Sardinia: a fair approximation of paradise
I’m in withdrawal. And what I’ve just withdrawn from is the fair approximation of paradise that’s northern Sardinia where I’ve just spent four blissfully music-free days doing some serious lazing around in a resort called Valle dell’Erica. Reduced to words it would sound like a cross between a five-star holiday camp and a discreet gated community for the super-rich. But there were no glamorous grandmother competitions. You didn’t have to be too rich to stay there (though it wasn’t cheap). And its exotic sweep of bougainvillea-fringed paths winding their way through villas, spas and pools to sandy coves with views across to Corsica were better the brochure. So don’t think I’m happy to be back.
But in truth, I wasn’t merely lazing. This was an organised press trip for a travel piece I’m writing later in the year. And though the "organised" element in such things is enough to chill the heart of many a hack, I have to say I rather like it.
Being "organised" has pros and cons, the chief con usually involving fact-filled schedules, information overload, and feeling forced to take an interest in things that barely interest you at all. You end up feeling like the queen on an official visit to a state-of-the-art sewage plant. You nod a lot. You force your face into expressions of keen interest. And you say "Oh really". Round the clock enthusiasm is exhausting.
On the other hand, though, there’s a glorious and paradoxical escapism in being organised. A sense of freedom. For a few days you regress to being seven-and-a-half with no responsibilities and no decisions to be made. Somebody else has fixed the schedule – bus at 9, museum visit 10, walk through the town from 12 to 1 – and you surrender to it joyfully. Life was a synch at seven-and-a-half. It never gets as good as that again. Except on press trips.
As for information overload, this one was mercifully light – which was as well because Sardinia is baking hot and all you really want to do is sneak along those bougainvillea paths toward the beach. I can’t pretend I took too many notes. And those I did involved ideas lost in translation.
A distinctive feature of Sardinian landscape is its curious rock formations which accordingly get nicknames like the Bear, the Witch, the Eagle….and a massive monolith that we were told as we drove past was known throughout Sardinia as "the Handbag Fryer". This was duly written down by the more dedicated in our group, but then erased. It turned out that our local guide (and bless her heart) had actually meant "Hunchback Friar".
Similarly disappointing was to be told, after a morning at a museum of Sardinian ethnography (you see, it wasn’t all fun), that we’d missed one of its chief attractions – namely a woman who came in to sit on the loo and would have been doing so for our benefit had it not been her day off. Assuming this to be a curious but authentic folk experience – the woman dressed in black and weaving baskets as she waited for her bowels to function – we expressed regret. Sincere on my part, but misplaced. What we were actually missing was the sight of someone sitting at the loom. I’ll save that one for next time.
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