Vendettas, nuraghi and the marches: Stony Sardinia

Sardinia is all about stone. You see it first from the Moby, the ferry from Bonifacio in Corsica, which takes all of one smooth hour to cross to the port of St Teresa Gallura in stony Sardinia. All boats should be so swift. Stones: massive boulders mountain high, bigger rocks tall enough in one piece to build a monolith, gravel size stones carved out of the mountains: take your pick -- greet us as we drive clockwise from the port, keeping an eye out for a place to spend the night. We land, of all places, in the Costa Smerelda, which, we later learn, has nothing much to do with Sardinian culture, but is the haunt of the super wealthy from various points across the waters.

Favoured first by the Aga Khan who, in the sixties, brought his boat across, and liked it enough to pay some struggling Sardinian farmers for a section of this incredibly remote rocky coast, he then set up Porto Cervo as a private playground. Others folllowed, including, now, Silvio Berlusconi, who has a private house here in Porto Rotondu, where we found our campground. I am often amazed at the very bad taste of the super rich, and I find Sardinia hasn't tempered that view.

These onshore playgrounds for the international jet set are like something out of a terrible Disney theme park mixed with a sad Japanese discotheque ethic: a little fake, a whole lot tacky, and dispiritingly cheap, even in the construction. Not any place I would care to play. There are one or two reasonable looking hotels that save it from being totally tawdry, but overall, I feel sad for the place.

We leave and find a campground, which, like every other part of this rocky scape of Sardinia is circled by ancient drystone walls, reminiscent of the Yorkshire Dales. We have green grass to camp on, trees for cool and shade, and an infinity pool, the size of four olympic swimming pools that falls away to a bay on one side, while on the other, it is bounded by an olive grove which climbs directly up into tall jagged rocky mountains.

We swim in this water wonderland that we have to share with about three other people. And weep for the wealthy. Tho, at the same time, we weep for the poor folk trying to make a penny from camping in Sardinia. These facilities are amazing. Groups of workers are currently employed to ready the camping facilities for the summer. Little jobs are going on all day long.

The summer high season extends from about mid-July to the end of August. To this end, the families who finance this campground operation, must be crying in their Sardinian soup this year. We are paying €5 a piece. And the summer does not look good for them.

About 4 years ago, Sardinia was knocked off the 'poverty' list of EU funded countries. Everywhere we can see where EU money has gone in the past: to road infrastructure, high density housing, village redevelopment. At the very moment that it dried up here, the global financial crisis kicked in, and Sardinia, underneath the fresh coating of EU pastel paint and patched roads, is, again, struggling.

This campground, usually packed to the gills in summer, is only about 50% booked now for August: their uber-season. Normally, by February each year, it is fully booked. Times are again difficult in Sardinia. But we are basking in the fallout of all that EU booty that has been pumped into the economy in times past. We console ourselves that the Euros we spend here are sustainable. They are going back to the folk who need it. Unlike the funds of the wealthy, and the mega corporations, who are reputedly stripping Sardinia dry.

oooOOOooo