Category Archives: Sardinia
Su Nuraghe, Sardinia
Picture the scene: it’s late morning at Sardinia’s Cagliari Elmas airport. Monsieur and I have been awake since dawn but haven’t had time for breakfast. The low-cost airline has high-cost sandwiches which we avoid, mostly because they already look curled and cardboardy, and the coffee looks like something that might spurt out of a long-disused farmhouse tap. Monsieur and I are not the types to eat for the sake of it so we wave the snacks trolley past. Besides, we figure that abstinence now will soon enough be rewarded when we lunch on some fine Italian food.
As the aircraft doors opened to a rush of warm, Sardinian air, Monsieur and I were raring to go. That morning, we’d left the spring morning chill of Luton to fly into the deep blue hanging above this craggy isle. We decided to forget hotels for now; they’re for sleeping. Our feet had different priorities: they were itching to reach sand and saltwater.
First, we picked up the hire car, which wasn’t the convertible Monsieur had booked - the previous renter had decided to abscond with it for an extra day and there weren’t any others available. We might have been miffed, but for two things: 1. only the most unreasonable of folk wouldn’t get the temptation to Just Stay One More Day - Sardinian weather in May is glorious; and 2. the alternative on offer was a brand new Fiat 500. Personally, I preferred it to the convertible; it had iconic value and would protect me from being flattened by wind and bugs as Monsieur zoomed along the autostrade.
We sped away from the airport, past mud flats studded with the pale pink of flamingo, to the southern Sardinian coast. There, the road led us to a small town near the beach – formed of clusters of small, stuccoed buildings radiating out from a modern piazza. Everything testified to sensitive yet sensible town-planning, the shops and eateries all freshly painted in the sort of ice cream pastels that made me long for a gelato to drip down my hand. For that, however, I would have to wait a little longer.
On opening the doors of our little ‘bambino’, the heat rushed at us like a blast from the oven. It was more than just warm – you could easily have fried a couple of eggs in less than a minute on the scorching asphalt street. Feeling the sting of the sun on our winter-bleached skin, we sought out somewhere shady to lunch, settling on a buffet restaurant called Su Nuraghe. The restaurant is named after the strange megalithic buildings (nuraghe) that look like stone beehives, marking the Sardinian landscape and now quite the unofficial symbol of Sardinia itself. We found a table in the shade, then ventured inside to order. The interior was cool and practical -sparkling laminate floor, glass and chrome counters, simple tables and chairs. There were no grubby fingernails here.
We ordered lots of good, sparkling Sardinian water and plates of seafood salad to start.
Mussels and crabsticks made an appearance in this simple dish, but fortunately for this lover of octopodes, there was a surfeit of eight-legged sea creature before me. I do so relish the cool, fresh flesh of an octopus, served in the merest drizzle of olive oil and lemon juice.
Next came plates of one of Italy’s simplest seaside pasta dishes – spaghetti tossed with olive oil and fresh sea urchin. The precious orange roe had a delightfully slippery texture and tasted like Neptune’s version of marshmallow – capturing all at once the taste of sea air on the tongue and combining it with a unique, briney sweetness. This was exactly the sort of food Monsieur and I had anticipated. Our morning’s patience had certainly been rewarded.
Before heading off to the beach, we stopped at a gelateria for a refreshing treat. I was interested to note the existence of soya milk-based gelato on their menu, which is a boon for anyone with lactose intolerance! Tempted though I was to taste-test it, today I stuck to my favourite flavours: cocco, stracciatella e banana. I’ll never be size zero at this rate and, in this world of superficiality, I admit that such a thing doesn’t even approach making it onto my bucket list. Truth be told, I’m probably not the norm in this respect. I’d much rather meet my Maker with a stomachful of flavour and the memory of a good old slap-up lunch than arrive at the Pearly Gates regretting the fact that diet coke and a lettuce leaf (hold the dressing) had been my death row meal. As Fellini once put it: “Life is a combination of magic and pasta,” and if you could add the freshest seafood salad and quality gelato to that combination, you’d have a lunch that I’d be happy to enjoy as my last.
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Porto Rotondo, Sardinia
In early May, the Sardinian summer season is slowly kicking off. The atmosphere’s halcyon, the sky cerulean, the waters clear and flowers exploding with colour everywhere you look, yet the tourist hordes have yet to land. It’s paradise.
