Sardinia 2025

From Portugal To Sardinia Via A Learning Curve Or Two

For the true traveller there is something immensely satisfying about completing a long and convoluted journey independently, so the fact that this lengthy trek from Portugal to Sardinia goes without major hitch gives us plenty of reasons to be cheerful. A short walk to Olhão train station, a quick train ride to Faro town, followed by the Number 16 bus to the airport, brings us to the clutches of Ryanair, who cause the only moment of angst when the word “delayed” makes an unwelcome appearance on the departure board.

We easily make up the lost time though when we land at Barcelona and find ourselves in what must be a Schengen Zone terminal as there are no passport checks, no paperwork, just a quick collection of backpacks off the carousel and straight out the door for a skip by taxi to Barcelona port. (Side note: strange feeling of guilt passing through such a wonderful city with nought but a fleeting glance). An hour later we’re on board the Grimaldi ship which will take us all the way to Porto Torres in Sardinia, thirteen hours’ sailing time later.

Amusingly, we have taken the cheapest option available for this long boat journey, and whilst nearly all of the other passengers head off for their cosy cabins, we do not even have an allocated seat and instead make our bed for the night on the long seats in the central bar area. As it happens, the bar closes just an hour into the journey, out go half the lights, and it’s a bit like sleeping in a hotel lounge when all the staff have finished their shift. But sleep we do. On and off.

Having never done such a long boat journey before, the entire scope of etiquette is unfamiliar to us and we quickly realise that if you know, you know, and if you don’t, well……you don’t. For a start, we’d assumed that most people would be travelling like us and only a handful would be in cabins, but it turns out to be the other way round. With departure at 22:45 all of those who have paid for a cabin – which is the vast majority – head straight for bed, presumably having taken their evening meal before boarding. Consequently the restaurants soon close and there is no food or drink available anywhere on the ship whether you want it or not. We just manage to snaffle a crapburger and some tasteless fries before all the shutters come down. May as well eat the packaging, such is the flavour and nourishment.

Of the remaining passengers, those who, like us, have gone for the cheap “no cabin” option, we are pretty much the only ones who haven’t brought copious quantities of our own food with us: there’s cool bags and tupperware boxes everywhere as everyone except us and two young English lads tuck in to their midnight feast. We will also soon come to see that everyone else has brought sleeping bags, blankets and even pillows – ah, so this is how it works in lower class! Ah well, we’ll know next time…

In the event we sleep OK laying full length across sofas in the bar, our sweatshirts just about fending off the icy blasts of the aircon. The distant hum of the ship’s engines is oddly soothing, a kind of gentle monotone lullaby which draws the eyelids downwards. Dawn has broken by the time I find a fat guy serving coffee and croissants somewhere down the corridors. I’m his only customer, but I still have to key my order into a machine, pay the machine by card, then get a piece of paper which I have to hand to him. Armed with the only instruction he knows, a familiar looking slip of paper, he makes the coffee. “Grazie” and “prego” are the only words we exchange. It’s a funny world these days, when server and punter in an early morning empty room have to communicate via machinery. 

I carry the modest brekkie back down the empty corridors, presumably virtually everyone else is still curled up in those cosy cabins they’ve paid big chunks of euros for. There is, of course, still a long way to go – about five hours in fact – before we dock at Porto Torres just before noon. Somewhere around 10:30 there’s an announcement to vacate all cabins and, within minutes, our bar, all the cafes and every corridor has filled with people we haven’t seen before: we had no idea there were so many people on board.

We dock at Porto Torres, escorted in by a pilot boat, and head out into the Mediterranean sunshine. Next it’s a bus from port to town centre where there’s 90 minutes to kill before the next bus to Alghero, an hour of it filled with a deliciously cold Lagunitas and a small bite called a pizzette. Finally, precisely 27 hours after we closed the door to the apartment in Olhão, we empty our backpacks in the next one, knowing that it’s now Sardinia, and not Portugal, waiting to be explored outside the door.

