|
Houston: We Have Liftoff
I survived the night. In the morning, I rose as early as was decent, thanked our hosts for their delightful hospitality, and hit the road before they could make us eat more cake. The weather was still windy, but the sky had cleared. We were determined to see what the church looked like when it wasn't shrouded in a layer of mist and fog, so we retraced the roads Mr. Tubby had driven us over the day before. Rather than shooting the shepherds we passed however, we waved to them instead. And they waved back, big smiles on their faces. We started down the edge of an escarpment, braking hard to negotiate hairpin corners that - without benefit of guardrails- held spine-tingling views into the valley far below. We arrived at the Santa Trinità church just before lunch, and leaned our bicycles against the courtyard wall; our mode of travel fairly shouted, "Tourist!" I admit, after listening to Mr. Tubby's anti-shepherd propaganda, I was pretty surprised that by the time we finished our lunch, no shepherds had raped, murdered, or molested us - even though Mr. Tubby and his tiny gods weren't there to protect us. We scavenged a few nuts from the tangled grass beneath the courtyard's almond trees, and opened them the way Mr. Tubby had taught us - by whacking them with a rock. After our dessert, we headed towards the mountain village of Tempio. We had told Mr. Tubby that we were interested in seeing a Sartiglia, and he had raved that Tempio's festival was by far the island's best. When we arrived in Ozieri, a mountain town en route, later that afternoon however, the good folks there gave Tempio's festival a unanimous thumbs-down second opinion. "It more resembles a Rio de Janeiro carnival than a traditional Sardinian Sartiglia," they informed us. We weren't at all interested in that type of carnival, and wondered why Mr. Tubby had so highly recommended it. Maybe it was all that exposed flesh?? The Ozieri townsfolk instead confirmed Francesco's assessment that Oristano's Sartiglia was the island's premier event. Sharon and I reconsidered our information and concluded that Oristano was the event for us. But the Oristano Sartiglia wasn't scheduled until the following weekend. That left us with a full week to explore. "Do we have time to see the Giant's Grave at Arzachena?" I asked. Sharon did a quick map calculation. "I think we can make it there and be back in Oristano in time for the Sartiglia," Sharon figured. As we pedalled away from Ozieri towards a brutal zigzag climb into the Limbara mountains, I was already anticipating Oristano's Sartiglia and its daredevil stunt riding. The brilliant mountain scenery did little to distract me from the fire that burned in my calves and smoldered all the way up and into my thighs. By early evening - near exhaustion from the continuous climb - we attained the apex. Fortunately, a strong wind assisted us, and pushed us along the barren ridge. The only problem was: where were we going to find a sheltered spot for the night? "Don't worry," Sharon said. "We always find something." She was right. In the rapidly failing light, in the middle of nowhere, we lucked upon a small building. I peered through a window and saw some type of log book on the table. "I wonder if this is a forest fire lookout in the summer?" It certainly fit the description, built as it was, dangling over a cliff and commanding a panoramic view of forested valleys below. "I guess they won't mind if we spend the night here," I said. A small wooden deck, slightly larger than our tent, was attached to the side of the cabin. We pitched our tent on it - as close to the building as possible to shield us from the raging wind. I hung onto the tent to keep it from being ripped away into the valley hundreds of meters below while Sharon hurriedly tossed in our sleeping bags and supper fixings, then dove in to help weight it down. "I hope we're heavy enough," I said. As magnificent as the valley scenery was, I had no desire to become one with it. "Quick. Eat some food," Sharon suggested in a jesting bid to put on some extra weight. The building sheltered us from the wind's direct onslaught, but occasionally a savage gust erupted from around the corner and battered our poor tent like some rogue galleon on a stormy sea. "This is really interesting," Sharon said as she watched the tent oscillate violently; one second threatening to implode, and the next as though it were about to take off into the wild blue yonder. "I hope we're not going to have liftoff," I said as I stared at the wildly cavorting fabric. Even so, it sure beat the hell out of sleeping at Mr. Tubby's. |
Book Info