One typically fine morning, Monsieur and I drove to Porto Rotondo, a village with impressive marina just south of the Emerald Coast in Sardinia’s north-west. It’s by no means ancient; farmers and fisherman inhabited the locale until prominent architect, Luigi Vietti arrived to design the village in the 1960s. He and his team of developers set to work, building hotels and apartments, boutiques and moorings and all the amenities a wealthy holidaymaker might demand. Love him or hate him, Silvio Berlusconi likes it here; he has a holiday home on the cliffs above the town. (If you’re into a bit of Silvio-spotting, I’ve heard it’s the one with several carabinieri cars permanently parked at the gate.)
Porto Rotondo is a curious place. It has a slick, artificial feel to it, with the tangible yet conflicting element of deep relaxation. The people don’t walk, they amble, whilst smiling in a slow, easy way. The streets are cobbled and inlaid with modern mosaic patterns, the church of San Lorenzo (patron saint of cooks) resembles an overturned hull and there’s a granite amphitheatre for the entertainment of culture vultures. The marina is a tribute to luxury pleasure boats, filled with every type of exclusive vessel imaginable, from fat, white gin palaces to wood-panelled speed boats and tall, classic schooners. Boat brokers are two-a-penny here and you can see why. There’s plenty of business to be had.
When I remember our visits to Porto Rotondo, it’s the perfect breakfasts that come to mind. Monsieur and I discovered a quiet, traditional eatery overlooking a quiet section of the marina, and there we’d sit of a morning, the tranquillity seeping into our souls.
The owners of the Bar-Gelateria del Molo have proudly hung the date of its establishment above the doorway: 1950. They’re evidently proud to have been here before Signor Vietti; quite possibly they fed and watered him as the village grew into a pleasure port. Our breakfasts there were simple – perfect shots of Italian espresso, hot and creamy with a proper Continental kick, tall, cool glasses of freshly-squeezed orange juice and soft, buttery croissants to start the day. At €10.00 a head for this simple breakfast, you might argue that it’s not great value, but Monsieur and I would disagree. The location is unbeatable, the staff welcoming, the views spectacular. The memory makes my heart slow in the most calming of ways.
Endearingly, outside the Bar-Gelateria del Molo is parked a tiny Italian delivery buggy of bright buffed red. In a wink to days of yore, there’s a wicker basket strapped to the back. I hope it’s tasked with carrying picnics to seaward-bound gin palaces, for it would be a complete waste to stay at home and order delivery food in Porto Rotondo, when you could so easily wander down to this refreshingly unpretentious bar with the perfect view. The del Molo certainly provides the quintessential Italian breakfast of quality, but I imagine it’s equally glorious for a cocktail at sunset, or a wicked lick of stracciatella on a hot afternoon.
Sitting here in the grey of January in London, the simple act of recalling breakfasts at the Bar-Gelateria del Molo warms me through. If that isn’t a glowing reference for an eatery, I don’t know what is. So, promise me, please, that if you find yourself in Sardinia one early May, you’ll make your way to Porto Rotondo and, even if it’s just the once, you owe it to yourself to breakfast by the marina. For the oft-harassed escapee from the hamster wheel of the Western World, this is a tonic not to be missed.
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A Lipsmacking Lisbon Breakfast
Hotel breakfasts too often cost a fortune for what is rarely a feast. Knowing this and preferring to experience breakfast the local way, Monsieur and I ventured out in search of a good place to eat on our first morning in Lisbon. Walking down the Avenida da Liberdade we looked into various options. There was an interesting-looking bar/wagon with one large shutter open to allow its customers to drink their coffee on their feet, as they chatted with the baristas. Across the Avenida was a Hard Rock Café. It was already open but burgers for breakfast? Not for us. Then we came to the post office, which had a café inside it, but when we investigated further, it felt too sterile and devoid of both patrons and atmosphere, so we walked on.
A little further towards the end of the Avenida’s square, the Praça dos Restauradores with a large obelisk commemorating Portugal’s emancipation from Spain in 1640 at its centre, we found a modest little cafe with a small terrace facing the Praça. Inside, we made a comical attempt to order coffee, juice and pastries in Portuguese. (That is, comical from the perspective of the Portuguese people around us. It was one of those awkward burning face moments for us. Portuguese is HARD.) The man serving us waited until we’d finished ruining the pronunciation of his mother tongue, before repeating our order in perfect English. He was so indulgent and polite about it that I could have kissed him.