There’s no doubt we are filled with the sense of satisfaction that such a journey brings. We are also ridiculously tired and all we can manage is a quick bowl of pasta before we retire for the night – exploring Alghero will have to wait.

Actually Alghero is a town I already know, having first come here as a 16-year-old on my last ever holiday with parents in 1973, and then revisited three or four times in the 2000s when I developed a real affection for the place. It will be interesting to see how it’s changed.

Some things change, some don’t. The beautifully preserved city walls still stand proud, the fortress-like towers still look across the blue sea and the sun still sets behind the masts of the yachts moored in the marina, but in many ways the similarity to only twenty years ago ends there. My God Alghero is busy. We thought the Algarve was at obvious peak season; here it’s mercilessly overcrowded.

The atmospheric streets of the old town are rammed, hundreds of the charming old houses have telltale key safe boxes by the door, tat shops and shops of chain retailers stand where I remember quaint focaccerias and attractive trattorias. South of the marina the lungomare has been widened and modernised, it’s now much more smart and much more boring. Admittedly I’ve never been here in August before, but wow Alghero has become popular. 

Due to the 14th century capture of the city by Aragonese and subsequent occupation for the next century, Alghero has long had a close association with Catalunya – in fact it shares the same flag – which is still very much in evidence today. Indeed, the dialect spoken here is termed Algherese Catalan. There are particular connections with both Barcelona and Alghero’s twin town Tarragona, another favourite of mine. Having returned to Tarragona two years ago and found it delightfully unchanged, Alghero is at the other end of the spectrum. It’s a very different town from the one I remember.

On each of our first two evenings everywhere is so rammed that we can’t find a table, traipsing around for an age in search of a restaurant with even two spaces, both times ending up with overpriced sub-quality fare in this destination with a reputation for great food. 

Ah well, the boat trips will no doubt still be good, so Friday morning we head down to the departure point to grab a trip out to either Grotto Nettune (Neptune’s Cave) or the spectacular headland at Capo Caccia, but unfortunately the renowned Mistral wind has put its foot on the accelerator and the sea is too rough: all boat trips are cancelled today. 

Undeterred, we are absolutely determined to find good food in this town of gourmet reputations, and so book a table at one of the less touristy and more authentic looking places inside the city walls. Our usual practice is to avoid making restaurant reservations as we feel it restricts our spontaneity, but, with half the population of Europe seemingly in Alghero, we break our own habits.

I guess it’s progress of a type, but this oh so attractive town with beautiful streets and fascinating history is not really somewhere we can recommend for an August visit. It is, however, still a hugely visually appealing town, with so many fabulous little streets in the old town, so many beautiful old buildings. Tomorrow we pick up a rental car to explore more of Sardinia; by the time we deliver the car back to Alghero it will be September and the height of season will be over. Who knows, we might even have the pick of the restaurants.

Discovering A Real Gem: Bosa, Sardinia

Even the description “one of Italy’s most beautiful villages” doesn’t do justice to our first sight of this exquisite little town of just over 8,000 inhabitants, simply one of those places which brings out a wow or two at first sight. Bosa sits just a mile in from the sea on the banks of the Temo River, the only riverside town in all of Sardinia on the island’s only navigable river. Two ancient bridges span the Temo, colourful houses catch the sunshine, wooded hills surround the town, coastal cliffs are visible from the centre of town. It’s insanely attractive. 

Perched high above this beautiful scene at the best vantage point of all is the Serravalle Castle, built by the wealthy Malaspina family as a means of defending against the regular raids by pirates on this moneyed but accessible town. The views from the castle, across Bosa and along the meandering river to the sea, are beyond stunning. We’re also lucky enough to have a view from our balcony which is so good that we spend time on each of our three days here just gazing at it all.

