In that slouched sort of manner often adopted by smokers, or teenagers, my Sardinian friend and I sit on our haunches on the steps of a stone patio, outside a little Sardinian house. My friend's grandmother lived in it, once. She also died here, many years ago, in the room overlooking the orange trees. This week, however, the little house is ours. Cicada's hum incessantly, creating a background buzz like left-on stereo speakers. Easing myself back, I stretch out my legs in the October sunshine, which is dappled between the foliage of Frangipanis.
Further along the road, there are the occasional shouts of children, the echoing bounce of a football, the sudden yapping of small dogs, and every few minutes, the unhealthy roar of a small car, tearing recklessly along the narrow street. Otherwise, there is just a vague, humid silence, and the humming of those cicadas. A row of houses, or villas, lines each side of the street in a charming sort of a jumble, each house seemingly constructed in disconnected bursts and consequently mismatched, like a child's Lego empire. Many of these villas are crowned with open, unfinished second stories, and roofs are almost routinely absent, as in many parts of Greece. I'm unsure whether this is due to an evasion of local taxes, or more prosaically, to a sort of generalised apathy, and it seems somehow indelicate to ask. However, once inside, the houses are beautifully cool, with high ceilings and marbled floors throughout, as pink and mottled as pressed salami.
PULA: There is a better-known Pula in Europe, a seaside resort in Croatia, at the south- eastern end of the Istrian peninsula. This Croatian Pula, I believe, is renowned for its beautiful beaches and roman ruins, which include an impressive and largely intact Amphitheatre. It strikes me as interesting, that the two Pulas should have these things in common. The Pula I am visiting, however, is set not on the Adriatic, but rather, near the southernmost tip of Sardinia, smack bang in the centre of the Med. Sadly, the small Amphitheatre here now rests in picturesque ruins.
ARRIVAL: En route to Cagliari, Sardinia's ancient capital, the plane had hovered above the island's spectacular western coastline, dipped slightly inland, and then, upon landing, had seemed almost to skim the surface of the sea before coming safely to rest on Sardinian ground. I felt a vague (and no doubt unwarranted) sense of narrowly averted disaster. The airport itself is very modern, with a new-car sort of smell, blamelessly bedecked in smoky stainless steel with grey marble
in all directions. Outside, there is that inevitable row of Mediterraneanpalms, and a number of tall eucalypts to the side. In the heat, it almost smells like Australia.
Heading south, we drive towards Pula, located on the coast about 40km to the west of Cagliari. The views, if not exactly salubrious, are certainly interesting. A large and rather ugly industrial quarter straddles the turquoise coastline. Further along, pale pink flamingos wade daintily in wide lagoons, against the backdrop of enormous oil refineries, forever churning black smoke into the clear Mediterranean sky. Fat pipes jut far out to sea. Here and there are the salt-flats, glistening in the sunshine. The roads are narrow, the traffic fast and frenetic, and the detritus of sun-bleached drink cans, tattered old plastic bags and general rubbish lies scattered at the sides of the roads.
As the industrial outskirts begin to recede, tapering out into more non-descript swampland, and the marshes of Stagno di Santa Gilla, I become suddenly aware of the densely forested mountains, which rise up sharply beyond the lagoons on the right hand side. These form a striking range, extending along the horizon as far as the eye can see. Finally, we reach the town of Pula, which occupies a picturesque position, neatly wedged between the mountains and the tranquil seas of the Bay of Cagliari. Originally founded by the Phoenicians, and later built over by the Carthaginian and Roman empires in turn, Pula is set on a peaceful promontory, overlooked by a 16th Century Spanish watchtower.