Outside it wasn’t cold but it wasn’t particularly warm and a grey sky threatened rain. For the moment, however, we could sit quite happily and enjoy our breakfast of short, syrupy coffee, just the way I like it, with freshly squeezed orange juice and one of the most evil doughnutty pastries I’ve eaten in a long, long while. Under the glass counter there had been about a dozen varieties of breakfast pastries and with the lack of language distracting me, I just pointed randomly at the same one that Monsieur had chosen. Now it was about to give me an entire week’s worth of calorie allowance at one sitting. A big puff filled with creamy, sweet custard the colour of the brightest egg yolk is what it was. This pastry was imbued with all the wickedness of forbidden fruit. (On the Forbidden Fruit Top Five it’s only second to the Sardinian pastry I scoffed in Cagliari last May – filled with light chocolate cream and chunky chocolate chips.) Believe it or not, the Forbidden Fruit pastry was not too sweet, not too dense, the shell itself was light and deflated with each satisfying bite, and the custard was just the right balance of velvet and sweetness without approaching anything sickly. Oh yes, just writing about it has brought on the dreamy daze of a sugar overdose.
And so, before I take you to see Lisbon’s salt cod merchants or to edge along dangerous castle ramparts or to ride on a banana yellow cable car, or to show you what we had for lunch that day, perhaps you’ll share with me what rates highest on your Forbidden Fruit Top Five? Leave a comment below and let’s SALIVATE together.
Eating the dream at Peter Pan Gelateria, Nuoro
Monsieur and I had been driving for most of the day, leaving Cagliari early so we could see some of Sardinia’s west coast and central areas before arriving in Porto Cervo. Our guidebooks recommended a break in Nuoro (also pronounced ‘Nugoro’ in Sardinian). One of the island’s literary greats, Grazia Deledda, was born and lived there once upon a time and the town is touted as a cultural centre of significance, but navigating our way off the autostrada into Nuoro proved problematic.
You’d think a ‘literary’ centre would take care with its signage. Not in Nuoro. Flying blind in an attempt to follow contradictory signs with only a near-useless guidebook map to aid us, we somehow found ourselves parking next to the Cathedral. By this point our bums were quite numb with all that sitting so we were keen to stretch our legs.
The late afternoon sun stung our skin, taking us by surprise as we stepped out of the air-conditioned car. Surely the sun should have been losing its strength by now. Immediately hot and parched from all the driving we wandered through an ancient archway, down a little street to a large, empty piazza. Turning right we stopped at a bar, sheltering in the shade as we greedily glugged on icy Peronis. They weren’t enough to quench our thirst, however. Gelato would be required for that and as fate would have it, there at the foot of the street leading back to the Cathedral sat a conveniently-placed ice cream shop called Peter Pan Gelateria, so in we went.
When you’re as fussy as I am about gelato, it’s easy to tell how it will taste well before it enters the mouth. There’s the texture of the scoop – which should be creamy and pliable, not rigid and over-frozen. There’s the selection – avoid the freezers with only two or three flavours; those purveyors of gelato don’t care enough about it to replenish the empty tubs. Look also for a selection that has not only the predictable vanillas, chocolates and strawberries, but the less usual flavours like pistachio, tutti frutti, cassata and caramel-rich rafaele. Price is always a key factor: more than €5.00 for a cup of three scoops is daylight robbery, too often demanded for mediocre gelato near tourist traps. Less than €4.00 for a three-scoop cup overflowing with a surplus of generosity and creamy goodness in a tourist-free zone is well worth the money. Peter Pan asked a modest €3.00 for three huge scoops of PERFECT gelato. It felt as if we were robbing them.
Savouring our gelati on benches in the Cathedral garden, we licked the drips from now-sticky fingers, keen not to waste a single drop. My cup, filled with cocco, stracciatella and pistachio, disappeared too quickly. I frowned at the empty container.
“Don’t worry, darling,” soothed Monsieur, “we’ll stop by Peter Pan on the way back to Cagliari.”
You just about have to be Houdini to get out of Nuoro without a proper map of the place. It’s a tangle of roads to nowhere. Following those lying street signs we went up a hill, down the other side, found dead ends in all directions, stray dogs enjoying their lone adventures and streets named after Freud and Pablo Neruda. Some time later we fell upon a road that led us back to the autostrada. With sighs of relief we were off again.
As good as his word, Monsieur took me back to Nuoro some days later for another Peter Pan treat. This time getting into town was easy as we’d come off the autostrada an exit too early, following the twist of a country road up, up, up to the hilltop town and in through the back door. This time we found the cathedral quickly, parking there once more and walking down through the arch to the Peter Pan Gelateria. But man cannot lunch on gelato alone, although I know one woman who’d be keen to try. We went in search of pre-treat savoury sustenance.
