot of sand to cover. The Mediterranean sea, in contrast, was wonderfully cool.  

Some of the beaches we had passed had people in the sea, some way out, only waist deep. At this beach however the sea quite quickly got deeper, which was preferable all round. The sea was very salty, so we avoided too much splashing in our play so as to reduce contact between sea water and eyes.  

We hadn’t been in the sea long before Husband mentioned that something was biting him. This immediately panicked the girls. And then I got bitten. It was like a gentle pin prick on my shins. We all stood still and looked down. The sea was perfectly clear, so once we stopped kicking up the sand we could see a sandy coloured fish swimming around at shin level. We decided that it was this ‘biting’ us, and it was probably something prickly on it touching us rather than actual bites. Neither of us were marked in any way, or suffered any subsequent ill effects. 

It was still enough to worry the girls, and we realised that if you kept moving, the fish stayed away. 

The girls wanted to pretend to be our dogs for reasons which it is best not to even start thinking about, and brought us stones to throw to the shallow end for them to find and bring back again. Child the Younger started collecting together several stones, and the only way I could keep them all without dropping them was to use the space in my bikini top that wasn’t required by my breasts – that is of course quite a lot of space. Child the Younger even remembered which stones were which side, even though this changed every time she ‘fetched’ them.

During this game Husband showed Child the Younger that if you bang two stones together under the water this could be heard some way away – provided the listener was also under water. After several minutes of experimenting with this we saw dozens of small fish, near the surface, swimming all round us. Husband surmised that the rock banging must have ‘called’ them. They were a non bitey variety and therefore we were quite happy to swim amongst them. 

We went to the café on the beach for lunch and sat in its balmy cool, overlooking the sand and sea. Again we had the ‘pick something at random and hope for the best’ situation. We got the girls spaghetti with tomato sauce (useful words to know – pomodoro and formaggio). It was a safe bet, and it paid off. Husband and I shared a tuna salad and spaghetti al ricci. Even having eaten it, neither of us could tell you what al ricci is. It was garlicy and nice – if that helps. Bear in mind that this a country that eats donkeys – sometime it’s best not to analyse your lunch in too much detail. 

Feeling an urgent need for dessert we had ice cream, all of us opting for tiramisu flavour, although Child the Younger left the sponge base. As she put it, she didn’t like the soggy bottom – and, after all, who does like a soggy bottom.  

 

We went back into the sea for more frolicking after lunch. This time we wore shoes down to the shore. Husband went back in after a while, leaving me with Child the Elder and Child the Younger, who refused to let me escape, and announced that they liked me because I was a good climbing frame. And because I played with them a lot, spinning them around in the sea until I was dizzy. But still they wanted more. Exhausted, I finally joined Husband on the sand for a few moments peace and quiet. 

Before heading homeward we drove a little further out to Capa Carbonara just to marvel at the views. 

Back at the hotel we were relieved to find that the blind had been mended. The plan for the evening was to shower, dress, go forth and eat. During the showering process, for reasons which I don’t fully understand, more water ended up on the floor of the bathroom than down the plughole so lots of the towels were used to dry the floor. As the balcony was overwhelmed with wet swimming stuff I had the cunning plan of draping towels over the shower rail to dry them. 

No sooner had I started to effect this plan than I plaintively called out to Husband, and he came into the bathroom to see me standing there holding the shower rail in my hand. It wasn’t as bad as the blind issue – the shower rail was of the spring loaded variety and could quite easily be put back into position, while I found other places to hang towels. 

As I was getting ready Child the Elder came into our room and said ‘you’ll never guess what Dad has just done’. Oh no, I thought, and went into the girls room to see Husband standing there holding the blind pulley rope. I felt vindicated. It wasn’t just me who seemed to have trouble with their blind.  

Deciding not to worry about it further, we sallied forth to dinner. There was a pizzeria opposite the hotel and that was the intended destination. It did involve crossing roads, and Child the Elder and Child the Younger were not totally happy with the Italian way of pedestrian crossings. The system is quite simple. Cars don’t stop. You walk across and cars will adjust their speed so as not to hit you, but may pass in front of or behind you during your crossing.

 

That ordeal done, we arrived at the restaurant. The only English our waiter spoke was ‘I don’t speak English’. We could match this with ‘mi dispiace, non parlo Italiano’. The menu was of course all in Italian and Husband and I did our best to fathom out what various things were.  

