I first met Iain whilst on an intro course in the Alps, and we hit it off straight away, so when he emailed me suggesting we went abroad to sample some fine sport routes and sun, I didn’t hesitate in agreeing. Looking out of my window at the dismal October weather only fuelled the idea, and before I knew it I was driving across the Peak District to Sheffield, our adventure about to begin!
An early start to catch the train to Stanstead did not mix too well with the beer and dodgy take away pizzas of the night before, and a hangover developed on the trip southwards. Sardinia itself is really easy to get to, we flew with RyanAir from Stanstead, although they now offer flights from both Liverpool and Nottingham East Midlands – which would have been far more convenient, as well as cheaper (the overpriced British public transport delivering yet again)!
Landing in Algherro, the first thing we noticed was the increase in temperature even though it was late afternoon. As we were going to be bivvying, we stocked up with water and weird sandwich / wrap things from the airport café, before heading outside to find a taxi to take us to our final destination, Cappo Caccia – a sharp peninsula at the North of the island, renowned for its sport climbing.
The driver of our very nice air-conditioned ride thought we were slightly odd, but language barriers meant we couldn’t quite understand each other, and he obligingly (if not slightly amusedly) took us as we requested. We drove through an empty town before he dumped us at the top of a small track, saying something along the lines of ‘bar’ whilst pointing towards the sea. We coughed up our Euros and he gave us his business card for our return journey.
The ‘bar’, or hut, was closed – we reasoned it was getting late and would probably be open again in the morning. All that remained was finding where to turn in for the night.
We had seen a tower on the other side of the bay, so headed there. Finding a small grassy area atop a seaside cliff, with shelter and a nice breeze was a blessing, and we ate a feast of raisins, odd sandwiches and sweets by torchlight. All we needed now was beer, and our thought turned to the big hotel (complete with pink neon ‘Hotel’ sign) we could see back at the ghost town of earlier.
The walk there was about 3km, but our need for beer (the hangover had gone) was so strong we headed back along the road, with provisions to make the walk interesting. When we arrived there it seemed as though we had wandered into something out of Silent Hill, the calling dogs only compelling the idea. Luckily, Iain and I, both being Northern men, experienced no fear or apprehension at all… All the lights were on at the hotel, so we headed there. However, all the doors were locked and not one person could be found anywhere. If we hadn’t heard a TV in the distance and seen a car whiz past on the main road, I think we’d have run back to Algherro there and then. After a few hours of aimless wandering, no luck in the quest for beer and food we turned back to the comfort of our bags. On the way back we spotted wild boar whilst tumbleweed rolled down the road, like we were in some Western film. I fell asleep listening to the sound of the waves lapping at the rocks far below, and dreamt of shootouts and saloon bars.
Upon waking, the view out to sea astounded us and we were inspired to get cragging ASAP. We had been attacked by mozzies overnight, our faces being covered in bumps from the bites, but had both slept well. We packed up our kit and walked down to the bar, which was inevitably closed. Our water / food situation seriously worsened (i.e. we didn’t have enough to last the day). Regardless of this, we found the crag and down-climbed into the amphitheatre of rock. We climbed some quality routes, all with good bolts. The classic (read polished) of the crag being a tufa climb, through a mini cave, at about 6a. After running out of water, a read of the guidebook revealed a tourist cave and military outpost at the end of the peninsula. This being far nearer than Algherro, seemed an obvious destination. We left our kit at the empty crag and went on our next quest, this time a necessity.
Luckily, on this occasion we found a small café that was open. Without it, we would have been very thirsty and in serious trouble. We bought copious amounts of overpriced water, sandwiches and home made pizza. Whilst there we visited the cave, known as Neptune’s Grotto. Hundreds of steps led down the cliff edge, only to find we needed to pay. Therefore, hundreds of steps led back up the cliff, and was possibly the hardest climbing of the day!
