In Sardinia, we had dinner at La Pelosa (with the hills and the poem, blah blah). Driving home towards Stintino we got stuck behind the coach to Alghero (our destination). Mark, all holiday, had been doing a pretty good job imitating an Italian with his fondness for that chicken-lane thing that has me pressing imaginary pedals on the floor, hanging onto the passenger grim-death handle and shouting for my mother, but this road, this bus, this dark, dark night was one manoeuvre too far.
All was not lost though as there are two roads from Stintino towards Alghero – an old turny-wurny, sicky-wicky one and a new(ish) straighter(ish) one, tarmacked even. In a moment of consensus (minus a sleeping Karin, a negroni beyond caring) we took “the road less traveled”.
A diversion. An old road. Longer but freer. A byway, not a highway. Other than us, it was devoid of cars for fully thirty minutes of twists and turns through the darkness. It was a glorious distraction. And proved so when we arrived at the roundabout to rejoin the new road. Five seconds later than the coach.
All was not lost though as there are two roads from Stintino towards Alghero – an old turny-wurny, sicky-wicky one and a new(ish) straighter(ish) one, tarmacked even. In a moment of consensus (minus a sleeping Karin, a negroni beyond caring) we took “the road less traveled”.
A diversion. An old road. Longer but freer. A byway, not a highway. Other than us, it was devoid of cars for fully thirty minutes of twists and turns through the darkness. It was a glorious distraction. And proved so when we arrived at the roundabout to rejoin the new road. Five seconds later than the coach.
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