Sea and Sardinia

In Short

This travelogue captures a brief, spontaneous journey through Sardinia in the early 1920s. Seeking escape from the familiar routines of Sicily and the "tense, resistant" energy of the post-war mainland, the narrator and his companion, the "q-b," traverse the rugged interior of the island by train, bus, and foot. The book is a vivid, impressionistic record of a landscape that feels ancient and detached from the modern world. It has endured as a classic of the genre because of its intense observational power, capturing the visceral texture of travel and the stubborn, wild character of a place largely untouched by industrial history.

The Story

The journey begins in Sicily, where the narrator, feeling a restless, gnawing need to break away from the "horrors of human tension," decides to take a steamer to Sardinia. The departure itself acts as a release; as the ship pulls away from Palermo, the narrator feels a profound sense of "elemental liberty." The sea voyage is a transition between the known world and a sparer, more archaic reality. Upon arriving at the port of Cagliari, the couple finds themselves in a city that is fragmented, a collection of "bits and bobs," yet pulsing with an abundance of life in its markets. They wander through the streets, observing the local customs and the distinct, somewhat guarded character of the people.

Determined to see more than the coast, they venture into the rugged heart of the island. They travel by train and omnibus through winding, perilous mountain roads, moving deeper into a landscape that feels stark, stony, and dramatically elevated—a "high and sun-sweetened" plateau where the sea-level seems irrelevant. Along the way, they encounter a cast of characters who seem to belong to a different century: peasants in traditional costume, suspicious bus drivers, and men whose faces are "mediaeval," marked by a cautious, wild-dog defensiveness that refuses to be "handled" or "fondled."

The narrative follows them as they stop in remote villages like Mandas, Sorgono, and Orosei. Each stop provides a glimpse into a way of life that is rapidly changing yet remains fundamentally resistant to the expectations of the modern world. They find cold, stone-walled rooms that smell of ancient, shut-up secrets and experience the sharp, biting cold of a Sardinian winter. They engage in awkward exchanges with locals who are wary of foreigners, yet they also find moments of unexpected hospitality and beauty, such as the sight of a gleaming, mauve-silver fig tree against the dark earth or the ritualistic roasting of a kid over an open fire.

Throughout the trek, the narrator acts as a relentless observer, constantly comparing the "generous, hot southern blood" of the Mediterranean people to the rigid, weary structures of the society he left behind. The journey eventually circles back to the coast. As they prepare to return to the mainland, the narrator reflects on the contrast between the life he has witnessed—hard, physical, and immediate—and the disillusioned atmosphere of post-war Europe. The book concludes with a return to the broader Mediterranean context, punctuated by a final, vibrant scene in a theater, where the narrator embraces the physical spontaneity of the local audience, feeling a lingering, affectionate bond with the world he is leaving behind.

How It Unfolds

The voyage begins The narrator experiences a sudden, overwhelming urge to leave his settled life in Sicily, leading him and his companion to board a steamer for Sardinia. This departure is marked by a deep relief, as the act of moving across the open sea provides a sense of freedom from the pressures of land-based existence.

The arrival at Cagliari The couple reaches the capital, Cagliari, which presents itself as a chaotic but vibrant mosaic of market stalls, narrow streets, and traditional life. They quickly realize that the island operates on a different rhythm, where the abundance of goods and the local temperament feel entirely detached from the mainland’s concerns.

The interior trek Moving away from the coast, the travelers navigate the island’s mountainous spine by train and primitive bus. They pass through dramatic, rocky landscapes and encounter villagers whose traditional costumes and guarded, defensive mannerisms suggest a medieval survival.

The encounter with the locals In towns like Sorgono and Orosei, the narrator observes the stark reality of rural Sardinian life, from the cold, dungeon-like accommodations to the intense, non-verbal communication of the peasants. Conversations with bus drivers and fellow travelers reveal the social friction between the islanders and the outside world, particularly regarding the aftermath of the war.