Once more, it was hot, perhaps too hot for cooking because we couldn’t find a single restaurant that was open, and this time there wasn’t the excuse of it being the day of worship. The bars were mostly uninspiring, the domain of the greying male, their terraces hazy with smoke through which you could just about make out the old men of the town.
Even this newsstand was closed, presumably for a home-cooked lunch and heat-busting siesta.
Even the Devil’s Own Pizzeria took the afternoon off. If you can’t take the heat, get out of Hell’s Kitchen I suppose.
These looked good. We considered going back for a takeaway panini bag if we didn’t find anywhere else. By now I was feeling dizzy. The heat combined with a lack of food made me want to crumple in a heap on the cobbled streets. I’ve heard of spontaneous combustion, but this felt more like potential human evaporation.
A giant stopwatch outside this jewellery shop caught our eye. It, too, was on strike in protest at the heat; it simply refused to tick tock and tell the correct time.
Eventually we settled for lunch at this quiet bar just around the corner from the Peter Pan Gelateria which was our main reason for returning to Nuoro.
We were so thirsty that the cokes disappeared in seconds and the water wasn’t far behind. For once, food was secondary.
The menu wasn’t much to write home about but we were too hungry to fuss now.
The pizza came fresh from a freezer box and the pasta had been microwaved with a sauce from a jar. Never mind. Peter Pan would be next on the list and a cup of their divine wares should more than make up for a lack of gourmet flair here.
But it was closed. We stared at the opening times in disbelief. The Peter Pan people were out for their own lunch. Ah. We’d forgotten that they, too, might need a break. Heads hanging low with disappointment, we were about to turn away when we heard a yell: “Arrivo! Arrivo!”. In seconds the owner was there, opening the Peter Pan Gelateria especially for us. At that moment, the Peter Pan Gelateria became my favourite gelateria in the entire world.
We chose our flavours: limone, vaniglia, cioccolata for Monsieur, stracciatella, cocco, rafaele’s caramel ripple for me. I thanked the owner profusely, explaining that his gelato was our main reason for stopping in Nuoro today. He waved away our thanks with the humble manner of a man who knows how magnetic his product is. Our pilgrimage did not surprise him in the least.
And once more we took our cups to the cathedral garden, slurping our spoonfuls of creamy deliciousness on benches in the shade of the trees.
I wanted to go inside to light a candle of thanks for the beauty of Sardinia, a safe trip, friends and family and the simple pleasure of perfect gelato, but the church doors were locked tight. The priest was away.
It would seem that even Sardinia’s men of the cloth are not immune to its blistering summer days. No matter. I just wonder how often Don Floris enjoys a treat from the gelateria at the foot of his cathedral’s hill. As for this pair of hungry travellers, we were just grateful to have found the hidden treasure of Nuoro, which we were fortunate enough to have enjoyed twice in one week. Now all we had to do was find that elusive autostrada and get back to Cagliari. Easier said than done.
The Good, the Bad and the Tasty
It was a gloriously sunny Sunday in Sardinia and we were leaving town. Arrivederci, Cagliari! Monsieur and I would be in the car for the day, driving up to the Costa Smeralda, or Emerald Coast, where we’d be spending the bulk of our week-long break.
On the map, it looks as if you should be able to drive straight up the east coast to the Costa Smeralda, but the east coast roads aren’t made for comfort so we decided to stick to the main autostrada which zig-zags out of Cagliari to the west coast before traversing the island to its upper eastern tip. The plan was to lunch at Oristano, a small west coast town not far from the coast. I’d read good things about a little restaurant there called Il Faro, famed for its traditional Sardinian cuisine. And so we detoured away from the autostrada, entering an Oristano that was quieter than most ghost towns. We’d forgotten that Sundays are still sacred in this part of the world. Apart from a clutch of old men sipping drinks outside a lone open bar, Oristano was closed for business. In denial, we followed the signs to Il Faro, leading us in conflicting directions until we finally located it, shutters firmly closed. We left Oristano with empty stomachs, following a coastal road north.