Even the drive here (yay, driving at last!) is spectacular, the road from Alghero to Bosa hugging the coastline with spectacular mountainous scenery on one side and the expanse of the blue Mediterranean on the other, yet still the first sight of Bosa is the day’s highlight.

Funnily enough, it wasn’t always this way. Bosa was always attractive of course, but ravaged by bad smells and a dreadfully unhealthy environment, caused mostly by the famed tanneries which lined the left river bank through town. Anyone who has visited the tanneries of Morocco will know all about the smells, but Bosa would have taken it to another level. For a start, Bosa’s tanneries were indoors, with the tanning pits actually below ground level with little chance for the bad odours to escape or for fresh air to enter.

But get this – whereas in Morocco much of the stench comes from the use of pigeon excrement as the cleaning material, here in Bosa they didn’t use pigeon poo, they used dog shit. Try – but not too hard please- to imagine the working conditions, in a basement filled with the smells of animal flesh, discarded and rotting fat, depilated hair and dog shit. Not great huh. And as if this wasn’t enough, all of the resultant debris, including but not limited to all of the above, was thrown into the river – a river which regularly flooded the town on high tides. One can only imagine the state and stench of the streets when the floods subsided. Ugh.

Anyway, it’s all gone now, the last tannery having closed in the 1950s. The tannery buildings remain: some semi derelict, some converted to holiday homes and one now the tannery museum from where we obtained most of this information. Incidentally, the leather goods produced here were of high quality and created significant wealth for the owner families and for the town as a whole.

Leather goods, the finest saddles, barrels for wine production, plus a brand of malvasia considered among the finest in Italy, all contributed to another wave of prosperity which carried Bosa for a century or more.

Now, Bosa is no longer blighted by terrible smells or polluted air and is free to bask in its glory as a wonderfully attractive town so pleasing on the eye. Thought to be first occupied by the Phoenicians ahead of occupation by the Romans, Bosa grew in importance through the Middle Ages to become a regional capital. The tanneries were to come much later, enjoying success through the 19th and 20th centuries.

Standing out among the large number of churches in the small town are the Basilica in the centre with its gleaming white interior, and the ancient San Pietro Extramuros just out of town, Sardinia’s oldest church dating originally from the 12th century AD. As well as the tanneries museum, Bosa also houses an ethnographic museum, fairly basic but on its middle floor reproducing the interior of the dwelling as it would have been when occupied by one of the town’s wealthier families. It’s a fascinating insight into bygone times.

Churches of Bosa

With the rental car at last at our disposal we explore some of Sardinia’s western coast, through the villages of Tresnuraghes and Cuglieri, then out to S’Archittu where we clamber inside and up onto the nuraghe on the clifftop – more about these rather unusual structures in our next post. Feels so good to be on the road.

But let’s get back to Bosa itself, an absolute gem of a town – one of those towns which is a delight to discover, giving a wonderful first impression and never losing that appeal for the whole of our stay. We could lose hours just looking at the view from our balcony. Lovely little town. And we didn’t even mention the fregola, and barely mentioned the malvasia. Cheers Bosa, and arrividerci.

Nuraghe, Mountain Towns & Murals: Crossing Sardinia.

The nuraghe of Sardinia have been the subject of considerable debate over the years, with some disagreement over their original functions and purposes. According to what appears to be the current school of thought, and definitely the thrust of websites and guide books, the reason for the confusion is that the nuraghe were multi purpose and therefore inconsistent in design from one to the next.

What is certain is that they are unique to Sardinia, that traces of over 10,000 have been identified, 7,000 of which are still standing in one form or another. Grain stores, fortresses, family homes, lookout posts, communal meeting places…all have been theories, each with strong evidence to justify the theory. In essence all of these theories are true, the nuraghe being effectively multi purpose mini castles. They are also impossible to miss if you make any kind of journey across or around the island.

