I’d parked between the two rival trucks that sold indoor plants on the parking lot. They were permanent residents and both had a flat tyre or two.
The parking girl came over smiling and wagged her finger at me.
‘Are you trying to hide from me Mr English?!’
‘Never honey!’
It was a misty morning and she shivered despite her hoodie and quilted jacket.
‘Last day I see you?’
‘Yep Cala Gonone today.’ I said wiping an imaginary tear away. ‘Ciao Bella.’
Out of town the country quickly appeared. Cagliari – the Sardinian capital – really was a small town. Farmyard smells now. Manure and wild thyme and woodsmoke.
Through mountains and across the spine of the island. A Porsche came up quickly behind me. I couldn’t imagine driving a car like that on these roads. Hard suspension, no clearance, low profiles.
Then round the corner another one. White smoke pouring out of the open bonnet. That meant an oil leak. I could smell it. Behind him a Ferrari had stopped to lend a hand but I couldn’t imagine what they could do except phone for a breakdown truck. They were both dressed like Venetian taxi drivers on their day off. Pedro was silent on the matter. His brakes were whistling again. When they weren’t being used I mean. Stamping hard on the middle pedal stopped it for a while.
A long drive to get get to the one horse town of Cala Gonone. And the horse had bolted.
I drove up to an agriturimo for lunch. Passing sheep and goats and pigs in the act of making more little pigs. Shameless. But I felt hopeful for a meaty lunch extravaganza. Unfortunately the place was only open for dinner.
Meanwhile the WhatsApp banter was hotting up. This arrived from Ralph. A condemnation of the Truss fiasco.
I found a decent establishment in town and a great lunch after all.
But there wasn’t enough here to keep us so we carried onwards and upwards to Alghero. Up through the mountains. With roadside warnings for snowchains. Hard to imagine in this heat. And then across a rolling plain of scrubby bushes, rounded and continous dark green. I felt like an ant on a head of broccoli. Next came empty and dusty towns. Full of apartment blocks but not a soul about in the mid-afternoon. A single old man on a bench. A young mother pushing a pram. It was like the bomb had dropped. These places depressed me even though I was only driving through.
In the afternoon we reached Alghero and parked up for the night.
On the lungomare a quaint little bar. I took a campari spritz to watch the sun go below ground. On paying, the rather batty lady owner looked at me with a wistful sigh. I asked if she was a little tired? ‘Quasi terminato’ she said. Almost done. Dreaming of the quieter winter months. I felt a close bond and rubbed her back.