by Jayantha Perera

Shyamala (my wife) and I arrived at Cagliari Airport in Sardinia with several friends from Rome to participate in a writers’ workshop in Galteli, a remote Sardinian village. It was mid-January, and It was a sunny and warm afternoon. The sky was blue, and sun rays penetrated the airport’s thick, tall glass panes, warming us. The distant craggy mountains displayed their naked limestone spikes, occasionally releasing a glint. The dusty horizon looked distant, blurring the contours between the dry, flat land and disappearing grey mountains. Large concrete structures dominated the immediate landscape of the airport. They were engulfed in a mess of tentacles of the ring road. Still, a disciplined traffic movement emerged from the chaos. The landscape of Sardinia, with its rugged mountains, flat lands, and distant horizons, was a sight to behold.

Someone announced we should go to the green bus about 200 meters from the Arrivals building. An Italian who spoke English volunteered to fetch the driver. We applauded when the bus driver returned. He was a podgy man with very little hair on his head. His clothes were too tight and crumpled. He looked like a man who already had a few pints of beer. He packed our bags into the bus belly in five minutes and asked us to get in.

The bus left the airport at 3.45 pm. It was a glorious afternoon with the golden sun just setting after warming all of us. The dry, flat, distant landscape suddenly took a new look, bathed in warm golden sun rays. The journey was smooth, and there were hardly any other vehicles on the winding road. The immediate flat land with distant hills and mountain ranges on the horizon started to display their land use patterns. By the road was a grazing land with hundreds of sheep and cows, and at another place was a large village with well-maintained gardens and orchards. There was open land dotted with ancient Roman ruins, dry riverbeds, and medieval churches with beautiful domes in a few places. The rapidly setting winter sun added charm to the landscape through the lengthening shadows of houses, trees, and churches, especially their spires. The journey looked never-ending with the rapid sunset.

The bus arrived at Galtelli village after sunset. A young woman in a skirt and tee shirt got onto the bus, read 10 names, and waited until 10 people showed their raised hands. She already looked harassed. She advised the ten men to get down and collect their luggage from the bus belly. It was already dark, so it was challenging to identify the luggage. The second bus stop was on the main road. As if they had learned from the first group, another 10 exited the bus soon after the roll call, collected their baggage, and vanished into the darkness with an assistant. The third and final group arrived at an empty bus stop at Sa. Cantina. When we got down from the bus, darkness and cold engulfed us. Andrea, the manager of Antico Borgo Hotel, was at the bus stop. Some confusion arose from the name list, as some writers who had planned to stay together during the workshop were separated by that time. After a 10-minute discussion, local organisers’ plans prevailed. The dejected ones picked up their baggage and followed Andrea.

Andrea was in a hurry. After walking uphill for about five minutes, several writers complained they could no longer carry their bags. Andrea ignored them and continued uphill. The climb was steep on cobbled streets. It was tough to pull suitcases and walk uphill. Shyamala and I found it challenging to keep pace with Andrea, especially after one of my bags lost two wheels on the rough, cobbled streets. I told Andrea several guests needed help to carry their bags to the hotel. He said, “First things first”, and moved on.

The final climb was from a church piazza (public square) to the Antico Borgo Hotel at #7 of Via Sassari. There was a great gasp of relief when we saw the large gate of the Antico Borgo Hotel. The hotel, a charming establishment with a rich history, was a welcome sight after the long journey. Andrea opened the visitors’ gate, led us into the courtyard, and disappeared. Some collapsed into the wicker chairs in the hotel’s foyer and demanded a stiff drink to recover. We were freezing in the foyer, waiting for Andrea. He returned after 30 minutes, ready to assist us with our check-in.

Shyamala and I got a room on the ground floor. The room was a part of the original building, dating back to the 16^th century. The roof had wild tree trunks as rafters, and the uneven ceiling was covered with lime and clay. The room was dark, damp, and smelly. It had no windows. There were six steel-framed beds, although we had requested a room with one double bed. One bed, however, had fresh bed sheets, pillows, folded blankets, two large towels, and several hand towels.

