Rotte nel Mediterraneo

Routes in the Mediterranean is a project that accompanies me every day, through the images that have unfolded—brushing against realities of life, desires to create, searching and re-searching in the most delicate and invisible perceptions and intuitions, imperceptible to the naked eye. These bring us, today more than ever, to emphasize how deeply human beings are connected through memories, images, words, loves that float through each of our lives—elusive to some, yet essential to others.

And so, water—WATER in all its marvelous and innumerable forms. WATER as the source of life, as so many monasteries in the Mediterranean (and beyond) are called, and before them, temples and fountains where water was gathered to quench thirst. WATER as a necessary yet limited source of life, to be protected and rediscovered within ourselves. Each of us carries our own connection to this vital and wondrous element.

Thus, a bridge is formed—a connection, a crossing of diversities—that I cannot imagine denying, just as I have crossed, as my ancestors did before me. To make our curiosity fluid, to realize beauty without the need to kill or deny. This is the journey, the route to take toward what is other than oneself, toward the beauty that differences can offer us, so that we may rediscover ourselves once again.

Christina Sassayannis

Rotte nel Mediterraneo è un progetto che mi accompagna ogni giorno nelle immagini che si sono succedute, sfiorando relatà di vita, desideri di realizzare cercando di trovare e ricercando nelle più delicate e invisibili ad occhio nudo percezioni e intuizioni che ci portano ancora e ancora oggi più che mai a sottolineare quanto gli esseri umani siano connessi attraverso memorie immagini, parole, amori che fluttuano nella vita di ognuno di noi quasi imprendibili per alcuni e per altri necessari. Così l’acqua, ACQUA con tutte le sue meravigliose e innumerevoli forme. ACQUA come sorgente di vita come molti monasteri del mediterraneo e non solo vengono chiamati e prima di essi templi, fontante dove si raccoglie l’acqua per assetare. ACQUA come neccessaria e limitata sorgente di vita, da proteggere e da riscoprire in noi. Ognuno di noi con la sua connessione con questo elemento coì importante e meravigioso. Dunque si forma un ponte di connessione di attraversamenti di diversità che non posso pensare a non lasciar passare come sono passata anche io, i miei antenati prima di me. Rendere fluida la nostra curiosità e realizzare così il bello senza necessità di uccidere o negare. Cos’ il viaggio, la rotta da prendere verso l’altro da sè verso la bellezza che le differenze possono darci per scoprire ancora una volta noi stessi.

Christina Sassayannis

Ιθακη - Σεβοτα

"Regarding the vocabulary surrounding the sea. The Greeks had so many words to define it. Baka, the salt, the sea as substance. Pelagos, the expanse of water, the sea as a vision, a spectacle. Pontos, the sea as space and pathway, a means of communication. Thalassa, the sea as an event. Kolpos, the maritime space that embraces the shore, the gulf or the bay. What was flowing before his eyes now, more swiftly, was a fusion of all those terms. The sea in all its definitions, and the Mediterranean in all its appellations. Always beyond what it allowed itself to show. Always older. Always more real. Beyond the myths, endlessly. Al-Bahr al-Rum. He recalled the Egyptian name. And he remembered that for the Arabs, this sea was neither blue nor black, but white. Al-Bahr al-Abyad.

“This sea deceives us,” he thought.

Jean-Claude Izzo

____________________

“A proposito del vocabolario riguardante il mare. I greci avevano tante parole per definirlo. Baka, il sale, il mare in quanto materia. Pelagos, la distesa d’acqua, il mare come visione, spettacolo. Pontos, il mare spazio e via. di comunicazione. Thalassa, il mare in quanto evento. Kolpos, lo spazio marittimo che abbraccia la riva, Il golfo o la baia….

Quel che filava davanti ai suoi occhi, adesso più rapidamente, era un insieme di tutti quei termini. Il mare in tutte le sue definizioni, e il Mediterraneo in tutti i suoi appellativi. Sempre al di la di quel che lasciava vedere. Sempre più antico. Sempre più reale. Al di là dei miti, incessantemente. Al-bahr al-rum. Gli ritornò in mente il nome egizio. E si ricordò che per gli arabi quel mare non era nè azzurro nè nero, ma bianco.