Our next journey takes us from west coast to east, so rather than do things in a hurry we opt firstly to detour to five different nuraghe locations, and secondly to break the journey with an overnight stay on the top of the island high up in the mountain range which is Sardinia’s spine. It’s a great drive full of both interest and spectacular scenery.

At Losa the nuraghe complex is extensive and visitor friendly, but Zuros, the so called Tomb of the Giants, and Su Pranu, the sites are remote, unmanned and largely inaccessible. Lastly, at the most extensive site of all, Su Nuraxi di Barumini, access is by guided tour only. At Losa, as we were at S’Archittu on our own steam the previous day, we are free to wander around the entire site and climb its unusual internal spiral ramp. At Su Nuraxi the experience is even more adventurous despite the formality of a guided tour, climbing through precarious passageways to examine the different sections of the construction.

Many nuraghe, as is the case at Losa, feature the spiral internal ramp as the means of ascent to the top. There would originally have been a header to the nuraghe, giving the whole construction a mushroom shape, though the roofs of all have long since disintegrated. These multiple and mysterious structures were built by people of whom little is known, so little in fact that they are simply known by historians as the “nuraghe people”, or the “nuragic civilisation”, the race named after the buildings rather than the other way round. The nuraghe people are believed to have inhabited Sardinia for millennia even before the Bronze Age, creating the nuraghe structures between 1600 and 1200BC in a 400-year building frenzy.

At Santa Cristina, a Christian village was constructed on and around the nuraghe site in the 12th century, remains of both the giant nuraghe and the two villages from different eras remain accessible. Among the pagan rituals of the nuraghi civilisation were those centred around the supply of water: here at Santa Cristina, the complex grew around a well. Historians have concluded that the positioning of the Christian church, directly between the well and the nuraghe, was so placed to break the pagan line.

Leaving our five very different nuraghe visits behind, we follow the road up into the mountains, through a 10-kilometre section where road surface disappears and rocky track takes over, up eventually to the small town of Fonni, 3000ft above sea level, for our one night stand. Described on web pages as “a taste of the real Sardinia”, Fonni is quiet, reserved and a million miles away from the touristic coastal towns. Here the cuisine is undeniably mountain rather than marine and we enjoy a hearty and fulfilling wild boar stew in what is Sardinia’s highest village.

And yet, Fonni isn’t without its quirks. For a start, it is home to a “Paleo” at which the rivalry of the competing teams is at least as passionate as the more famous equivalent in Siena, and, judging by the steep and narrow cobbled streets, at least as dangerous.

Moreover, Fonni has a completely absorbing way of telling its history, through a whole series of delightful and beautifully painted murals dotted around the town. The scenes depicted are lifelike, colourful and absolutely not without humour – study some of the photos above and below and see if you can work out which are the real windows, doors, balconies etc , and which are part of the mural. Wandering around Fonni on a kind of mural treasure hunt wiles away a couple of rewarding hours before we move on.

Move on we do, down from the heights of Fonni, down through forests of pine and cork oaks, across agricultural fields recently harvested with straw bales still evident, heading inexorably to the perfect blue waters of Sardinia’s eastern coast. Detouring for a quick cooling dip in the Med at Spiaggi Cartoe, our journey continues along the spectacular coast road to our next destination, the small town of Orosei.

“This was my great grandmother’s home”, explains Eleonora as she opens the door to our apartment, “we only made these apartments this summer. I hope you enjoy”.

We settle in behind the grand doors of the elegant townhouse and prepare to explore the beautiful stretch of coastline around Orosei. 

Sardinia’s Eastern Coast: Orosei, Palau & La Maddalena Archipelago 

I keep referring to the wind here as the Mistral, but it is in fact only wind in a certain direction which carries that name. Each wind, be it northerly, easterly, whatever, has a name in these parts, and there are seven in all, each with different characteristics and each bringing different weather. I guess when your livelihood – and indeed your life in the case of the fishermen – depends on such things, the knowledge bar needs to be high.