PEOPLE: Although small, the town is bustling. The doors of the Tourism Office, however, remain firmly closed. I suspect it probably shut up shop at least a month ago, back in September, around the time that all the holidaymakers stopped coming. Now, the only tourist I encounter, apart from a dour busload of Germans deposited outside the Museum of Antiquities, is a florid Liverpudlian, whom I spot grumbling over the selection at the Newspaper stand on the town square, before finally settling upon a 5- day old edition of the Mail on Sunday. Old news. In Sardinia, however, old news is as good as new, and even the intrigues of earlier generations seem to retain a potent relevance for their descendants. And as to the lack of foreigners, well, as far as my Sardinian friend is concerned, they are in fact everywhere. 'Did you see him?' she mutters at me, after we pass an innocuous looking man on the road to Nora. I glance back, bemused. 'He's no Sard!' she tells me, 'I can tell at once. It's very obvious he's from the mainland.' This is no isolated incident, for she points the foreigners out constantly. It almost seems like a sport. It reminds me a little of a game my brothers and I used to play in the back of the family saloon during long and boring car-trips, 'punch-buggy', a violent and pointless exercise which involved punching each other whenever we spotted a VW beetle. Later, as we idle outside a café on the square, eating Gelato, my SF does it again. 'Look, the two over there,' she hisses at me, staring pointedly at a couple of stylish looking girls. 'Mainlanders! The one with the big nose was going out with X (an important footballer). I recalled X having been mentioned earlier when we'd passed his holiday house, an uncommonly ostentatious neo-Grecian affair smothered in the scarlet tendrils of an established Bougainvillia. Whilst unsettling, this identification of outsiders is almost entirely without malice, even in the case of the Chinaman who runs the local florist, and who, despite having lived in the town for more than 20 years and being well loved by everyone, is commonly referred to as 'Chong Ching'. Of course, the simplest and easiest way to spot an outsider, as my friend points out, is to do with height. 'All true Sardinians' she chuckles, 'are midget!'
Admittedly, there's some truth in this assertion. The native Sardinians are a very small people indeed, almost Lilliputian in stature, with most of them, men and women alike, hovering at or below the 5 ft mark. Frankly, at 5ft 5, I've never felt quite so statuesque in all my life. The Sardinian temperament, on the other hand, is far from diminutive.
In Sardinia, even the most laconic and easy-going of conversations can quickly deteriorate into what, to the untrained eye, can seem like a very serious argument indeed. Voices are raised to the accompaniment of extravagant gesticulations and flailing arms. This can prove both alarming and entertaining to watch. The Sardinian language, especially when mixed (as it commonly is) with mainland Italian, comes out in sharp staccato bursts, like verbal machine gun fire. Even innocuous discussions can seem comically theatrical. I of course, who understood not a word, am forced to rely upon the translations of my friend. Disregarding any qualms I may have about becoming a prize irritant, I frequently interrupt conversations to ask what has been said. Invariably, this proves well worthwhile, and my bad manners are ignored if not forgiven. In Sardinia, good nature generally prevails. My pregnancy provokes a good deal of comment. 'Ah! The future of Italy!' croaks a little man, perched on his bar stool like a parrot on a stand, when he sees me walk in to his cafe. 'She's not Italian!' rebuts my SF, dryly. 'Oh, but her husband is?' the little man persists, before straining the dregs of his espresso through a dense grey moustache. Again no. 'Oh well,' he says, with a grin, and turns away. Complete strangers, and not all of them female, approach to stroke my engorged belly. Many guess knowledgeably at the baby's sex, and not one of them (somewhat unnervingly) guesses incorrectly.
CULTURE: DH Lawrence once described Sardinia as an island 'outside the circuit of civilisation'. There is still a gentle sense, in Pula at least, of being at an isolated outpost, or even, occasionally, of having stepped back in time. There is one 'Internet bar' in the town, which opened a few years ago. Apparently, aside from passing tourists, it was only 'the Australian girl' who ever really used it. The locals themselves seem to regard it with a sort of bemused suspicion. Presumably by virtue of being one myself, I am told a great deal about this mysterious 'Australian girl', who, by all accounts, descended upon the town a few years ago, secured herself a bar job, despite speaking no Italian, and generally endeared herself to all & sundry before suddenly meeting a man and running away with him to the Mainland.
There is much in Sardinia to strike the casual visitor as quaint, and an array of fascinating cultural
Pictures of Sardinia
Ruins at Nora
traditions are devotedly observed. As an example, over 1,000 traditional festivals are held on the island every year. These can be anything from pagan rituals celebrating the solstice, the coming of a season, or the harvesting of a particular crop, to sagres, religious celebrations in honour of a particular saint. These are extravagantly lively affairs in which the entire community takes part. In Pula, the most significant festival is that of Sant' Efisio, the patron saint whose eponymous chapel stands just above the sands of the beach at Nora. This festival, held in May, culminates in a large procession and the roasting of a boar on the village square, whilst schoolchildren dance in traditional costume. However even on ordinary days, primary school children in Sardinia, both boys and girls, march hand in hand along the streets to school in costume; namely, little blue knee-length pinafores with white buttercup collars.