As we were choosing, a waitress walked passed with pizzas for another table. They were enormous. Bigger than the plate. We then slightly changed tack and decided to share an antipasto starter between us as we were all planning to have pizza. Husband and I bravely selected pizzas with toppings that meant nothing to us while ordering a quattro formaggi for the girls to share. 

Mine appeared – and included a fried egg in the middle. Never before have I seen a fried egg on a pizza. And it wasn’t that bad. There was also dozens of olives, ham and artichokes. It was called capricciosa which I now know literally translates as capricious, and is topped with whatever they have in the kitchen. Presumably then, you may not get the same toppings twice.

 

Husband’s pizza was folded in half with a huge bulge in the middle. I have no idea what was in it but it was very tasty, all washed down with Sardinian red wine. The wine is nothing to write home about – although I am of course doing exactly that – but, like most Italian wine, it is easy drinking quaffable stuff. And it was nice to be drinking something locally produced. 

Our plan for the morrow was pool, go and see something, more pool. As the pool didn’t open until 10.00am we went down for breakfast at the last minute. Manuel – the highly strung but very quiet waiter – panicked. He quickly set a table up for us as we gathered together all the various elements of breakfast from the tables round the room. Disastrously there was no chocolate spread. However, Manuel remembered us – or rather Child the Elder and Child the Younger – and came scuttling out with a multitude of chocolate spread sachets. They were delighted. 

As promised, we then headed off for a couple of hours in the pool. Husband was by now wearing considerably amount of sun cream on his face, as he had the crumbliest flakiest forehead in the world. This was mainly due to the sun it got at Knebworth.

 

Half a dozen slim built, well tanned Italian men were already there, playing a form of water volleyball – minus any rules. Husband threw the ball back to them on one occasion, and this seemed to mean that he was now officially involved in the game. Soon after, Child the Elder and Child the Younger were also part of it. 

On the way out Husband again informed reception that the blind in the girls’ room was broken.  

Our thing to see for the day was Su Nuraxi, which is at the bottom end of the island, but inland. As we drove there – having had an interesting time trying to find the right road, again, signposting was of limited use, and our map of slightly less use - the outside temperature was approaching 40ºC. Off the main road, we drove through wild, dusty country side, with barely any other traffic in sight. 

Amongst all the brown and orange, there were occasional fields of green, mercilessly watered. We passed a supermarket, unfortunately named Grim Supermarket and the Fanny Regali restaurant. The road took us through a couple of nondescript villages that were small and seemingly uninhabited. It was siesta time, but everything looked as though it had been shut up and abandoned years ago. 

The road curled round some hills that had clearly been the site of a forest fire. New shoots were forging their way through the blackened earth and charcoaled remains of bushes and trees. There were telegraph poles running across the area, one of which was a short charred remain, still hanging from the wires, the bottom part completely burnt away.

 

On the way we passed the conical hill of Las Plassas with fragments of the 12^th century castello di Marmilla sticking up like broken teeth on it round pinnacle, before arriving at Barúmini, just outside of which was Su Nuraxi. It was like a town from a Western movie. Dry, dead, empty, quiet. 

We found a café and decided to have lunch there. Inside was the local population of the town, smoking like chimneys, enjoying the air conditioned cool. Quickly weighing up smoke versus heat, we decided to sit in the shade outside to eat our paninis (which we could have caldo or freddo). During this time, crowds of people materialised and disappeared inside the café before melting back out into the town and disappearing like cockroaches. Satisfactorily filled, we ventured on to Su Nuraxi. The car showed a temperature of 43ºC. 

To escape from the heat a flock of sheep in a field next to the road were huddled beneath the few skeletal trees, several layers deep, piled up like dead carcasses. 

Su Nuraxi is nuraghic settlement dating from around 1500 BC. The Nuraghic civilisation is unique to Sardinia, existing prior to the days of invasion and conquest. Their culture existed on the island for well over a millennium, some areas continuing until the Roman invasion of 238 BC. 

Like Tharros, it was inhabited over several hundred years and the site has visible evidence of improvements and changes to building techniques. An enormous quantity of the site exists in almost perfect condition, the dark grey stone of the imposing central structure surrounded by a tight mesh of stone huts separated by a web of lanes.. The central fortress is a labyrinth of internal passages, tunnels, alcoves that were once lined with cork and fearsomely steep steps. The site includes two wells which still contain water. 

The area is believed to have been covered with earth by the Carthaginians at the time of the Roman conquest accounting for its excellent state of preservation. 

