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Hey, Hey, We're the Flintstones
"Today is no good. Too cold!" a shopkeeper in Sarroch emphatically stated, as I surveyed his box of green tomatoes. It was January 31, but 20 degrees Celsius - a beautiful summer day by Canadian standards. Sarroch's inhabitants, however, scuttled about the streets swaddled in down-filled jackets, toques and scarves! "They would freeze to death in Canada," Sharon hypothesized. "But then," she added, "we would probably melt in Sardinia's summer heat." I just wanted to buy a couple of ripe tomatoes to complement our ham and cheese sandwiches, not get into some meteorological discussion of relative temperatures. I grunted, and pointed out two slightly red orbs amidst the shopkeeper's box of green fruit. (I was amazed that where they could have as many ripe tomatoes as they wished, they preferred to eat them green. In contrast, we Canadians have a tough time getting tomatoes to turn red, yet we wouldn't dream of eating them green!) I was sure the shopkeeper was glad to get rid of his out-of-date pink ones. A short distance past Sarroch, we were finally able to get off the busy main route and return to our preferred traffic-free side roads. Immediately, the trucks and buses that had been boisterously scraping past our elbows were gone. The difference between riding on the two routes was like night and day! Rather than sapping all our energy maintaining a handlebar death-grip and willing our bicycles not to waver from their skinny allotted strip of asphalt, we relaxed, soaked up the countryside, and revelled in the lack of traffic all the way to Pula. In Pula, we stopped by the tourist office and obtained a book of campground listings. Showers were a luxury we hadn't indulged in for nearly a month and Sharon was ready for something more substantial than her daily ice-cream-bucket-sponge-bath ritual. She informed me it was high time we had proper showers, and, for that reason alone, campgrounds were worth investigating. I skimmed the publication. Prices ranged from an astounding $25 to $35 per night. And that was in low season! No wonder we hadn't stayed in any campgrounds. I had thought it was because they were located in the least scenic spots (next to busy motorways appeared to be their favourite haunt). I agreed that a shower would indeed be luxurious, but I wasn't willing to fork over thirty-five bucks to have one. "How much do you think they would charge just to have a shower?" I asked Sharon. "A mere $30," she answered without batting an eye. Apparently she didn't think the asking price was too steep. I rationalized that if we took three showers each, it averaged out to five bucks a shower. I smiled; it didn't sound as expensive when I worked it out that way. With pleasant calculations crisscrossing my neurons, we followed along the Gulf of Cagliari to Nora. "Those Romans sure knew how to pick fine sites," Sharon said, spreading out our ground sheet as a picnic blanket with Nora's Roman ruins forming a thespian backdrop for our lunch spot. We rested on a white sand beach and gazed off into the sapphire waters pondering Nora's past. Situated on a promontory with a striking double port (a trait the Romans sought when establishing settlements), Nora was once a large Roman and Carthaginian city whose inhabitants (from 238 bc) had brutally occupied Sardinia for 700 years. It had been abandoned after a devastating earthquake (a large part of the town still lies beneath the sea) and now serves as an archeological site. The direct sun was surprisingly hot; I comprehended why Mediterranean countries closed in the summer between 1 pm and 4 pm, and no one ventured out (except tourists, of course). "Maybe if I set the tomatoes out, they'll ripen," I joked. After inhaling a lazy pseudo club sandwich, our afternoon ride ambled along the scraggly southern coast. Dramatic Oregon coast-like seascapes swept into view around every corner. We continued past Chia to Bithia, and spied a lighthouse ruin high on a hill. "That looks like a grand spot to spend the night," I declared. There was even a No Camping sign posted - a sure indication of a favoured location. We wisely left our bikes at the bottom, and puffed up the precipitous path in an initial scouting exploration. On our way up, we noted two sites with admirable sea views. However, at the top, we bumped into two men doing restoration work on the lighthouse's facade, laboriously chipping away at the crumbling rock with awls. We were right about the old lighthouse wielding an authoritative view, but there were too many people around to risk camping there. A quick glance at our map showed that past Bithia there were no towns for some distance. Feeling assured we could easily find an isolated coastal spot, we saluted the workmen and continued on our way. The houses we passed on the sparsely inhabited southern coast had orange and lemon trees growing in their yards. If I had an orange tree, I would make orange juice and marmalade with the extras. But on Sardinia they had so many oranges they just let them rot on the ground. We came to one property where ripe oranges had fallen onto the roadway. I thought the rightful owners wouldn't mind if I helped myself to twenty beauties strewn on the road and in the ditch. After all, they were just going to spoil or get run over by cars anyway. Not far from there, as I struggled up a near-vertical incline - knee ligaments creaking - I thought myself a trifle foolish for having been so greedy. Not only had I encumbered myself with more than ten pounds of juicy oranges, but, in our preparation for the night's camping, we had filled our supplemental water bottles. Bungeed to my rear rack they added eight more pounds. In a sweat-soaked delirium, I reached the top. The view made it all seem worthwhile: a group of islands lit by the setting sun, bobbed like tiny chunks of amber in a golden bracelet. Sardinia's natural beauty was difficult to surpass. Only two kilometers farther, we found a secluded spot. Quickly assembling the tent behind dense scrub, we hastened to the edge of the sea and reclined on matching Flintstone La-Z-Boys to drink in the last remnants of sunset. On a nearby tip of land, the rapidly sinking sun silhouetted an ancient Aragonese watchtower. |
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