Multiplying Report 6

The seventh day These white roads take on a particular colour in the morning; they seem made to be furrowed without having to lead to a precise destination, but only to accompany the wayfarer along his road. Having reached the marina, I began to savour that atmosphere that accompanies every seaside holiday resort, which has nothing to do with the "sea". I too, with a feeling of shame, savoured the act of bathing. That dolphin brought ashore by the motorboat had not reckoned with that bastard propeller that took the holidaymakers to discover the intoxication of boating. On returning from their great feat of small coastal navigation, they will be able to tell of having seen a big fish up close too, but they did not have time to make it out so as to specify the species. I had the time to be able to stroke its delightful snout, still smiling.

I resumed my journey; I found myself in an ancient village (Siniscola); in that place dwelt a life that retraced the originality of the topos. An old woman laughed at my interest in her youth, by then lost; she made herself beautiful before my wish to take photographs. All around me was girded by walls that marked the limit of attention to the place; a large arch with a proper gate did not allow the foreigner to enter freely, nor the natives to leave without any feeling. Almost as if one had to account to some other authority for one's freedom. Whoever left from there would never return. Sometimes shutting oneself in for fear of being violated in one's own domus corresponds equally to not wanting anything else to leave it. Where one cannot enter corresponds to not being able to leave. By now I could see the so-longed-for mountains of Supramonte; their charm and imposingness were supreme.

It was not my first encounter with the mountain; my legs had already savoured the effort of reaching it. But these were particular; the memories of the song came alive. The first real breakdown of the bicycle happened right beside a refreshment place that finally let me savour the flavours of that Sardinian cuisine; the white wine too intoxicated my memory of a world by then distant. With a few fellow guests we exchanged a few words about shared memories. They spoke to me of kidnappings, almost as if it were a duty for them, by virtue of the fact that we were by then on the borders of Barbagia. I listened to their legends, captivated just like their protagonists.