 

While we were there it started to rain – which was wonderfully refreshing, huge drops of water started to fall thicker and faster through the burning air.  

On the way back we needed to try and find a petrol station and bank and thought that the larger town of Sanluri, which we would have to pass anyway, would be our best bet. We were slightly wrong in this assumption. After several minutes of driving around we did happen across a petrol station where Husband, in his very best Italian, asked where the bank was. However he said ‘due’ rather than ‘dov’è’ and was indeed told where two were. 

I gave him my credit card to get some Euro from the cashpoint – which miraculously worked – and we headed back to the hotel for some more pool time. Not without incident however. We managed to take a wrong turn somewhere, and rather than taking the ring road around Cágliari found ourselves heading into the city. Like most cities, Cágliari has a small, interesting centre and then large quantities of non descript spreading and housing and industry all around it.  

Not really sure of what we needed to head for to get out of the city we double backed on ourselves a couple of times by taking wrong turnings. The upside of the experience was that we identified where in Cágliari we wanted to head for the next day for our visit to the city. We did eventually arrive at the hotel. The blind had again been mended, and I decided not to touch it anymore. 

As it was near and convenient we decided to go to the same place again for dinner, but to try something different. There was an insalata that involved mare which seemed to imply sea, and knowing my limited fish preferences I opted for the other insalata, which claimed to contain di polpo. Whatever that might be. 

The starters arrived. A dish was put down next to me. I looked at it. Husband looked at it. My face fell. Husband laughed. Di polpo, for those who don’t know and might one day need to, means squid. Tentacles, suckers and all. Beautifully dressed in olive oil and garlic. 

I ate it the less tentacly parts, and could only manage that by not looking at it and not thinking about it. It was delicious. I have it on good authority that squid can be quite rubbery, but this was wonderfully tender and unchewy. Not delicious enough however, for me to be able to eat the bits that were obviously its legs, or arms, or both. 

My main course was slightly less disastrous – steak. They hadn’t asked how I wanted it cooked – I wouldn’t have understood even they had, and almost certainly would not have been able to answer, but it was cooked to perfection. Or rather uncooked to perfection, being very blue. 

The next, and final day, we intended to go into Cágliari for a wander, buy presents, post postcards and so on and so forth. We tried to get down to breakfast a little earlier – but failed dismally, and watched our high blood pressured waiter fret and panic in silence as several more groups of people appeared after us. 

We parked next to the obligatory McDonalds at the end of the Via Roma, in the middle of which were men picking dates off the date palms, and walked into town. Here the road crossing was considerably more involved, and therefore considerably more scary for the girls, as the roads were a lot bigger. 

As we were passing the terminal station Husband suggested we go in and have a look, to show the girls a Sardinian station. Little did he know that the centre piece of the concourse was a large old steam train. Out came the camera, as Husband bobbed about like an excited six year old. 

 

Once more outside, and now heading up the hill we found a Tabacchi (which is where you get stamps from – other than the post office of course, which is also a fairly reliable stamp source) and settled ourselves in an outside café to write postcards and send them off. 

Italians like their horns, and all around us cars were constantly beeping each other for no apparent reason. Ambulances hurtled up and down the street with their sirens on, not obviously going anywhere at all. We then deduced that having a siren was like having your horn on all the time, and therefore gave more street cred.

 

The postcard duty done we began our exploration of the city in earnest. Cágliari is a coastal city with a large port, and it rises up the hill above the sea. Once off the main road there are no pavements. 

Determined to get into the old town we headed for the Bastione San Remy on Piazza Costituzione, the southern spur of the defensive walls. On the way we passed the world’s laziest beggar. There was the sympathy note, the expected dog, a cap for collection change and a filthy piece of cloth to sit on – but no sign of the beggar at all.  

As a major port Cágliari was heavily bombed during World War II and much of this devastation is still very visible. We passed a monument from the 1800’s that was clearly one of many war time casualties. 

Above the Piazza Constituzione was a spider web of low cables. We assumed these were for the trolley buses that we had already seen, although most of the buses were of the normal variety. 

The huge, marble, curved stairway up to the Bastione was massively graffiti'd, and once at the top we realised that this entrance was blocked off. We walked around the side and found that a cunningly designed glass sided lift breached these ancient defences with ease and quite brilliantly lifted us above the wall. From here we could see the entrance we had first tried. This led to a huge two layered terrace that was once used for the occasional flea market. We were on the upper of the two layers. The rest was all now closed off in a state of Italian repair.