The town of Orosei sits in the middle of a stretch of notoriously beautiful Sardinian coastline, rugged yet fertile, bold yet tranquil. The best way to view this stretch is of course from the sea, so consequently Orosei is the base for a number of operators offering spectacular tours – the main, though not the only, reason we chose Orosei as our next billet. With a little twist of irony, the Mistral, or whichever of its cohorts is blowing this week, is too strong, and all boat trips are cancelled for the whole length of our stay. Bit of a bummer but you can’t outwit nature, can you.

Stuck for something to fill a half day, we explore some of the coast by road, where the beaches can be summarised in three pairs of words: howling gale, red flags, crashing waves. Just a kilometre or so inland, the wind is less aggressive and Orosei turns, unusually for an island, humid, particularly in the afternoons as heavy cloud gathers and storms threaten but never materialise.

Driving along the coast we do catch glimpses of its wonder and can only imagine the scenes the boat trip would have granted had it happened. Orosei is a small, pleasant town where the afternoon siesta and late night dining, long time staple characteristics of the Mediterranean lifestyle, are still very much in evidence: the stalls of the trinket market don’t even set up until 9pm.

From Orosei we head northwards more or less along Sardinia’s eastern shore, but with time available today we keep an eye out for anything which suggests a detour, and after a couple of viewpoints and a coffee stop at the seaside village of La Caletta, we hit the jackpot. Across the fields Michaela spots what looks like a town and castle perched precariously right on the edge of a dramatic escarpment, something which positively screams detour at the top of its voice.

We’ve stumbled upon the magnificent village of Posada, described by one renowned travel writer thus:

“There is a place in the world where the heart beats fast, where you are left breathless by how much emotion you feel, where time stops and you are no longer old. That place is Posada where the heart does not age and the mind never stops dreaming”. 

Well, those are hefty accolades but the little town is indeed gorgeous with fabulous views across fertile agricultural land to the sea. Its castle, known as the Castello della Fava (“the castle of beans”, bizarrely) was constructed in the 12th and 13th centuries in order to protect the hugely productive agricultural lands from envious raiders. Held by the Catalans for a while, the defence was to provide a regular refuge for villagers whenever their lands were under threat.

Posada may have a big reputation to live up to with that quote but it makes a good fist of it, picturesque in its own right yet providing amazing views both from it and of it, a lovely town of which we knew nothing until we spied it across the fields. There’s no doubt that road trips are enhanced when you have the time and inclination to detour, you just never know what you will stumble upon.

With detours complete it’s late afternoon when we pull up outside our next apartment overlooking a beautiful strait between the town and the archipelago which scatters seven hilly islands across the Med. We are now towards the northern tip of Sardinia, in the town of Palau, from where regular ferries amble back and forth across the strait creating sparkling white wakes in the ever changing shades of blue.

Above the town sitting atop the highest hill is a fort, though this is no ancient structure, dating only from the late 19th century and going on to see military usage in each of the World Wars. Looking across from the other side of town is the Roccia dell’Orso, a rock in the shape of a bear appearing to guard the entrance to the strait, a resemblance more obvious from afar than from the rugged walk beneath its pose.

Palau has that familiar feel which is a mix of holiday town and ferry port with an appealing lungomare and a relay style ferry service to a neighbouring island which runs throughout the day. The ferry’s destination is the largest island of the archipelago, La Maddalena, which from here looks extremely attractive. Our day long boat trip – yep, we manage one this time – makes La Maddalena its last call.

Ahead of that the boat trip takes us to the smaller islands of Spargi, Budelli and Santa Maria. The island scenery is beautiful, the water fabulously clear, but the trip is really little more than a procession as successive boatloads of swimwear-clad customers traipse across the rocks to find a postage stamp sized place on the sand and soak up the sun before their hour is up and it’s time to climb back on board. There’s more flesh on show than in the average abattoir.