Al-bahr al-abyad

“questo mare ci inganna” pensò.” Jean-Claude Izzo da Marinai perduti, ed e/o, 1997

Nella baia che precede il porto naturale di Vatsi appena sveglia mi tuffo nell’acqua trasparente con quel colore del vero del sincero dove non vi è nulla di nascosto o criptico.

Questa energia mi pervade e accompagna la ricerca che ognuno di noi fa nel proprio intimo, magari anche bevendo un caffè, una birra con gli amici.

Non c’è tempo da sperperare ma c’è tanto tempo per la conoscere, per capire, per trovare quella spinta che ci fa avvicinar all’altro e abbracciare il sè attraverso il mondo che ci circonda, senza perdersi, senza dirsi bugie.

ΔιαβAζω ΚαβAφης

Μεσα στο φοβο και στες υποψιες με ταραγμενο νου και τρομαγμενα ματια, λυωνουμε και σχεδιαζουμε το πως να καμουμε για ν'αποφυγουμε τον βεβαιο τον κινδυνο που ετσι φρικτα μας απειλει. Κι ομως λανθανουμε, δεν ειν'αυτος στον δρομο. Ψευτικα ησαν τα μηνυματα (ή δεν τ'ακουσαμε, ή δεν τα νοιωσαμε καλα). Αλλη καταστροφη, που δεν την φανταζομεθαν, εξαφνικη, ραγδαια πεφτει επανω μας, κι ανετοιμους -που πια καιρος- μας συνεπαιρνει.

Απολειπειν ο Θεος Αντωνιον

Costantino Kavafis

———

Stretti tra la paura e i sospetti,
la mente frastornata, gli occhi terrorizzati,
ci consumiamo progettando il modo
di scongiurare il pericolo scontato,
tremendo che ci minaccia.
Ma è un errore: il rischio non è in strada;
erano falsi i messaggi
(non li abbiamo ascoltati o capiti bene).
Un’altra sventura, che non ci immaginiamo,
improvvisa e violenta piomba su di noi,
e impreparati – senza più tempo – ci travolge.

trad.Nicola Trocetti

———

Possessed by fear and suspicion,
mind agitated, eyes alarmed,
we desperately invent ways out,
plan how to avoid the inevitable
danger that threatens us so terribly.
Yet we’re mistaken, that’s not the danger ahead:
the information was false
(or we didn’t hear it, or didn’t get it right).
Another disaster, one we never imagined,
suddenly, violently, descends upon us,
and finding us unprepared—there’s no time left— sweeps us away.

Trad. Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard)

Ιθακη

Navighiamo purtroppo senza vento 30 miglia da Messolonghi rotta verso Itaca.

Navigare in mare calmo apre i pensieri e li mette in qualche modo a posto.

I sogni vengono nutriti dal tempo largo e dal movimento. La conoscenza del rapporto con il mare non è solo sapere è anche affettività e conoscenza che viene nutrita dall’esperienza, la curiosità alimenta il motore verso la ricerca di una identità in dialogo con la natura.

Sapere è parte fondamentale della trasformazione che apre gli occhi, che alimenta il nostro essere in rapporto con gli altri con il mare, con l’acqua.

I bambini entrano in questo dialogo con il gioco con la fiducia e il coraggio della verità.

Massimo con Adele hanno percorso l’itinerario che li ha portati nel loro viaggio intorno al mondo a conoscere nuove realtà, significati che l’immobilità preclude. Un uomo e una donna legati dai loro trent’anni insieme hanno lasciato tracce di realizzazione di un sogno che era per entrambi, ma ascoltando le parole di Massimo sento che il dialogo tra loro è rimasto indietro, non realizzato pienamente.

Il mare è calmo, il vento si riposa e la randa issata cerca di sfruttare qualche nodo.

Non posso fare a meno di pensare a Nikos Kazantzakis poeta, filosofo di stato scrittore. Lui arriva nella sua ricerca attraverso domande che riguardano l’uomo nella sua limitatezza e a scrivere le sue riflessioni penetrando l’animo e ponendo sempre una domanda che ci porta a muoverci per trovarne risposta.

“ Non è vero che le cose arrivano perché le stai cercando. Le cose le stai cercando perché arrivano. Esistono indipendentemente di volta in volta e ti trovano cercante.”