This unplanned route was a blessing in disguise. The views of unspoilt coastline against a deep blue sky and turquoise waters brought wide smiles to our faces, still pasty from a sunless winter. Passing the occasional restaurant perched on clifftops with unsurpassable views, we realised that we too would eat, so we stopped at S. Caterina di Pittinuri. Pulling into a modest parking area next to a restaurant advertising a menu turistico, Monsieur and I were set for one of the best (and worst) lunches of our time in Sardinia. The restaurant’s name, for future reference, was La Scogliera.
The entrance was certainly unprepossing, but this was of little concern to those possessed by thoughts of lunch.
The menu looked reasonable, with plenty of seafood to tempt us, but the true surprise was the terraced eating area.
There were plenty of free tables, just waiting for hungry patrons such as ourselves to populate them. The waitress asked where we wanted to sit, so I pointed at a quiet table in the shade. “No.” she frowned. “Too far.” In rapid Italian she instructed me to pick a table that was closer to her station, presumably so she didn’t have to exert herself. Might I add that the table we were eventually permitted to take was a mere metre closer to the waitress’s station? This was far from the usual warm welcome so prevalent in the Italian region.
Unfortunately, the surly waitress was not alone in her grump. Everyone we encountered at the restaurant was to be equally unhelpful, unwilling and unhappy. Thank heavens for the view, which was a redeeming feature, as was the food, although not ordering wine or alcohol with our lunch earned us another filthy look. But let’s face it: who cares about grumpy staff when the seafood salad tastes as if it were caught mere minutes before being tossed in extra virgin olive oil with lemon juice that tastes of the sun and landing on a plate for none other than YOU?
Just as we tucked into our plates of Neptune’s deliciousness, a party of four walked through the terrace, seating themselves at the very table at which we’d wanted to sit. Apparently, the waitresses weren’t too fussed about THEM being too far from their station. I began to wonder if they just had it in for anglo-saxon and French tourists attempting to speak Italian. Granted, I can’t recite passages from Dante’s works, but I can definitely communicate in Italian and so far at this restaurant I hadn’t found myself too challenged in the foreign language department, but when I saw how the staff reacted to the locals whilst practically spitting at our every request, I realised with sadness that our treatment had something to do with the fact that we Weren’t From Around Here.
The party of four at our preferred table were wise in their ordering. A trolley appeared, on which several platters were placed. A smiling waitress then served a selection from the platters onto each plate. Clever. Meanwhile, Monsieur’s steak had arrived but my lobster was missing in action. I’d ordered lobster catalana, and at the rate it was taking, they must have gone out to catch a fresh crustacean for me. I’m not accustomed to ordering the most expensive thing on the menu, but today I felt like celebrating, hence ordering lobster. Tapping my toes under the table, and now feeling as surly as the waitress, I received a smile from her as she apologised for the delay. Almost an hour after our starter plates had been removed, my lobster made its entrance, just as Monsieur polished off the last of his steak. The lobster was big, fire-engine red and beautiful, served with wedges of fresh tomato and circles of onion beneath a drizzle of olive oil. My heavens, it was so fresh that I started to believe my theory about the staff fishing it out of the sea a short while ago. It was almost worth the wait. Almost. Had it been a lobster thermidor I might have understood, but this type of lobster preparation was so simple that even I could have done it in less time, and that includes catching the thing. But it looked wonderful, so I shared it with Monsieur-of-the-Now-Empty-Plate, so we could compare notes.
When I ventured inside to find the ladies’ room, I noted with disappointment how unhappy everyone looked. The barman frowned, the cashier was slumped on one elbow, the picture of intense boredom and the grandmamma of the restaurant stared at me as if I were a hooker. I can only think that my shorts were not to her taste. Not one waiter or waitress smiled, at least not at me. This place wouldn’t be winning any awards for service soon.
The loos were far from ideal but the owner’s ideals were plain, as seen in the notice below. In this place, what’s good for the goose has nothing to do with the gander. As the ladies’ was in dire need of such basics as a new loo seat and a tap handle, with a fair amount of grime on all surfaces, I can only think that the proprietor might have to wake up to the fact that he’s not a ‘civilized’ person. He also can’t spell in French (‘GENTS’ should read ‘GENS’).
We asked for the bill. It didn’t arrive. Having waited an hour for the lobster, we didn’t want to waste another hour waiting for the opportunity to pay. Taking one last look at the seascape, we went directly to the bar to pay.
