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Star Gazing
The day was tailor-made for cycling: sunny, no wind, and best of all, minimal traffic. Adding to our enjoyment, the route dipped and doodled along the rugged coast, a fresh vista leaping forth around every corner with the sun's rays flashing off the sea, like tiny winking prismatic diamonds. We rounded a bend and came face-to-horn with a herd of frisky sheep. They charged towards us, surprising us more than we surprised them. They certainly weren't the usual timid variety. In fact, they weren't disturbed by us in the least. A pair of German Shepherds brought up the rear, while the herder, in a pickup, followed behind. I soon realized why he had chosen to be in a vehicle. It was for his safety! Not only did the shaggy sheep jump on one another in an unfriendly manner, but they also aggressively attacked the dogs, rearing up and pawing at them with their front hooves! They were the worse behaved mutton we had encountered. We got well off the road and managed to evade their rambunctiousness. After they had passed, we continued on our way, dodging and weaving around their prodigious doo-doo. We were heading for Teulada. We had noticed a thin blue line on our map marking a river and thought it would make a fine lunch spot. Unfortunately, when we arrived, there was not one drop of water to be seen. With the island's prolonged drought (and so many of Sardinia's rivers diverted into aqueducts to farming areas), most of the natural courses were bone dry. In Teulada's case, it must have been dry for some time: giant prickly pear cacti populated the bank, and gnarled branchless trees loomed from the riverbed like tombstones. "The government could have saved a lot of money by not constructing bridges," I said, surveying the arid path from the bridge deck. "And cartographers could have saved a lot of blue ink by marking the rivers with a brown line," Sharon noted dryly. After a long lunch beside the waterless channel, we persevered on the tortuous up and down route until we stopped to buy food in the mountain village of Sa Arresi. Our stop should have been quick: we only needed a few groceries. However, purchasing our simple list entailed visiting three different stores! And I had thought it bad enough when I had to go to three separate counters. Maybe it was their way of spreading the liras around? At the first store, I bought bread and pasta. Next door, I picked up fruit. Then, crossing the street to a third store, I procured ham and cheese. We threw everything into our panniers and headed off into the growing darkness. On Sa Arresi's outskirts, we pulled to a stop. Down below we could see fields of flat farmland. "Oh, oh," Sharon said, observing the tableland below. "It won't be easy finding a campsite down there." We knew from experience that on Sardinia flat terrain meant open fields with few spots for us to hide ourselves from curious eyes. "Maybe we'll have better luck finding a camp spot in the hills behind us." The first road we followed into the hills dead-ended at a house. We backtracked, and struck off in a new direction. "There's a trail!" Sharon said suddenly as she spied a faint path going off into the woods. We stopped and glanced around to see if we were being observed. Seeing no one, we stealthily ducked into the trees and pushed our bikes up a mildly sloping trail to a flat rock clearing. "This is what I call a low-maintenance site," Sharon said, as she unbundled our bed rolls and dropped them onto the indelible surface. "Good thing we bought a freestanding tent." While I set up the freestanding Kelty, Sharon extracted the one-burner stove from her front pannier and busied herself cooking two types of fresh pasta. Then she made a sauce of tuna, peas, and soft cheese. We spread it over the potato gnocchi. Delicious! I have to confess that when I first saw gnocchi in the store, I thought it was too pricey for a bit of dough and potato. But, tired of the other pastas, I picked up a package of gnocchi and they instantly became my favourite. The little potato balls reminded me of tiny dumplings. I hungrily wolfed them down, then moved on to our second course: stewed tomatoes in tomato sauce with spicy ravioli. Yum! "I love to eat," I said, and contentedly rubbed my belly. Dessert was a kilo of oranges each. Before hitting the hay (or rock in our case), I sat in the darkness, watching the night sky for falling stars, while sipping a second mug of hot chocolate. After having the good luck to see two zipping meteorites streak across the vast blackness overhead, I wearily stumbled into my sleeping bag and fell asleep almost instantly. One would think someone as intelligent as myself would learn not to drink so much fluid before bedtime. But they would be wrong. In the middle of the night, my diminutive bladder roused me. In a sleepy daze, I vowed that next time I would buy a larger one. Still half-asleep, I exited the tent, and found a likely spot (downhill from the tent). While whizzing, I gazed heavenwards. The bright array of stars overhead held me spellbound. It was truly an amazing exhibition. I craned my neck backwards, and, pleased with my astuteness, located the Big Dipper. I had a generous view of the constellation. Unfortunately, with my awkward stance, I lost my balance. I glanced down quickly. No problem. I'll just lean on this rock. I put out a hand to steady myself against the waist-high rock. But, it wasn't a rock at all. It was a rock-shaped bush. In starlight, they all look alike. Dang! The first drop was the hardest. I went down face-first, skinning my baby finger in the process. But I had to give that bush credit - it kept me from totally face-planting the rocky ground. I must have been quite the spectacle: sprawled face-first, feet completely off the ground, balanced on top of a fragrant shrub, pants down around my knees. Look Ma, no hands. I thanked my lucky stars that the bush I had chosen to be intimate with wasn't thorny. But still, it wasn't quite what I had in mind when I said I wanted to get more in touch with nature. Although, I had to admit, once I was down there it wasn't all that bad. Now if only I could figure out an eloquent way to zip my fly. |
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