Approdiamo a Itaca un simbolo per molti, un’energia gentile e generosa mi invade e mi tuffo nel suo mare senza voler uscire . Esco la pelle chiede di essere asciugata e così ho fatto.

Μεσσολονγη

Here, Lord Byron died in 1824.

The town is deserted. The shops are closed, the squares empty. It’s eight in the evening, yet the atmosphere feels like the midday lull, when everyone retreats indoors to escape the heat of the sun.

I walk through the narrow streets, crossing paths with the occasional person who disappears into the alleyways on their bicycle.

I look around, listening to the silence, punctuated by faint voices and the psalmos of the priest in the church. His chanting fills the little square, blending with the murmurs of men and women dressed in black at the bar next door.

A taverna is open—perhaps the only one.

Byron died in Missolonghi during the Greek War of Independence, having devoted himself to the cause of Greek freedom. His passing there turned the town into a symbol of his legacy, and his contributions to the Greek struggle are still commemorated.

Byron’s final days were marked by illness and his commitment to organizing Greek forces. His death not only immortalized him as a philhellene (lover of Greece) but also inspired waves of European support for the Greek Revolution.

The setting you describe captures the essence of small Greek towns during the quiet evening hours, particularly in less touristic or rural areas. The interplay of silence, the priest’s psalmody, and the murmurs of people dressed in black—likely a sign of mourning or a religious gathering—evokes a timeless, contemplative scene. The imagery of the lone open taverna speaks to the enduring rhythm of life, even in such hushed surroundings.

In Greek culture, the church often serves as the spiritual and physical center of the community. The priest’s chant (ψαλμός) resonates not only as a religious act but as a thread weaving together the lives of those gathered nearby—whether devout or casual observers. This fusion of sacred and social life is quintessentially Greek.

A solitary open taverna represents a haven for connection, nourishment, and conversation. It’s a space where the day’s events, local stories, and shared lives converge, offering a glimpse into the heart of the community. Here we are!

Ουζερί

Πεταλας

From Cape Lefkada (Capo Bianco), we enter the bay of Petalas.
The sea is calm, windless, almost deserted. Only four sailboats lie in the distance.

This area is significant for its connection to the Acheloos River (Αχελώος), vital for agriculture in the region.

In 1991, Massimo sailed about six miles upriver on the 10.5-meter-long catamaran Tangaroa (named after a Maori god).

“On the way back, near the river’s mouth, while searching for a spot to dock, a voice emerged from the reeds:
‘Are you Italians? I studied in Naples!’

Docked by the riverbank, the man approached us and invited us to his home for dinner. Meanwhile, people—mostly women and children—from the nearby houses gathered around, climbing onto our boat. We offered them biscuits and water.

That evening at their home, they served us tomatoes and bread.

When we returned to the boat, the man, concerned we might not have eaten enough, asked again and, without hesitation, invited us back for dinner with his family.”

This was an experience of filoxenia—the spirit of hospitality rediscovered in Greece. Even today, it can still be found in the humility of those who arrive and the kindness of those who extend dialogue and generosity.

The Acheloos, one of the longest rivers in Greece, has been a lifeline for the surrounding agricultural plains since antiquity. Its fertile delta supports farming communities and provides a lush contrast to the arid cliffs and rocky shores of the Ionian coastline. In mythology, Acheloos is personified as a god of freshwater, symbolizing abundance and life.

Naming the catamaran Tangaroa after the Maori god of the sea adds a universal element to the narrative, connecting the Mediterranean voyage to Polynesian traditions. Tangaroa, revered as a creator and protector of the oceans, parallels the Mediterranean’s own myths of Poseidon and Acheloos, uniting cultures across the seas.

Filoxenia (φιλοξενία), or "friend to the stranger," is an ancient Greek concept deeply ingrained in the culture. It reflects the belief that welcoming strangers is a sacred duty, often associated with Zeus Xenios, the protector of travelers. The story of the man by the river, his invitation to dinner, and the communal gathering on the boat exemplifies this enduring tradition.

Even today, in rural and less touristic areas of Greece, acts of spontaneous generosity remain a hallmark of the culture, revealing the warmth and openness of its people.

