Wednesday, 6 October 2010

...And that's why I can't be bothered with Glastonbury...

Flying  with Steve is always fun. He’s a very efficient grumbler and reads a lot. This means he can moan until the moment of take off and then remain silent for the entire flight, before wittering to himself on landing.
Getting to the airport is also fun because he’s an angry driver and constantly has a better idea than the road network as to the best way to get somewhere. The reason I say all this is because we are in Sardinia at a rather secret (And as a result) rather exclusive music festival. Apparently there are only thirty five paying customers, with the rest of the audience made up of bands and hangers on.

We got in to Cagliari about eight o’clock and spent the next hour or so dawdling in the car hire kiosk, waiting to get the last car of the night. Steve wanted a Lancia. We got a Lancia. I chickened out of driving because it wasn’t automatic. We loaded up and bombed off up the SS 130 towards Iglesias where we were under instructions to call Oliver. It was a remarkably good road and once accustomed to being on the wrong side of it Steve made an admirable job of traversing it. On arrival we stopped for a beer and called the man. He said simply that he would see us in about an hour. Then it all got a bit James Bond.

The mountain pass from Iglesias to Portixeddu (Our final destination) lived up to its title, is probably only about ten miles but did indeed take an hour. I have never covered so many hairpin bends in so short a distance. It was ridiculous and also appeared to just keep ascending. There was no down side to it and at one point we thought we were nearing Heaven,  Asgard or Nirvana, but Nirvana was reached after the sharp drop on the other side. Even by night, we could tell that where we were was beautiful.

Steve hadn’t uttered a single word of discontent on the entire journey. I think Sardinia agrees with him – either that or the mountain pass had been more of a white knuckle ride for him than me and he had simply been dumbstruck with terror. Oliver would later tell us that he had once been confronted by an angry bull at the top of the peak. I’m glad we found that out in the right order.

Then we drank until six in the morning with a Swedish band, two Italians who spoke German, a Sardinian who didn’t (Called Corallo) and a German sound guy named Mario. We sipped to begin with (To be polite) and then I handed Franco (one of the Germalians) a ten euro note by way of our contribution to the proceedings. That prompted him to throw beer, moonshine and some local poison at us until we couldn’t see, soaked up with some delicious pasta that appeared as if by magic. They took us to the refugee camp that was our living accommodation and left us there to sleep it all off. We did – spectacularly. I got up about half past three the next afternoon to find Steve gone. I needed to use the toilet but couldn’t find it. I remembered it being outside but was unsure as to where. This led to an increasingly uncomfortable walk up and down the street, into a pigeon loft and obviously past the outhouse in question on several occasions which was connected to the front of the building. Steve returned from the beach and showed me where it was.

It was in the nick of time.

During the saga a local couple had rung the doorbell. I answered. They said something in rapid Italian. I had no chance and replied simply

“I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about”

And we all burst out laughing. They’re a nice bunch, in the main.

We took a little drive to Buggerru (the Sardinians pronounce it boo-jerr oo, but I don’t – I pronounce it BUGGER YOU! At every opportunity) to pick up supplies and marvelled repeatedly at the splendour of our surroundings. This little corner of Sardinia really is breathtakingly beautiful and the weather at this time of year is just perfect. Cloudless skies, temperature in the early eighties and just the faintest of sea breezes. I vowed to make it to the beach at least once. We came back, ate cold meat and awful cheese, drank some of the moonshine (Oliver had insisted we take some with us the night before) and trotted up to the Pizza restaurant where the first gig was. below is the view from the restaurant at sunset

I had figured we would be the only English people there. We were. Fortunately everyone else in the world speaks English so we were all right. Pizza ordered, wine drunk, beer ordered, we waited for the first band. It was the Swedish guys from the night before! A very enthusiastic bunch of young rapscallions called The Make Outs (pictured below)

who braved a power cut and did two sets because the other band hadn’t showed up (It turned out their seventeen year old drummer had been grounded by his mother – I know – you couldn’t make it up). By the end of the night we knew everyone at the festival (except the Swiss who had been extremely reserved) staggered back to our digs and I found a German bloke asleep in my bed. It was my fault – I had forgotten to put a towel on it. After screaming repeatedly “Get the f**k out of my bed!” at him until he finally did, I got in it myself and woke up at four this afternoon. No beach today then.

The German bloke was in the room next door and (I think) just got in the wrong bed. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. He was fairly sheepish when I saw him just now. I also don’t think he understood when I called him “Herr Goldilocks”. he is pictured below - but which one is he? Ooh! I love a puzzle!

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