The journey’s end The circuit completes as the couple returns to the coast and prepares for the crossing back to the Italian mainland. A final, reflective experience in a local theater provides a sense of closure, leaving the narrator with a lingering appreciation for the raw, human vitality he encountered during his travels.

The People

The narrator is a man possessed by a "double necessity": the need to move and the need to know where. He is an outsider with a sharp, often cynical eye for the "hateful sentimentalism" of the modern era, yet he is deeply sensitive to the "wild innermost soul." He wants to find a world that hasn't been "gutted" by civilization, and he stands in opposition to the "tense, resistant" people of the cities. By the end of the trip, his restlessness is temporarily satisfied, replaced by a warm, if detached, affection for the people he has observed.

The "q-b" (the queen bee) serves as his steadfast companion. She is more practical and diplomatic than the narrator, often engaging with locals when he is inclined to withdraw. She acts as a grounded counterpoint to his philosophical intensity, sharing his joy in the motion of the ship and his curiosity about the food and customs of the Sardinians.

The Sardinians themselves, while not individual protagonists, act as a collective force. From the bus driver who is "sarcastically hot" about the local lack of labor organization, to the silent, "born roaster" of a kid, these people represent a pre-modern dignity. They are "mediaeval" in their caution and their lack of "brotherliness," standing as a wall against the narrator's analytical attempts to fully define them. They remain, by the end, mysterious and autonomous.

In Its Own Voice

"Comes over one an absolute necessity to move."

This observation, appearing at the very beginning of the narrative, captures the impulsive, almost physical drive that initiates the entire journey.

"To feel her come up--then slide slowly forward, with a sound of the smashing of waters, is like the magic gallop of the sky, the magic gallop of elemental space."

The narrator describes the sensation of the steamer crossing the sea, characterizing the motion not as mere transport, but as a form of liberation from the "agony" of land-bound life.

"The whole space has a strange Spanish look, neglected, arid, yet with a bigness and a dilapidated dignity and a stoniness which carry one back to the Middle Ages, when life was violent and Orosei was no doubt a port and a considerable place."

In this passage, the narrator reflects on the atmospheric quality of a small town, connecting its present decay to a forgotten, more significant historical past.

What It's Really About

This book is a search for the "elemental"—a state of being that exists outside the crushing weight of modern industrial society and its post-war disillusionment. The narrator is fascinated by the idea of an "archaic" life, where people are not connected by "mental communion" or "spirit sympathy," but by "blood contact" and physical presence. He uses Sardinia as a lens to critique the "insanity of machine persistence" and the pervasive, polite hypocrisy of the European mainland. The fundamental question beneath the travel narrative is whether it is still possible to find a place where the human spirit is allowed to be wild, defensive, and unhandled—and whether a modern, thinking person can ever truly exist within that space without destroying it.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy travel writing that prioritizes psychological atmosphere over itinerary will find this an essential work. It captures the specific feeling of being a foreigner in a place that is indifferent to your presence—the frustration of being misunderstood, the thrill of stumbling upon a "painter's bit" in a dilapidated piazza, and the sheer exhaustion of transit.

However, readers should be prepared for the book's period attitudes. The narrator’s commentary on national characteristics, his frequent irritations with "officials," and his occasional condescension toward those he labels as "ignorant" are products of his time and temperament. He is not a neutral observer; he is often grumpy, impatient, and elitist. The prose is dense and idiosyncratic, full of his unique, rhythmic energy, which can be both captivating and occasionally wearying.

The book remains powerful because it refuses to romanticize the islanders; it presents them as genuinely "other." If you are interested in how a travel writer can turn a simple trip into a profound meditation on the "horrors of human tension" and the beauty of the "empyrean," you will find this a deeply rewarding, if sometimes prickly, companion. It stays with you because it captures the essential, lonely joy of leaving everything behind to see what is still left of the world.