Sardinia, Italy
Tranquility. How would one sketch that word? What components of the world around would be included if one chose to convey that feeling of calmness, serenity, the ideal state in which to be? Sunrise or sunset surely would be a part, the low angled rays of the sun washing the world with crimson, the color of romance. Clear turquoise waters and isolated bays would probably be high on the list of options too. But what about a grotto, deep beneath the ground, its adornments sculpted by the slow drip of mineral rich water over the millennia? Maybe beauty is peaceful too.
Water surrounded us as the sun was born from the deep. Distorted by the atmospheric prism it resembled most a brilliant Easter egg nestled in a basket of soft blue crepe, its glow alternately reflected or hidden by the textural highs and lows of the waves. Coffee in hand we stood, relaxed, watching the day begin. Accompanying us, following much the same course, a fin whale sent a plume of mist high from its paired blowholes. Sheeting seas slid from its back leaving a glistening pink reflection. We could breathe deeply with it. Inhale, then glide just below the surface. Rise and exhale deeply. Repeat in cycles of three or four and then with a quick inhalation, it takes a deeper dive. Then it was gone and we set about preparing for the day.
Capo Caccia rises as a sheer vertical limestone cliff. Its commanding presence protects this tiny portion of northwestern Sardinia where peaceful coves play host to seekers of the sun. Not just in modern times do seafarers ply its shores; as long as man has put to sea in boats these sheltered shores have seen them come and go. Under warm and sunny skies, the morning found us in tiny craft seeking solitude. Yellow kayaks were miniscule dots. Zodiacs were only slightly bigger when seen from across the bay. We spent the morning tethered to this Cape and finished the day here as well.
While the island’s residents relaxed at siesta time we explored the nearly deserted town of Alghero and the long abandoned ruins of Nuraghe Primavera. With the residents in short supply a sense of place can be discovered. Cultures and what each left behind can then be layered on like oils upon a canvas. In town the colorful mosaic dome of St. Michael’s mimicked the beehive style homes of Bronze-age man now found in scattered remnants across the island.
Limestone, sea-floor millions of years ago formed the cliffs we gazed up at, was the basement of the land we walked upon and carved into blocks became shelters and fortifications. Solid as it appeared to be it will not last forever. Drip, drip, drip. The slow and steady trickle of water percolates through the rock plucking molecules from their place, one by one. Calcium carbonate, once part of a living sea dwelling creature hitches a ride cruising the tiny channels between other crystalline forms. The highway plunges through the roof of a cave. Molecules are left behind. Layer upon layer, a stalactite grows. Maybe the droplet reaches the floor and tiny mounds grow into bigger ones, the stalagmite might someday reach up to meet the ceiling. Organ pipes and lacy straws, strips and spires, columns of travertine glimmer in the golden eerie light introduced into the underworld. They reflect in the still and shallow pools of Neptune’s Grotto. Reflections, impossible without the tranquility of water.
Tranquility. How would one sketch that word? What components of the world around would be included if one chose to convey that feeling of calmness, serenity, the ideal state in which to be? Sunrise or sunset surely would be a part, the low angled rays of the sun washing the world with crimson, the color of romance. Clear turquoise waters and isolated bays would probably be high on the list of options too. But what about a grotto, deep beneath the ground, its adornments sculpted by the slow drip of mineral rich water over the millennia? Maybe beauty is peaceful too.
Water surrounded us as the sun was born from the deep. Distorted by the atmospheric prism it resembled most a brilliant Easter egg nestled in a basket of soft blue crepe, its glow alternately reflected or hidden by the textural highs and lows of the waves. Coffee in hand we stood, relaxed, watching the day begin. Accompanying us, following much the same course, a fin whale sent a plume of mist high from its paired blowholes. Sheeting seas slid from its back leaving a glistening pink reflection. We could breathe deeply with it. Inhale, then glide just below the surface. Rise and exhale deeply. Repeat in cycles of three or four and then with a quick inhalation, it takes a deeper dive. Then it was gone and we set about preparing for the day.
Capo Caccia rises as a sheer vertical limestone cliff. Its commanding presence protects this tiny portion of northwestern Sardinia where peaceful coves play host to seekers of the sun. Not just in modern times do seafarers ply its shores; as long as man has put to sea in boats these sheltered shores have seen them come and go. Under warm and sunny skies, the morning found us in tiny craft seeking solitude. Yellow kayaks were miniscule dots. Zodiacs were only slightly bigger when seen from across the bay. We spent the morning tethered to this Cape and finished the day here as well.
While the island’s residents relaxed at siesta time we explored the nearly deserted town of Alghero and the long abandoned ruins of Nuraghe Primavera. With the residents in short supply a sense of place can be discovered. Cultures and what each left behind can then be layered on like oils upon a canvas. In town the colorful mosaic dome of St. Michael’s mimicked the beehive style homes of Bronze-age man now found in scattered remnants across the island.
Limestone, sea-floor millions of years ago formed the cliffs we gazed up at, was the basement of the land we walked upon and carved into blocks became shelters and fortifications. Solid as it appeared to be it will not last forever. Drip, drip, drip. The slow and steady trickle of water percolates through the rock plucking molecules from their place, one by one. Calcium carbonate, once part of a living sea dwelling creature hitches a ride cruising the tiny channels between other crystalline forms. The highway plunges through the roof of a cave. Molecules are left behind. Layer upon layer, a stalactite grows. Maybe the droplet reaches the floor and tiny mounds grow into bigger ones, the stalagmite might someday reach up to meet the ceiling. Organ pipes and lacy straws, strips and spires, columns of travertine glimmer in the golden eerie light introduced into the underworld. They reflect in the still and shallow pools of Neptune’s Grotto. Reflections, impossible without the tranquility of water.
