In case you are imagining that while you are shivering through winter, we are lounging on a Mediterranean beach, umbrella drinks in hand, think again. It is January, after all. On average, January is the coldest month in Sardinia (highs of 14C), with the fewest hours of sunshine per day (4), and a mediocre amount of rain. We’ve been able to work around the rain without too much trouble, and often have climbed shirtless on days sunny enough to make us slather sunscreen on our glowing, winter-white Canadian skin. On such days, I wonder why humans were ever compelled to migrate to northern climes. It just feels so much healthier and more natural to live in a place where you don’t have to employ several layers of insulation to protect yourself from the elements. After a couple of weeks in Sardinia, we were pretty pleased with ourselves for having escaped another Canadian winter. However, we didn’t really understand about the winds.
I guess the first clue should have been that they actually give the winds different names here, depending on which direction they come from. By now, we have become quite well acquainted with the mistral from the northwest. The Italians call it “maestrale” which I prefer, because it sounds more malevolent. I’ve discovered that this wind is greedy for hats. About two-thirds of the way up a climb that was hard for me, made even harder as blasts of cool air and sand pummelled me from the left, the maestrale seized my trusty blue hat. In a blink, it was gone, up and over the top of the cliff. Gone so fast and so high that, like a helium balloon lost by some distraught child, there was absolutely no point to even think about looking for it. In fact, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if some child in Africa found it today.
I yelled down to Ulysse that this wasn’t really fun anymore.
“Whaaaatttt?” came the reply, barely audible above the howl.
Naturally, the day after–a non-climbing day–the sky was blue and there was hardly any wind.
The following day started with promise. The sun was out first thing in the morning and it was market day in Tertenia. Perhaps twenty different vendors take over a street once a week, their tables laden with fruits and vegetables, artisan cheeses and amazing cured meats, and everything else from shoes to jeans to carpets to corkscrews. Everyone seemed to be in a festive mood. When we stopped at one table selling meats and cheeses, an old fellow with a bushy beard, a facial embellishment you don’t often see here, was asking for samples. We followed his lead and did a little sampling too: sheep cheeses, cured sausage made from wild boar, and my favourite of all, the olives. When the vendor mentioned olives and the old bearded guy’s eyes lit up, we knew we were in for something good. A large pail was extracted from the back of the van, and the vendor scooped out a mixture of olives with a slotted spoon, taking pity on us foreigners and pointing out the particularly tasty ones. They were stunning: fresh and bursting with flavour, just the right balance of salt, herbs, oil, olive.
“Delicioso?” I asked the old man, wondering if the Spanish word could be used in Italian.
“Deliz-ioso!” he said, hovering over the “z” to help me with my pronunciation. I repeated the word and he nodded encouragingly, like a parent would to their three-year-old child.
After rounding up a huge bag of fresh fruits and vegetables, a strange gourd-shaped cheese, some boar sausage, and of course, a container of olives, we dropped our culinary treasures at the house and headed to the crag, hoping the weather would hold.
The maestrale was not quite done with us, however. We managed to climb at a different cliff that was a little more protected, but the trees in the valley below bent like blades of grass in the wind. I’d never seen anything like it. A dazed bee appeared near our piled rope, perhaps attracted by the colour, but most likely just trying to find shelter. She crawled slowly around on the rock for a couple of hours, periodically wiping her eyes with her front legs as though trying clear them of grit. We put a tiny piece of orange and a few drops of water in her path, but she wasn’t interested. Perhaps she was just patiently waiting for the evening to come, and for the hat-loving maestrale to tire so she could safely make her way home.
Tomorrow, there are warnings of high winds from the southwest. These ones are called the Libeccio, which originally means “Libyan.” They are supposed to be warm and moist, and to make a surface of the rock slick and difficult to climb on. Personally, however, I’m wondering what it is that these winds like to steal.