D H Lawrence’s description of winter in Sardinia in his ‘Sea and Sardinia’ aptly described our plight at the guest house. “The room – in fact, the whole Sardinia – was stone cold, stone, stone cold. Outside, the earth is freezing. Inside, there was no thought of any sort of warmth: dungeon stone floors, dungeon stone walls, and a dead corpse-like atmosphere, too heavy and icy to move.”

There was a wooden closet at the back of the room. The bookshelf by the toilet was covered with dust, and the few books and pamphlets on its bottom were wet and soggy. The coffee machine was on a rickety table by our bed. There was a small fridge, and a 12″ TV was on it.

The bathroom was wet and freezing cold despite running hot water. The shower stall needed to be wider for a person to stand.

Within minutes, Shyamala found breathing difficult, as the room was stale, wet, and musty. She caught Andrea in the courtyard and asked for an extra heater to warm the room and a dehumidifier to clear the air. We were glad to spend a few minutes under the two blankets to recover before dinner at a restaurant about 600 meters from Borgo. Hot soup and a steak revived our mood. When we returned, the room had two dehumidifiers and two extra heaters, and we felt cosy and warm.

We got up early the following day; the room was warm, and the air was much cleaner than the previous evening. The coffee machine worked perfectly. We dressed, crossed the courtyard, and climbed a few steps to the open restaurant with a large heater that kept the area warm. The breakfast spread was impressive – many types of cured fish and meat with olives and cheeses. The heater broke down within minutes, and we had breakfast as we shivered in the cold. Andrea arranged a few electric heaters to keep at least our feet warm and provided an unlimited number of hot cappuccinos to keep us warm.

After breakfast, we walked around the cobblestone streets, absorbing the breathtaking view. The sun shone, and roads were dry after the previous night’s rain. Galtelli village was on a low hill ledge of the mighty Tuttuvista Mountain that rose steeply behind it. The village spread downwards along winding, silent, and narrow cobblestone streets to the national S 129 highway. The limestone mountain, its environs, well-kept whitewashed houses, and beautiful medieval churches with their belfries wiped out our complaints. We learned that Grazia Deledda, the Nobel Prize winner for literature in the 1930s and who wrote ‘Reeds in the Wind,’ had lived in Galtelli for several short spells in the 1920s and 1930s.

Lunch was served around 1 pm in the hotel’s courtyard. It consisted of salads, cold cuts, canned fish, wild rice, bread, olives, and pickles. The sun and warmth in the courtyard encouraged discussions and debates among guests. Small groups spread over the courtyard, steps, and balconies as they enjoyed the food, the sun, wine, and coffee. There were no other tasks other than a siesta in the afternoon.

Andrea studied hotel management in the US and developed a peculiar English accent. He was also the manager of two other small hotels. He arranged transport and guided tours for guests. A popular trip was to climb Tuttavista to see Statua Bronzea del Christo (a bronze statue of Christ) and Sa Pedra Istampada (St Peter’s viewing point). He sometimes acted as a middleman when guests had merchandise to sell.

Once, when Andrea was alone in his office, I asked him for the best time to visit Sardinia. That question baffled him; he said, “Sardinia is special in any season.” He did not like my suggestion that Sardinian culture is a sub-Italian culture. He said, “Sardinia is a part of Italy, but not Italy.” Then he told me, “When God created paradise, he actually created Sardinia.”

In mid-January, the village celebrates the Fiesta di Sant’Antonio Abate (the Feast of Saint Anthony, the Abbot). St. Anthony is also known as Saint Anthony the Great, Saint Anthony of Padua, the Egyptian Saint, and the patron saint of butchers, domestic animals, basket makers, and gravediggers. He also protects people against skin diseases, especially shingles, known as Fuoco di Sant’Antonio (Fire of St. Anthony).

St. Anthony, the hermit, renounced worldly possessions, followed the word of Jesus, performed miracles, and helped ordinary folks. He was the first hermit to live a genuinely monastic lifestyle. The devil repeatedly tempted him to break his vows, but he persevered through sincere prayers and meditation. St. Anthony is often portrayed in images with the devil at his feet. A legend claims he went to hell to steal the devil’s fire. While he distracted the devil, his pet piglet ran in and brought a piece of burning coal from the fireplace.

The Galtelli people eagerly await the feast of Sant’Antonio stealing fire from hell. The centre of the celebration is a majestic bonfire to warm up the cold evening. This ancient ritual brings the entire village community together.

