31 Jul Around Santu Lussurgiu
Around Santu Lussurgiu
There is a road that goes inland from Baratili, winding up into the hills towards Montiferru, an extinct volcano, that no one ever takes. It is so empty that the last time I drove along it, late one summer evening, a pickup truck nearly ran me off the road, carelessly driving in the centre of the road, sure not to meet anyone.
From Baratili you pass the ancient citrus groves of Milis, guarded by wide iron gates and walls built in the dark, porous basalt typical to the area. From here one winds upwards through fields punctuated with graceful, dove grey, sharp-horned cows towards Bonarcado.
Bonarcado is a small town boasting two beautiful churches, one a charming and tiny byzantine sanctuary, the most ancient Christian structure on the whole island, dating back to the 5th century, and boasting pieces of Roman mosaic. The other is an imposing Romanesque basilica built around 1100. They face one another over the ancient town square, where a fountain trickles and a huge lime tree provides welcome shade. Here a cherry Sagra is held ever June, Bonarcado being famous for a species of cherry which is particularly fruitful.
From here the road winds further inland, higher above the arid plain, cutting through clumps of oak forest and olive groves and vineyards. Just as the landscapes gets greener and one feels a distinct coolness in the air, you come to a hairpin bend furnished with a tiny, sky-blue house built for a small, mildly smiling Madonna. Just before this bend is a stone, painted with some barely legible writing, and if you pass it in the summer or on Sundays you may note that there are a few campervans or cars (usually foreign) parked by this stone.
This is the way down to Istrampu Sos Molinos, a waterfall that almost no one knows about. The path (an old mule track) down to the pool is littered with fallen trees, meaning that you will have to climb. Once you reach the bottom you are rewarded with the unique peace and power that is a waterfall; noisy, rushing, but also instantly calming. The pool is deep enough to swim in, and the temperature remains blissfully cool, even in peak summer, meaning this spot is infinitely more appealing than the nearby coastline, where the sea is as warm as bathwater and you cannot move but for the ombrelloni.
My temperate English soul was soothed, and we waded into the water, and climbed on the mossy rocks under the current, feeling it pounding down on our backs. As a few fellow tourists began arriving, we followed the stream downwards, climbing and wading our way with Bechamel close on our heels, until we reached a clearing with a view of the nearby hilltop and a natural pool carved into the stone. The water was a good 2 metres deep, and we stripped off our clothes and jumped in. It was the best swim I have had all year. The water was our own.
The following weekend we set off in the same direction, as I had seen a sign for an Agricampeggio up the hill from the waterfall, as was curious. On up the hill we wound, the views getting more spectacular and the temperature steadily dropping as we went. Finally we reaches a large open grazing field at the summit, on which lay a group of docile, peat brown cows, chewing indifferently. By now we were at 19 degrees, after the stifling 30 of Baratili, and I shivered with happiness and put on the jacket I had brought specially.
Following the road along, we saw the agricampeggio, Elighes Uttiosus, a large sprawling farm complete with mules, donkeys, sows and a large orto. We logged it for a future date – once the Saint is old enough to enjoy camping, and carried on, now on an unpaved track which cut back down through the woods to the coast. We crossed a stream, complete with dozens of dragonflies, and paddled again, revelling in the abundance of water in this miraculous region so green and lush compared to the barren wasteland of Baratili. At last the winding road spat us out on the highway between Cuglieri and S’Archittu, and we headed for lunch at the child-friendly Mamacita, where we ate peaches and prosciutto with smoked ricotta and honey.
When we got home I made a cup of tea to celebrate, remembering the cool temperatures and lush green valleys, and holding them close as I sipped the scalding liquid. I remembered all the camping holidays of my childhood; always damp, always happy. I think every high-summer from now on, we will retreat into the mountains, away from the hoards, to camp in the hills with the cows and to hike, surrounded by dragonflies and searching for springs. In the morning we will boil a Moka on a single gas canister, live on mostly peanut butter sandwiches and pasta, and go to bed just after sunset. If the Saint will have it, of course.