Back at the crag we met some French climbers, one of which spoke good English. Lolo, as he was known, proceeded to tell us a joke about a ski instructor and a snake – the punchline of which I cannot remember. We spent a short while more climbing, before heading back to our camp of the night before and a swim in the sea. We didn’t make the mistake of trekking to ghost town again. Instead, we feasted on our greatly needed provisions which we gladly shared with our new guest, a friendly mouse.
Waking the next morning, the oddest thing happened. My left eye wouldn’t open. Along with most of my face, it had swollen up, probably as an allergic reaction to the mozzies which had been worse than the night before (perhaps the news that my tasty blood was available for consumption had spread through the insect population like wild fire). Without a mirror, the only way to see my horrific face was take photos and then play them back. Talking of which, I had somehow managed to get a great big crack in my camera lens (no ugly jokes please – although a possibility, I think this had happened whilst climbing). It seemed this was not to be my holiday. I phoned my insurance people and they (not surprisingly) advised me to head to hospital. This was in Algherro, a mere 30km walk away. After discussing the options, we decided to set off now and rest when the sun was at its hottest during the middle of the day.
The walk took us back through ghost town, along the cliff tops and past a research facility with big electric gates and barbed wire. Whenever a car passed (which wasn’t very often) we tried hitching. No one picked us up, not even the local police patrol, who just gave us a ‘thumbs up’ back! As the morning wore on, my eye gradually began to open – a combination of time and the fact that I was pushing it with my fingers like a vice. Even though it was improving, instead of having normal vision all I could see were lots of tiny black dots, all of which were very blurry.
After what seemed like hours of plodding along (about 15km), we were finally picked up by a retired Canadian couple who were driving around Europe. Although they weren’t heading to Algherro, they took pity on us and changed their plans – driving us to the hospital. This proved far more difficult than expected, although we did finally find it. It was nice to meet such a lovely couple, their kindness a welcome gift.
However, it turned out this was a hospital for military personnel only, a fact we only discovered after being stopped by guards at the entrance. It would appear we had to go to the other hospital, at the other side of town. In Britain, it seems like there are hospitals closing left right and centre, but in Algherro they have two! Anyway, after wondering round town receiving countless odd looks (hopefully) due my swollen face and bloated eye, we finally found the hospital. The doctors and nurses pulled cringing faces at my deformed appearances, and quickly proceeded to stab a giant needle into my naked bum. Oh, the pain and humiliation! They also gave me a prescription for two gels – one to go on my eye lid, the other on my eye ball…! We found the chemist, coughed up the cash and headed for food.
The doctor had advised me get my eye seen back in the UK ASAP, and I had had enough of our Sardina trip. We headed to the Airport with the intention of grabbing a flight back home early. The flights were extortionate, but I was not going to stay. I paid up and thought of the advice the doc had given, hoping I would get some money back from my insurance company. Iain decided to stay on a few days until our original flight back, do a bit of bouldering and maybe meet up with Lolo and co.
I got an odd look at passport control, and only just managed to get the last train back to Sheffield. A taxi to Iain’s house (via cash machine to pay) and I drove home, through the wet Peak District night. I climbed into bed at 3 the next morning, scaring my girlfriend stupid. I fell asleep and dreamt of the lengthy insurance claim yet to come. Camera, flight, medical expenses……
In the back of my mind, I knew they wouldn’t pay (do they ever?). In the end I got just under £65, a pittance in comparison to the total bill (the camera alone was worth £200). I spent the next few days getting even more dodgy looks whilst in town and at uni. Luckily, the swelling eventually went down, although for some reason the odd looks remain. Even though the trip wasn’t really a great success, it has given me lots of memories, built on a friendship and is a fantastic pub story. I am even thinking of going back this coming winter as the climbing we did was great, and the potential at other crags seems fantastic. This time however, I’ll probably take a tent!
Written by Tom Woodstone. Published in Issue 07 of Gravity Magazine – March 2007
