By George, He’s Got It.
A sunrise arrival in Porte Torre
welcomes us to the North West tip of Sardinia. The warm air is a pleasant early
morning surprise at 8am and so are the colourful shrubs that lie between the
mountain road and the brightest blue sea. I am in art-palette heaven: pink,
blue, lime green and purple set against a backdrop of red and grey rocks. B
concentrates on the curving pass that takes us into Alghero. En route we notice
pink-painted bicycle statues planted at gateposts and round-abouts. We pass
natural arrangements of cacti, aloe, bottle brush and eucalyptus. It’s so like
home (South Africa) we feel a wave of relaxation take over. This is good. This
is what ‘motorcycle backpacking’ is all about.
Sardinia boasts a large
concentration of people over 100 years of age. It must be the beautiful
surroundings. Alghero has embraced this achievement by exhibiting huge
photographs on their street walls of these centenarians. The photographs show
these amazing people doing various activities, even cycling. I am intrigued and
whilst B enjoys a coffee and does bike-guard duty , I venture off by foot along
the narrow stony streets doing a bit of photograph spotting. It strikes me that
I might not find B and the bike again as I wind my way around this lovely town,
complete with an enchanting display of pink washing strung across an alleyway.
An hour later, when I get back to the town square and see the Mediterranean on
my left, I spot the bike route we took to enter the town. I took short walk
down another alley and there he was, getting a bit worried. Note to self: it’s
very easy to get lost in these old towns, so in future when I wander off, I
must take the GPS and mark the begin/end point, and a time limit.
Continuing on in a Southerly
direction we keep the mountains on our left and the sea on our right, riding on
good roads around one curve after another. We stop off and inspect a few
campsites, which we find disappointing. Their facilities are more suited to
camper vans. For tent camping, they
offer sloping ground, sand and pine needles and allocated spaces that are far
away from the ablutions, really not suitable at all. It’s a glorious day; we had an early start
and are happy to keep riding until we find a suitable campground. Halfway down
Sardinia on the West coast we find what we are looking for: a level campsite,
ground good enough to knock pegs into and sheltered from the intense wind coming
off the sea that has blown us about a bit. There is no-one at reception until 4pm, but
instructions are posted on the door to find a site and report back at 6pm. We
spot another biker with tent and ride up. George is very welcoming and is happy
for us to be neighbours. George is a veteran of Round-the-World by motorbike,
having circumnavigated the globe 5 times as illustrated on his hard panniers. He watches as we struggle to put up the 4 x 4
metre tarpaulin in the relentless wind. We tie it to trees, we fix the poles
with guy ropes and tent pegs into the sandy earth, we raise one side against
the wind, we do more combinations and angles ever dreamt of to get it to stay
up and eventually even with Georges help we abandon the ta idea and pack it
away. George tells us that he can put up his tarpaulin single-handed. Next we
haul out the tent and quick as a flash I put it up, unpack bedding, lay out
bike gear, whilst B organises the ‘kitchen’ on a handy bench arrangement
nearby. George shows us his tent, his bedding , his tent pegs , his kitchen and
cooking facilities and offers a multitude of advice and tips on ways we could
do better. Certainly helpful, and certainly demoralising. We were quite happy
with our lot before we met George. Any way we have stored and written and
photographed all that George had and
will use his expert information another time.
No Route is planned, but we aim
to get to the southern tip of Sardinia, catch a ferry and go to Sicily. Except
the that the ferry to Sicily is 5 days away, Sardinia is too small to occupy us
for that long and George who spent 8 days there the week before says the roads
are very slippery.
Forget Sicily then.
We head east across the
mountainous range that fills the middle of Sardinia, twisting and turning, up, up,
up with fabulous vistas and down, down, down into villages and valleys. We stop
to watch a Patrimonie festival in Allai, where the tractors are decorated with
an abundance of flowers, ribbons and lace cloths to match the town folk as they
walk in procession through the pebbled streets.
Their devoutness and simplicity
is reflected in a beautiful painting of three old men sitting on the pavement
contemplating/praying/mourning whilst being watched over by a female in black.
A bit too sad on such a lovely sunny day, so we ride on.
We stop in Teodora for a beer and chips where a 60year old Wisteria provides a vast canopy of shade. Its hot here. The lunchtime entertainment is provided by a smartly dressed man in a blue linen suit on his mobile phone. The earplugs are in and with one hand holding the phone he gesticulates enthusiastically with the other. The one-sided conversation goes on and on, the hand movements get wilder and wilder, the pacing up and down the street gets more vigorous. And now he’s using both hands and big arm movements to get his point of view across. It’s not even a video call. We leave and he’s still at it.
Now the plan is to catch the ferry to Civitivechhia (aka Rome) from the north eastern point at Olba. The wind is pushing us around rather a lot as we ride northwards so it’s a relief to get to the port, buy the ticket and wait for the ferry.
This crossing costs 157 euros and the one to Sardinia from Marseille was 132 euros. For just under 300 euros we can get to Rome. Our original question was “I s it cheaper to ride to Rome or to go by ferry? “ Its taken 3 days riding, 2 nights on ferries, one night camping : total cost for fuel camp and ferry about cost 350 euros. Our budgeted allowance is up 50 euros per day, so the cost has outweighed the time. Something to bear in mind as well as all the future purchases we need to make. By George, he’s got it.
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