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January 27 Friday Bicycle touring Italy from a farmer's field near Orroli Sardegna to behind a bush near Orroli Sardinia The wind gusted through the night. We are a bit sheltered by the windbreak trees, but they are leafy and don't do much good. We made hot chocolate with our remaining bottle of water. We pack up our cycling gear as the sun begins to infiltrate our tiny woods. A shepherd and flock of sheep were passing on the road going in the direction we wanted to. Instead of trying to push through and scare them -- the bicycles really throw them for a loop whenever we pass -- don't have a cow, man -- we go back towards a Nuraghe on the corner. The sheep will be gone by the time we are finished looking at it. We pull our fully loaded touring bicycles off on a side road leading to the site and a car stops alongside. After trying to communicate, he indicates to follow him. At first I think he is trying to show us where the ruin is, but shortly we turn off onto a dirt road. I hesitate on the asphalt, not wanting to go who-knows-where or how far. All the while smiling Mr Gold-capped teeth persuades us to keep following. We pass two overturned burned out cars and I wonder if these were the last people to follow him. We jostle along on our fully loaded touring bicycles over rocks and around mud holes. At least we are with the wind. Shortly, he pulls up to a cinder block abode and says "Casa." A quiet German Shepherd is outside the tiny cluttered junky grassless fenced off area by the door. Across the road a bunch of Sprite-armed scarecrows guard the garden plot. He shows us through the gate. Inside the unlit interior a fire of small sticks glows in the hearth. My adjusting eyes make out the figures of three old men huddled around the fireplace. Our host says something to them. The only word I make out is "Canada." They snuggle two white plastic lawn chairs in front of the fire and encourage us to sit down to warm up. I have my front bag over my shoulder and one old guy points to it and pulls a coin from his pocket. Does he want me to pay him? Am I going to be robbed? I say no and he doesn't say anymore. We sit there a while all smiling at one another trying to say a few words along with pantomimes and our phrase book. We find out Louie is a shepherd with 300 sheep. The others don't say what they do, but they are all shepherds too by the look and smell of them. One fellow is 64. Another's married with two kids. Louie says he has to go out to work. I quickly ask if I can take their picture. Sure. We all troop outside into the wind. The chicken coop adjoins the main yard and the 64 year old grabs a turkey to hold. All the men in Sardinia are short -- shorter than the women. Supposedly 9 out of 10 jockeys in Italy are from Sardegna. I can see why -- none are over five feet tall and all are very slender. We return to the cinder block cell measuring 12 feet by 8 feet. A table is on one side, a tiny freezer (I'm not even sure there is electricity), a calendar, and the fireplace. A gala size flask of wine sits on the floor. I am poured a full plastic tumbler of the vile stuff. After choking down half the glass of battery acid I set it on the freezer behind me. They take out a huge ring of cured sausage and hang it on a nail in the fireplace to warm. A block of severely blue moldy cheese sits on the table. One fellow picks up a basket of eggs and asks if we want some. We feign fullness and tell them we just ate at 9. This seems to be an opportune time to depart. The third old fella downs the wine I had set on the freezer -- this is no sipping wine -- and immediately pours me another full glass from what appears to be a bottomless sized keg. Somehow I manage to refuse it without insulting him. We get outside in the roaring wind, jump on our fully loaded touring bicycles and amazingly make it up the incline out of the yard and we are free. Straight into a horrendous wind. At the main road the wind hits us from the side and in a few pedal strokes I get blown over into the ditch. We dismount and are barely able to push our bikes along the road. In a sheltered area we are able to remount our fully loaded touring bicycles. In a short distance I am nearly tossed over a guard rail on a downhill. A couple of kilometres farther we saw this as ridiculous and call it quits. We head for shelter behind a large bush. I look up into the sky and notice that the clouds aren't moving. |