Possibly the most interesting call is at a place where we are forbidden to moor and can only view from afar: the Spiaggia Rosa, which has a lovely tale to tell. The “pink” name of the beach comes from a microscopic organism called foraminifera which washes ashore and mingles with the sand, giving the whole beach a pinkish hue. Unfortunately its popularity was its downfall as tourists and traders alike scooped up souvenir handfuls in such quantities that the pink colour was lost altogether.

Cue the accidental arrival in 1989 of lone sailor Mauro Morandi, whose boat broke down nearby, forcing him to seek Crusoe-esque refuge on the uninhabited rock. Learning of the plundering of the natural phenomenon, he became the unofficial guardian of the beach, warding off all and sundry, winning from local authorities protective rights to prevent access to the beach, and waited for the pink to return, which it slowly did.

Incredibly, this guy sat there, guarding this little piece of nature, for more than THIRTY YEARS without ever leaving his post. By the time old age caught up with him, he was a local hero and celebrity, had achieved his aim and allowed nature to recover and the pink to return. Ill health and old age were soon to combine to end his life shortly after leaving his post, though many believe he died of a broken heart as a result of having to leave his little piece of paradise behind.

And so on to the island of La Maddalena and its eponymous main town. It is, as we thought it might be, just as attractive from within as it is from across the strait. We need to see this place on our own timeframe rather than on this processional boat trip. Those chugging ferries suddenly look irresistible. 

Northern Sardinia: Garibaldi, Maddalena & Magical Moments

I know that traditionally Sardinian people are reputed to be small in size but the last two shower cubicles have been ridiculous, like they’ve been made with figures from a Lowry painting in mind. Once in, you move around at your peril: the slightest movement will make physical contact with either the glass cubicle (dangerous) or the shower controls, the consequence of which might be a scalded bum cheek, a frozen scalp or an abrupt end to the water flow. Any of these are possible. It’s a relief to come through it unscathed.

Anyway, back to La Maddalena, the island across the strait from the town of Palau which looks so lovely from afar and doesn’t disappoint in the flesh. Our brief visit on the boat trip whetted our appetite enough for us to return twice; once as foot passengers on the ferry to investigate the island’s eponymous town further, then with the car to explore the rest of this little gem of an island.

Out of the town and on to the road which circles the island, the scenery is immediately spectacular, rocks sculpted by erosion into other worldly smooth shapes forming a boundary between the blue sea and the green hills. The exciting roadway sweeps from high on the clifftop to down beside the waves, every mile another delight, every turn another chance to pause and soak in the view.

We sit on stools at the shelf, tonic water our only drink on this, a road trip day. The beautiful rocky coastline below is caressed by the surf which forms brilliant white margins to the deep blue, the heady scent of pines baking in the sun drifts through the air from below, carried upwards on the warm wind which buffs our faces. Across the stunning blue sea the other islands of the archipelago bathe in sunshine, while further, beyond them all, white cliiffs on the coast of Corsica are clearly visible. Boats with crystal wakes cut through the waves in silence, too distant to hear, close enough to see. The soulful music in the cafe captures our mood perfectly: The Two Of Us, Bein’ With You, Lovely Day. We smile, aware that this is one of those special moments, a reminder of just how much we love this life of travel, and how lucky we are to have it. Timeless. Priceless. 

La Maddalena the town has an unmistakable island feel, like a Greek chora, while the island as a whole is full of beautiful scenery and spectacular coastline. It is in fact so special that no less a figure than the mighty Garibaldi made his home here at the northern tip of a neighbouring island joined by a causeway to Maddalena. The Garibaldi house is now open to the public, a kind of a mixture of how the farm was once run, an ethnographical museum, and a eulogistic tribute to the unifier of the Italian nation, all rolled into one. Throughout the museum, Garibaldi is consistently referred to as “The Hero” (their capitals) rather than by name.

