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Scenes in around some of our adventures
at the Lemon House on the East Coast of Sardinia.
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Driving
to the Lemon House, the names jump out at you.
The
house is on via Dante. Lotzorai is a
beach town, with names of the Italian masters, Via Michaelangelo, Chellini,
Dante.
Swallows
fly overhead from the roof at the Lemon House, where we drink a beer and enjoy
a light dinner on the room. Its so
lovely. We’ll eat here every night.
Looking
more like a lime, in light green, the Lemmon House is like an old surf hotel,
catoring to people wanting to ride, hike, climb, and swim.
As
the website puts it:
TERRITORY
Our first morning, we decided to explore the
beaches by kayak.
“If
you go East to the Sea you will find yourself in Rome, so lets just stay on the
coast,” suggested our kayaking leader.
So,
we all followed our amiable host for a kayaking adventure down the coast, along
the bluest waters.
The
teenager immediately lost control, letting her kayak float into the rocks.
Help
me, she declared.
“The
young ones are always much more adventuresome, much less of a problem than the
older ones,” notes our kayaking guide.
Still,
we make our way with the little one leads the way, while the little one gets
lost in the currents.
“You
are the worst group I have ever had,” laughs our instructor.
“We’re
not that bad…” we chuckle, stopping along the way for a swim.
Trying
to get back into my kayak, it capsizes.
But
we keep on kayaking to the beach, swimming away the day on the majestic rocky
beaches,
Stopping
for a bite at pizzeria at Aregedu and a nap along the rocks.
The
Ichnusa beer is deliscious, the water ever more.
We
swim away the day, napping on the warm rocks along the shore and eat on the
roof later that night.
I’m
reading My Brilliant Friend by Ellena Ferante.
The
words pour over me.
I
think about Matteo and our chance meeting three decades ago.
Some
years, we saw a ton of each other.
But
for many life passed us by.
But
for a while there, we lived together as kids in Dallas, of all places, going to
see bands, eating TV dinners every night.
He
has not been back.
And
we spent more time together this week than at any time in decades.
Life
is strange.
Bella
Luna is out again.
The
next day, we’re planned a hike to the beach…
Just
drive through Brunei… And then follow the path till the road ends, notes our
amiable host.
We
get sandwiches at a cemetery.
And
then make our way up through the medieval village,
Hairpin
turn after hairpin turn, 180 degrees with cars zooming about.
I
wonder if gravity is going to hold the car.
We
drive along a cliff.
I
imagine the car falling hundreds of feet below.
The
breaks stopping.
I’m
sweating. There are only seven of these turns.
But
we make it.
Cows
and donkeys wander the arid landscape as we finish the drive.
And
commence our hike from Su Portuddo to Cala Golgo. I was looking forward to a walk, but the the
five k hike down to the beach was anything but. Limestone, rocks, stones below, the way down
was mostly smooth, but the rocks are treacherous.
An
hour into it, we’re a little tired.
Eventually,
we catch a glimpse of the sea.
And
we hike down.
Blue,
blue, bluest waters ever, the sea envelops us, pouring onto the rocky shore.
Crazy
Italians posing everywhere, lounging on the rocks, swimming, vamping around,
posing in their bikinis, mostly naked.
We
float out looking into the distance.
Lost
for an hour, two hours… floating.
We
make our way back.
Lets
smash it out, the little one and I made our way back up, followed by mom and
the teenager, who had a blister.
Passing
people, getting passed, up up up we hiked, fatigue grasping us.
On
this walk, I realized the twelve-year-old has surpassed me.
In
years past on the Camino, I could walk k after k past her.
Time
passes, so does our youth.
And
pretty soon our kids are passing us by.
Today,
she walked ahead.
Come
on Dad, she implored.
Come
on Dad.
We
sing our songs and talk about the flavors of gelato we’d eat on our way up.
People
pass us.
We
pass them again.
I
stop heaving for air by a tree.
And
drink Fanta to celebrate when we finally arrive.
How
much later are mom and the teenager going to be.
Perhaps
430, an hour later?
At
430 we get worried.
Don’t
worry now.
So
we didn’t.
We
played crazy eights and for once I won.
They
got there a half hour later…
Nothing
tastes better than a drink after a walk like that.
They
smile.
The
train reminds you to appreciate the simple things, a rest, a cold glass of
water, being together.
And
we make our way back down the mountain, twisting and turning, completing a few
more hairpin turns on our way back to the Lemon House for one final night.
The
next day, we’ll make our way South to Caligari.
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| We made it back from the hike. The little one was feeling fine, unlike this writer. |
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