One hot afternoon, I am walking into the town when suddenly confronted by an oncoming funeral procession. Behind a bloom-covered hearse, two long columns of very elderly women, all in black, march chanting Latin masses in time. Behind them, a small cluster of bereaved relatives, howling and sobbing by turns, followed by a final, much larger group, which continued to pass me for over a minute. It was very moving, and so deeply ritualistic that it seemed to belong to an earlier century.
HISTORY: In Pula's bustling centre, the ornate, colourful little buildings, of indeterminate age, seem almost reminiscent of Mexico. As you reach the fringes of the town, however, these give way to larger, more modern villas. Many more of these are currently being built, especially along the road to Nora. This explosion in new development in a town that had otherwise remained roughly the same size since Roman times owes much to Italy's recent entry into the EC. Once one of the poorest regions of Italy, and indeed of Europe as a whole, Sardinia is currently thriving and house prices are ten times what they were a decade ago. The cost of living, too, has skyrocketed, especially since the introduction of the Euro.
Beyond the white sandy beach at Nora, fringed with enormous date palms, a large team of archaeologists dig over an expanse of ancient ruins. This, too, is a testament to Sardinia's place within the new Europe. Somewhat surprisingly, the ruins of Nora were first uncovered as recently as the 1950's. However, it was only an EU grant in the past decade that has facilitated a proper archaeological excavation of the site. This excavation is still very much ongoing, and only half of the ancient town has thus far been uncovered.
I spend a lazy couple of hours meandering amidst the ruins. Here, extensive relics bear witness both to Punic and Roman civilisations. There are clearly laid and largely intact Roman roads, complete with drainage, a number of impressive mosaic floors, the ruins of a small Amphitheater and of several baths and villas. There is a relic of the Punic Temple of Tanit, the Goddess of Fertility, and an impressive Roman theatre where performances are staged in the summer. Part of the ruins of the ancient Nora have been lost forever already, swept beneath the azure sea which laps up against the rocks around the promontory. Sadly, the remaining ruins seem similarly imperilled, despite sea defences, in the longer term at least. Meanwhile, a Saracen watchtower on the hillock overlooking the site commands stunning vistas across the white sands and dunes, which stretch along the coastline towards the Capo Spartivento.
A modest but well presented selection of the antiquities unearthed at Nora is on display at the Museo Archeologico, a small museum in central Pula. These include a number of urns of varying sizes in addition to Roman coins and jewellery.
SAND & SEAFOOD: The beautiful sandy beach at Nora is merely the first of many along this dazzling coastline. The waters are crystal clear, with small, silvery fish darting about in the shallows. Even in October, the sea is still beautifully warm. The coastline, especially when set against the backdrop of mountains and sheer cliff-faces, is a little reminiscent of Corfu.
Contrary to a commonly made assumption, Sardinia's name has no connection whatsoever with sardines. Furthermore, and a little surprisingly, given its island setting, Sardinian cuisine is generally meat- rather than fish-based. Excellent seafood is invariably available, however. One Sardinian specialty unlikely to appeal to all visitors is the much-relished bistecche di cavallo or asinello (horse or donkey steak), which still appears on many menus and is commonly enjoyed by many an unwitting tourist. In Pula, there is even a horsemeat butcher on the main street, unambiguously signposted with a handsome equine profile on its front window. The island's chief specialty, however, is definitely porchetto (suckling pig) traditionally roasted on a spit. Most meals consist of a first course of pasta, followed by a meat course, and finishing with salad, cheese (such as Sardinian Pecorino) and possibly fruit. Sardinian pizzas are as large and delicious as those served in Naples, and the local bread is also excellent. Breakfast generally consists of espresso coffee and small, French style croissants, which may or may not be filled with jam, custard or chocolate.
ACCOMMADATION: Half a dozen hotels, mostly 4 or 5 star, command excellent positions on the seafront at Nora, many with their own private beaches, and hotel guests and locals alike lounge on the soft sands. Nearby, the massive five-star resort and spa at Forte Village is considered to be one of the most beautiful in Europe, attracting celebrities and Russian oligarchs alike, and priced accordingly. More modest accommodation is available in Pula, and in other small townships along the coastline.
FINALLY: I only visited a tiny corner of Sardinia, but the little I did see of this beautiful island absolutely entranced me, and I am keen to return and explore it in greater detail.
I flew to Sardinia with British Airways. Return economy flights cost from £90 inc. taxes.
http://www.britishairways.com
Further information about visiting Pula is available here;
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