I was expecting the bill to be expensive, especially as I’d ordered the lobster, but considering the fact that we hadn’t ordered wine, the total price was a shocker, forming the topic of discussion almost all the way to Nuoro. Had we been ripped off? Should lobster really cost €12.00 per 100 grams? Was that lobster really 400 grams, hence the €48.00 on the bill? It didn’t look like a 400 gram lobster to me, more like 300 grams. Had we, the trusting tourists, been duped? Later in our Sardinian travels we discovered that actually this was a fair price for the region’s five star restaurants to charge for lobster, but at La Scogliera, with its angry atmosphere and peeling paint, it felt like daylight robbery, especially with such unfriendly staff in all directions.
Back in the car park, we surveyed the bay one last time, smiling at the artistic signwriting evident on this particular gate:
And so, back onto the coast road we drove. Our bellies were certainly content but we couldn’t wait to get away from La Scogliera’s unhappy, unfriendly, unwilling, unhelpful staff. Never again in Sardinia did we come across such crotchety folk. Thankfully, this bunch were the exception to the rule, but unless you have the skin of a rhino, I’d avoid this place like the plague.
In summary:
THE GOOD POINTS: La Scogliera has wonderful views and the food is fantastic. Should you brave the Grump Bunch, do as we observed others doing and order a selection of dishes to share. You don’t have to order the bank-busting lobster; you can certainly eat lobster at more reasonable prices in the more reasonable establishments of Sardinia. There is a competitive menu turistico and the seafood salad is to die for. Monsieur said the steak was “all right”, although nothing special. My recommendation is that you stick to what La Scogliera does well – seafood.
THE BAD POINTS: Who died? The staff were horrible to us but couldn’t do enough for the local diners. Don’t dare to dine here if you don’t speak Italian. Order wine to avoid further wait-staff disapproval. If you’re female, don’t wear shorts, lest grandmamma’s eyes narrow at the sight of them. Don’t expect to choose your own table and be prepared to wait. And wait. And wait.
Tinnura, Sardinia – Where the walls don’t only have ears…
Sardinia is an island of secrets and quiet beauty, the most precious delights of which are likely to be tucked away from tour bus routes. Driving into the island’s hinterland on a warm May day, Monsieur and I rounded a bend on a country highway to discover one such unexpected treasure: the painted village of Tinnura.
Tinnura’s church lies behind these painted walls,
the priest and members of his congregation immortalised for all to see.
I wondered who this chap with traditional flat cap was:
What tales would he tell us in his mountain dialect?
Are these flowers of gratitude for an answered prayer? Or perhaps this member of Tinnura’s faithful has volunteered her flower arranging skills to the parish.
Even the pedestrian crossing adds colour to this quiet little town, made all the more quiet by the heat of mid-afternoon. Apart from the rare few souls we spotted venturing beyond the shade of their shuttered interiors into the cauldron-like streets, the only population we saw in Tinnura were painted into its walls.
The painter’s brush does not limit its work to celebrating the townsfolk of Tinnura alone; their animals also feature. Here a pair of horses ready themselves for a trot out of their frame and onto the street.
On the side of a house a short walk from the main street, we see the ominous masked faces of players in an ancient Sardinian rite that some say dates back to prehistory. The matador-like man or isohadore looks all set to lasso a friend or woman in the invisible carnival crowd, taking his chosen one prisoner with a rope of plaited reeds. Meanwhile, the mamuthones in hook-nosed masks and shaggy sheepskin cloaks, are the fruit of a union between fire and moon, bearing the weight of cumbersome cow bells on their backs.
No masked beings from the underworld here, though. Life goes on in these walls, simple, daily life. These women are practising the art of basket weaving.
And this trio kneads, shapes and bakes loaves of bread to feed the Tinnurese – an apt scene for Tinnura’s Bread Street or Via del Pane.
But in Tinnura it’s not a case of all work and no play makes Giovanni a dull boy. Oh, no, the Tinnurese tap their feet to the songs of their friend, the accordion player, as one wicked reveller stumbles off with the wine.
This man plays the pipe, not just one but three at at a time.
Here we see that even the painted ladies of Tinnura have shadows.
Behind these folk busying themselves with the day’s chores, an ancient nuraghe sits on a hillside.
If you’re peckish, why not visit Tinnura’s baker? Rest assured, his loaves are never stale.
From this angle, the Wine Thief looks set to trip over the curb, spilling his liquid loot all over unlucky passers by..
This pair of monochrome images look like photos from an agricultural history book. See how they tilled the land?
With a living population of 268, Tinnura’s numbers are swelled by its painted people. Monsieur and I were only there for a fraction of an hour, yet this Sardinian surprise will stay in my visual archive for ever.