Something of a health and hygiene freak, the great man was to see out his time here in this unpolluted healthy air, eating and drinking almost exclusively produce grown or reared on the premises. The house remained in the family’s hands until the last Garibaldi, his youngest daughter, died in 1959. It’s still absolutely possible to feel the peace and tranquility here which gave The Hero such comfort as his health deteriorated; he breathed his last breath propped up in bed here, looking out at the sea.

Garibaldi statue and around his home

We leave Palau now to head further along the coast, pleased to have explored La Maddalena, Garibaldi was certainly no fool to make it his final resting place. En route to our next base at Castelsardo, and not for the first time this week, we have the opportunity to detour and explore, finding the good (the delightful cove which is Conca Verde), and the bad (ersatz holiday villages like Portobello and the dreadfully named Costa Paradiso, all new build luxury and zero authenticity). And then there’s Isola Rossa, a perfect little beach town in a cute cove, though you have to turn a blind eye to its newer less attractive other half on the way down.

On from lunch at Isola Rossa we go, westwards along Sardinia’s northern coast to yet another pleasing little coastal town which has streets open to two way traffic which are some of the steepest and narrowest we’ve ever seen. On top of this town which seems to rise almost vertically from the sea is the magnificently placed castle which gives the town its name. Actually, it’s given the town its previous names too, each incarnation reflecting whichever power held control at the time: originally Castelgenoese, then Castelaragonese, now Castelsardo.

A town which rises as steeply as this one will provide superb views, and Castelsardo definitely does, especially from up in the castle, down to the quaint harbour, across the deep blue Mediterranean and inland across the green hills and valleys. The aptly named Sunset View Bar, just below the castle walls, is the place to be as the golden hour approaches. Two consistencies of this tour of Sardinia have been pretty towns and terrific seafood and throughout our two-day stay here Castelsardo absolutely delivers on both fronts.

The end of our time on Sardinia is approaching, we will soon be moving on. From Castelsardo we return to Alghero to say goodbye to the rental car and retrace our steps from a couple of weeks back, through the old town and along the waterfront. In between Castelsardo and Alghero we venture into the island’s northernmost peninsula towards the town of Stintino, only to find that this is the corner where Sardinia hides its industrial quarter: an ugly run of refineries, factories and power generation plants dominate the landscape – landscape which is itself hidden beneath a plethora of wind turbines and solar panels.

Back here again in Alghero, we spend one more night fighting to find a free table in the town’s restaurants. It’s certainly less busy than it was two weeks ago, but we still receive plenty of shakes of the head before we finally find one which isn’t fully booked.

From Alghero it’s a picturesque and stress free bus journey of two and a half hours back along the northern coast to the attractively named Santa Teresa Gallura, perched above the ferry port which will be our point of departure from Sardinia. We have a couple of nights here before the Moby ferry takes us from Italian territory to French as we make the crossing to Corsica. Slowly but surely we’re inching towards Mostar, though there’s still plenty of stops between here and there.

The first weekend of September. The sun has lost much of its intensity – we’re talking 29-30 now rather than upper 30s – and the island winds remain stubborn. Soon the days will begin to shorten noticeably as high season moves firmly into shoulder, soon we will wonder whether a T-shirt is enough in the evening breeze. But for now the skies remain beautifully clear, the sea fabulously blue and perfectly inviting. We are yet to see rain on this entire journey, not even one of those renowned Mediterranean storms.

Our first evening in our last Sardinian base, out in the warm air in the private courtyard behind the apartment. Soulful music is drifting up from a bar in town – Carole King, Four Tops, Harold Melvin, then some contemporary covers of old classics. Tonight the air is still, the winds taking a break, the peace of the moment enhanced, not stained, by the music which takes me almost trance like into my own little nirvana moment. I am feeling incredibly chilled, so peaceful.

“Phil, you getting in the shower or what? You’ll have it dark soon if you don’t get a move on”.

“Coming babe”.