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Wet Shepherds
We awoke to pattering rain; the other side of the window pane pictured a sodden gray world. When we descended from the loft, Luigi invited us to stay another day. And we would have. But, even though the weather was uglier than a baby whose parents had to tie a pork chop around his neck so the dog would play with him, Sharon stated an emphatic, "No!" I noticed her voice held no trace of a giggle. Luigi had brought it upon himself by being Mr. Hands. Obviously, he was a lonely soul and would have enjoyed our company, and we - if he hadn't been such a louse - would have happily accepted his hospitality. But, given his boorish behaviour, wild horses couldn't have prevented Sharon's departure - even if it meant riding in a deluge. Luigi sullenly retrieved our bicycles from the shed. We swung our legs over our aluminum mounts and swiftly spurred away as Luigi stood forlornly on his stoop under a pissing sky. Arrivederci! We found we weren't the only ones silly enough to be out in the chilly windblown rain. Sheep herders were out standing in their fields, wavering in the breeze. As we passed, they lackadaisically raised one arm, then leaned heavily again on their shepherd's crooks. They and their dogs alike looked as miserable as we felt. Wet dogs. Wet wool. Wet shepherds. Ugh. The countryside was awash in pungent odours. "This rain permeated atmosphere certainly produces some interesting olfactory sensations," I said. "You mean it stinks," Sharon replied, somewhat less eloquently. "It's a good thing it doesn't rain here often," she said, holding her nose in disgust. I wrinkled my sniffer in agreement. To our good fortune, the wind had switched one hundred eighty degrees during the night and was pushing us in our intended direction (would wonders never cease?). With our acceptance of Bruno and Iole's fine offer to stay in one of their tourist apartments, we were headed to their residence in Arbatax on the opposite side of the island. The only obstacle that lay between us and them were the massive Gennargentu mountains. I had a feeling I would soon know them intimately. We pedalled into the soaking rain all morning. By early afternoon, cold and tired, we clued in that the leaden sky was determined to leak all day. Ignoring Luigi's dire warnings concerning bloodthirsty banditos and murderous shepherds that frequented mountain forests (just laying in wait to prey upon poor wayward bicycle tourists, no doubt), we decided to call it a day and pulled off the road. While I set up the tent, Sharon kept a lookout for banditos. We weren't worried about shepherds. As far as we were concerned, shepherds had taken a bad rap. Suddenly, a twig snapped ominously nearby. "Do banditos work in the rain?" I queried in mock nervousness. |
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