|
Back in Fordongianus
We tolerated the night by shoving in a couple of ear plugs each. Being totally exhausted helped too, of course. We probably could have caught a few winks even if World War III had broken out. The wind raged unabated all night and in the morning it continued at a feverish pitch. Where did it all come from? How long could it last? My dislike of headwinds was growing stronger with each passing minute. What really confounded me was that during the past week we had encountered our worst island weather since arriving. Strong winds and stormy skies contributed to the gloom, and the air temperature was colder than when we landed in January. We found the best way to keep warm was to keep pedalling. We rode nonstop until we reached Lake Omodeo where we found a sheltered nook and scarfed down a quick lunch before heading back out onto the road. A couple of kilometers past our lunch stop, we approached a compact car parked on the side of the road. The driver got out and popped open the hatchback. It was stuffed with sheep! As we drew alongside, he began to unload them. "He must have taken them for one of those sheep drives we keep hearing about," Sharon laughed. "Yep," I agreed. "I imagine a cattle drive would require a much larger vehicle, eh?" After a long day in the saddle, we arrived back in Fordongianus - our favourite Roman-bath town (unfortunately, it was too cold to risk removing any clothes). Fordongianus was a fair-sized town, but it was very different from a similar-sized North American town. For one thing, there was virtually no traffic - that was, if one didn't count the old guy riding up the hill on a mule, or the herd of sheep grazing in the roadside ditch. We found a secluded grove overlooking the town and set up our tent. In the dim light, I discerned the hunched figures of Moroccan women still at work scrubbing clothes at the hot pools like there was no tomorrow. Their gentle laughter carried up the hillside to us. I retired inside our tent. Cocooned in my sleeping bag, I listened to the night sounds rising from the community below. An owl hooted. Pigs squealed. Dogs bayed. Groups of townsfolk, their melodic voices floating in the still air, chatted amiably while they filled water containers at the community fountain. It suddenly struck me: it was calm! The horrendous wind had finally blown itself out. |
Book Info