Between history and religion
Chiara e Simone
This is the story of a journey I like to call “slow,” taken for the pure pleasure of discovering new and evocative places, without being chased by haste or the anxiety of always having to see more. It is the journey in which the soul finally finds peace and rest, cradled by the wide spaces of this wonderful land, and is nourished by tasting its culture, history and beauty. And it is nourished by tasting its culture, history, and beauty.
Orroli, Serri, Mandas, Escolca
Orroli – Nuraghe Arrubiu, the Red Giant
They call it the Red Giant, and only God knows how vast and imposing it once was. Cyclopean boulders piled one upon another, held together only by gravity, with no mortar or any other binding material.
This nuraghe has stood here for more than three thousand years. How long are three thousand years? How many times has the sun risen and set? How many times has the wind blown, crying its strength to the sky as it funnels through these stones? What hands lifted these massive blocks? We wander through its twisted, shadowy corridors like thieves, afraid of making too much noise.
Who are we, today, to trespass upon these walls? We move from tower to tower like ghosts of the present time. And what if we are the very mysterious presences those ancient people once sensed as furtive shadows in the long nights of a time that no longer exists?
Serri and the Nuragic Sanctuary of Santa Vittoria
We are in Serri, ready to immerse ourselves in the quiet rhythm of a summer afternoon. At this hour, the village feels deserted, as people escape the heat in the cool shade of their homes. We visit the ancient church dedicated to San Basilio Magno. Then, as if by magic, stepping out into the square, we meet two young people dressed in traditional Sardinian attire. They are beautiful, elegant, and timeless. They tell us about their lives, show us the places they hold dearest, and share their secret ambitions—simple dreams of young souls who still look at the world with clear, unjaded eyes. We say goodbye, leaving each other with a smile.
We are at the summit of the Giara, with the vast Sarcidano plain and the village of Serri lying serenely below, basking in the summer heat. Beyond, fields, hills, scattered houses, and the outlines of distant mountains seem to come alive through the shimmering air of this fiery afternoon.
Here we are alone, yet the calm is deceptive: the incessant chirping of a thousand cicadas is deafening and hypnotic. A solitary hawk soars high, tracing wide circles in the sky. The ancient stones, scorched by the sun, radiate a living warmth, evoking the mysterious rites of long-forgotten peoples.
Hand in hand, we walk among memories of huts and echoes of daily practices. Breathing the warm, light air, we sense the remnants of ancient rites; I am inside the sacred well, a priestess of a pagan ritual, a Mother Goddess finding relief from the summer heat in the shadows.
Hand in hand, we move through memories of huts and traces of daily life. I seem to hear distant voices, joyful—perhaps children playing tag. A dog barks, the rustle of a bird’s wings appears from a bush and flees into the open sky. I seek and find an embrace that captures my very idea of happiness.
Mandas, relax at the Convent of San Francesco
Here we are in Mandas, seeking and finding peace in what was once the Convent of San Francesco. In 1610, at the invitation of the Duke of Mandas, Franciscan friars arrived.
Over time, in the following centuries, the friars departed and were replaced by nuns devoted to Santa Lucia. Who knows how much faith, hope, and love reached God through the prayers of these devoted men and women?
Here we walk along the long cloister, designed in the typical Gothic-Catalan style, sheltered from the sun and embraced by a presence that feels benevolent, soothing the soul.
In the garden before me, oleanders bursting with flowers frame a day dedicated to spiritual well-being in a triumph of beauty. I imagine myself as a hawk, soaring above this place of striking charm. I feel the air on my face and an intoxicating sense of freedom. I return to being myself; now is the time to focus on us, our dreams, our hopes. It is also a time to share them and open our hearts to one another.
Escolca, the ghost village of San Simone
We arrive at the village as evening falls, the final stop of a journey that has given us unforgettable emotions. The village consists of only a few dozen abandoned houses, yet its streets—sometimes paved, sometimes dirt—reveal the paths of flocks heading to the pastures.
The village is surrounded by fields of wheat, a golden sea rippling in the mistral wind that cools the air. Once, in the heart of the Middle Ages, a hardworking community—united and happy, I imagine—saw their lives upended by plague and famine. Those who survived, each carrying their own burden of grief and suffering, had to abandon their homes and lands, moving far away in search of a place to start living again.
For us, it is time to leave. Perhaps it is the reflection of the sun, now low on the horizon, but I could swear I saw a diaphanous figure smiling and bidding me farewell, before disappearing among the stones of this magical place.