 

 

From where we stood we had fantastic views across the city to the sea beyond while low flying planes from the nearby airport soared through the hazy skies above.

 

The old town consists of narrow, winding streets lined with shabby exterior apartments, washing hanging out like bunting above and a central, cobbled gutter and a constant low hum of activity. When the occasional car did come alone, we had to press ourselves into doorways to let them by. 

We wandered passed the open doors of buildings in narrow urban streets and inhaled wafts of smells only familiar to Italy. 

Child the Elder thoroughly enjoyed absorbing another country’s culture. Child the Younger endured our wandering about with remarkable fortitude, only complaining now and then due to the heat. 

The old town is very small and we soon found ourselves back outside the walls looking back to the Torre dell’Elefante, and strolled back down the hill to the main street to hunt out lunch. We also bought some paninis to take home so that we could have dinner in our hotel room and an early night in preparation for the early morning departure. 

 

As we sat having lunch we saw pigeons drinking from the water fountain, and cooling themselves in the water splashed underneath it. 

After lunch we went to a gelateria for an ice cream. Husband had been wandering around taking pictures and said that this shop had to be seen to be believed. The inside was decorated like an ice grotto. Part of the floor had been replaced with huge perspex tiles, under which was a fountain of water running down to a palm tree several feet beneath.  

There were 4 display cases of ice cream each containing 16 flavours. These ranged from every type of chocolate imaginable to melon, apple, peach, pineapple, lemon, to pina colada, tiramisu to bubble gum and smurf. Smurfs – for anyone who is interested – taste minty. 

 

We each had a pot with three different flavours in and tried each others opting to sit inside to eat them to prevent them melting too quickly, and watched a lady bring out new trays of freshly made ice cream. 

We bought a couple more bits and pieces and in one shop both the girls said grázie to the young man behind the counter. Unused to English tourists, and particularly unused to English tourists making an effort to speak his language, he beamed from ear to ear. Arrivederci, he called out after them where previously he would have said nothing. 

Once back at the hotel we had some more pool time, packed and ate our paninis on the balcony. 

We would be leaving early the next morning so an early night was called for. 

The alarm went at off 5.00am. It was dark – the first time we had seen it dark the whole holiday. I went out onto the balcony to collect up the now dry swimming things from the previous afternoon and saw the flickering lights all along the coast of Cágliari. 

As we started the long drive back up north I looked over the purple mountains against a pink background, rising to skies already blue above, with glittering towns nestled beneath. The towns we passed were more interesting in this half light, randomly lit by occasional street lights, the houses huddled together in their dull monotony and simple design.  

The orange sun appeared behind the mountains, rising in a hurry as though late from setting over somewhere thousands of miles away only a few minutes earlier. It had barely risen before it looked soiled and tired, having to preside over another boiling day. 

The colour of the land seemed somehow fresher, with hints of orange and green and animals grazing quickly before the heat of the day. In the morning light there were also a multitude of shadows on the hillsides, every small dip and gulley now showing up. 

Following the signs to Alghero, we were directed off the main road onto small, side roads winding through the hillsides, passed lakes that surprised us with their presence. The road sank to the level of these lakes and then climbed again up the hills in a series of back to back S bends above the steep sided valley, running through the hills to the plains beyond. 

The hills here consisted of rocky outcrops on the top, sloped sides leading to sheer rock sided drops, then more slopes tumbling downwards. We passed through the tiny village of Itteri, through its cobbled streets where an old man had assumed his seat on a bench for the day. The road ahead snaked back down the hill, one side of which was peppered with stunted trees and fields of bamboo plants while on the other side things were trying to grow through the burnt land amongst dry, dead bushes with browned leaves. 

At the airport we bought a couple more presents, which included a bottle for Husband’s parents. This was encased in cork – which seemed to be local to Sardinia, and we assumed it was wine. When we tried it back in England we found that it was a clear liquid, 40% proof, distilled from grapes that had no taste at all, but burnt your throat and made your eyes sting. We are none the wiser about what it is. 

On the flight home the girls insisted that I sat next to them where I was left with the exhausting task of keeping them under some form of control.  

We arrived home to an England only fractionally cooler than Sardinia, a car with inadequate air conditioning and no CD player and a Burger King for lunch. Quality of life had suddenly resumed normal levels again.

NOTES
At the time of writing, Child the Younger was 10 and Child the Elder was 12. The above is a true story. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from tourist information. All other content is the property of the author.