Vendettas, nuraghi and the marches: If rocks were gold

Another downhill day to Cagliari, which I don't quite understand given that we started the day at sea level, did not appear to climb, ended the day at sea level, but in between managed yet another day driving what is becoming a regular rocky mountain twist, around mountains made of boulders. If the world ever needs rocks Sardinia has some to spare. And if the rocks ever become gold Sardinia will be rich.

One interesting feature of these downhill routes we keep taking is the frequency of springs piped down every mountain, running like an open tap from a piece of exposed metal pipe, or being funnelled into a well, some even with tiled backs, so that people, who think to drive up the massive mountain and then down again with empty containers in the trunks of their vehicles, might fill these up with crispy cold fresh free natural spring water. If they are game enough to park in the middle of the road whilst doing this, and trust to the congeniality of oncoming drivers not to zoom past too wildly. Which, really, is the only option. There are no shoulders on any east Sardinian roads. They are good enough roads, there is just no space to swerve off or pull out.

Another feature along these hillside routes is the placement, like Cobb and Co staging stops, of derelict double story buildings, which must once have operated on these routes like staging posts: filled with serviced rooms for accommodation and spaces to eat and drink. But now that vehicles have improved, distances have diminished, and routes take much less time, these old inns lie rotting. In another era they may be systematically dug out, dissected, their bits labelled and placed in a museum.

Our route to Cagliari was such a thrill ride that part way down we noticed great stacks of rubber tyres being used as protective bumpers against the sides of the mountain. Every so often, too, we noticed brooms being stacked behind guard rails. It wasn't until we were nearly to the bottom of the hill that we became aware that soon the road would be closed to drivers like us, and that volunteers wielding those brooms would be sweeping up misplaced rocks from raw shoulders as a contingent of young brash rev heads determined on hill climbing that dangerous narrow twisty route, at speed. I hope, while the mechanics were testing their brakes and bumpers at the beginning of the race the drivers were saying their prayers in preparation. Those Sardinian rocky mountain sides look so unforgiving: rubber tyre bumpers, or not.

And it is not like the roads lend themselves to speed. Even going slowly we find these hill routes so narrow that, on a regular basis, my rear vision mirror gets clipped by an oncoming truck. Three or four times so far this trip. It makes a dashed scary noise, too, as it flicks in and out. Luckily doing no damage. So far. Cross fingers. Amen.

oooOOOooo