St Anthony’s Cathedral in Galtelli celebrated the festival with gusto. Young men and women decorated the church, its approach path, and the main road. A few days before the festival, villagers combed nearby mountains and valleys to gather wet grass and tree branches. Some brought small loads of wood and ferns from the nearby riverbed; others drove their pickups to transport lumber from the slopes of the Tuttavista mountain.

Those who brought grass, timber, and tree branches piled them into a pyramid in the middle of the village playground and left the heap to settle and dry. A few days before the festival, women baked cocconeddos and pistiddu, thick biscuits with dough filled with cooked wine. The festival committee planned a convivial dinner for church leaders and music groups. Mr Antonio, the Galtelli’s brewer and wine seller, promised to deliver countless gallons of wine to serve devotees.

The church service began at 3.30 p.m. A local group sang in ancient Sard (the local dialect), adding an aura to the service. They were all men. One was a very old man and could hardly stand. A young man replaced him occasionally, and the old man was happy to be a part of the choir. All young girls and boys in the village attended the service, and their murmurings were loud enough to mask what the priest said. People were happy because the day was sunny and bright.

A sharing moment between the sacred and the profane arose after the church service. We all walked in silence to the playground, where the pyramid awaited. On the way, women distributed coconeddos and pistiddu to devotees. The priest who celebrated the service arrived first at the playground. He blessed the pyramid and waited until the entire community and visitors gathered around it. Two young men walked around the monument three times with torches, keeping their left shoulder towards the pyramid while the priest chanted prayers. Then, the priest sprinkled holy water on the pyramid. The two men set fire to the bonfire’s core, and in a few seconds, the mighty blaze was sending hot flames in all directions. Visitors inhaled the pleasant smell of burning myrtle branches and eucalyptus leaves. The lengthening shadow of Mount Tuttavista slowly engulfed all of us. The sunset threw a glorious hue over the burning bonfire.

Young men distributed new wine in plastic cups. Refills came very fast, and refusing new wine was considered a sin. The wine god, Bacchus, stood beside the bonfire and brought boozy blessings to all. Cauldrons filled with boiling pig lard with broad beans were brought in. People fell in line to get food as a few middle-aged women controlled the crowd. Some devotees pensively watched and counted the images drawn by the bonfire in the heavy smoke. They tried to tally them with premonitions, prophecies and wishes for the New Year.

Shyamala and I had enough fresh wine for the day and wanted to return to our guesthouse. It was difficult to leave the ground as everyone wanted to talk to us. Shyamala talked to some of them in Italian, and they were thrilled to discuss our thoughts on the festival. Shyamala, meanwhile, told me the priest had flirty eye contact with her; I thought he was tipsy. The priest spoke a little English and smoked cigars non-stop. His potbelly hinted that he drank a lot of wine. The priest was a short and fat fellow with no hair on his head and wore a tight pair of blue jeans and a short-sleeved checked shirt. He sported his cell phone in his back jeans pocket and regularly checked it for messages.

Two days later, someone suggested that Antonio bring 40 bottles of new wine to the guesthouse to sell to the guests. Antonio arrived at the guesthouse later that night with his German girlfriend in his double cab van. Nobody showed any interest in Antonio’s wine. Antonio did not know what had gone wrong with his wine the previous day – the wine tasted like vinegar. Still, one consolation was that St. Vincent Saragossa was the patron saint of wine brewers and vinegar producers. If St. Vincent felt belittled by St. Anthony after the bonfire, Antonio could brew another batch of fresh wines in the name of St. Vincent. After all, in Galtelli, there is ample time and space for new traditions to emerge and new friendships to forge.

We left Galtelli after staying eight days at Andrea’s guesthouse. After helping him load bags, Shyamala and I joined him in going to Sa. Cantina to catch the airport bus. He drove like a maniac at breakneck speed. He negotiated elbow corners at high speed on narrow and slippery cobbled streets. He smiled and reassured us that he knew Galtelli roads well and that his guardian angel would protect him. I wanted to ask him who would protect us. When we reached Sa. Cantina, he quickly unloaded suitcases, ignored the heavy rain, and drove back to bring more guests after waving at us and sending a flying kiss.