Αστακος

A fishing village where the thermometer climbs to 42 degrees. The sun presses down heavily, making the stone walls radiate a quiet warmth that clings to the air. As soon as we dock, the bar across the way beckons with its shade, its hum of conversations merging with the rhythmic clinking of glasses.

At the next table, an exchange begins—curiosity pulling at the thread of language, weaving strangers into acquaintances. Pericles, a doctor who studied in Rome, shares stories of Thessaloniki, his current home. Beside him, his wife radiates elegance, her laughter soft as the breeze that finally stirs. Her father, a man whose roots stretch from Perugia to this sunlit shore, nods quietly, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of the sea.

I wander through the village, a basket in hand, collecting not just bread and fruit, but fragments of life. At the baker’s, an Italian customer recounts forty years of returns, his voice heavy with nostalgia and a sense of belonging. In the harbor, a small fishing boat nudges against the dock. Its arrival is a signal; the bar empties as if by instinct, the waiting crowd drawn to the fresh catch. There’s no rush, only an unspoken rhythm, the kind of order that feels accidental yet essential.

We set sail again, the direction clear—toward the Dragonerà islands. The water shifts in shades of sapphire and emerald, and the horizon seems to ripple like silk. Above me, gulls trace unseen lines in the sky, their cries sharp yet comforting, like reminders of something ancient.

As the village fades behind me, its stories linger: the quiet pride of its fishermen, the weight of its sun-soaked stones, and the fleeting connections formed in its shaded corners. Each detail, a thread in the vast tapestry of the Mediterranean, whispers of a timeless truth—life here is as fluid and boundless as the sea itself.

___________

Villaggio di pescatori dove il termometro arriva a 42 gradi. Appena attraccati andiamo al bar difronte e i vicini di tavolo in italiano si incuriosiscono e inizia un reciproco conoscersi e scambio di informazioni.

Pericles ha studiato medicina in Italia a Roma e ora lavora a Thessaloniki. Con sua moglie bellissima donna in vacanza con il padre che vive a Perugia con il resto della sua famiglia.

Faccio un po’ di spesa e passeggio per il villaggio. Dal panettiere il piacere del racconto di un cliente italiano che viene qui da 40 anni. I pescatori con una barchetta che portano il pesce al molo e le persone si alzano dal bar come fossero in attesa del suo arrivo, in attesa velata dal caso.

Salpiamo direzione isole Dragonerà.

Μυτικας και Καλαμος

A small fishing village by the sea. We approach to greet it without docking.

The "nose" of the Ionian Sea in Epirus lies before us, with Kalamos across the way. Here, the bay with its wild beach fills me with a sense of untamed freedom. There are places that are a gift for the liberty of others, places that hold a different energy and offer a unique dialogue.

Massimo shares the story of his life’s journey. On June 3, 1997, aboard his boat—a JNF38 model named Calypso, built by his own hands—he began his voyage around the world.

The Mediterranean has been the cradle of civilizations, connecting Europe, Africa, and Asia for millennia. This "sea in the middle of the earth" (from Latin medius terra) has served as a stage for:
Ancient mariners used it to transport goods, ideas, and cultures. From the Phoenicians, who built vast trading networks, to the Greeks and Romans, who established sprawling empires, the Mediterranean was an artery of commerce and exchange and inspired countless myths, like the voyages of Odysseus, Jason, and Aeneas. It also played a role in the spread of major religions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—all of which developed and expanded in the lands surrounding it.
From the rise of Egyptian and Mesopotamian civilizations to the Roman Empire, the Crusades, and the Ottoman expansions, the Mediterranean has seen cooperation and conflict, shaping the modern world.

"This Sea is Us"

The Mediterranean’s dual nature—inviting yet treacherous—has always fascinated those who sail it. It has been a source of life and sustenance, but also a setting for tragedy and loss. Ancient sailors relied on its patterns but feared its unpredictability, and even today, it remains a metaphor for human vulnerability and resilience.

The idea of deception might also hint at its layered history. On the surface, the Mediterranean seems idyllic—a haven of beauty and calm. But beneath, it holds the weight of history: wars, migrations, and cultural transformations. This is our journey through all this knowledge to find to feel inside me and give a place to where look for.

Η ΑνατοΛη

Lat 38,675736u Long 20,782598

The timeless connection between the physical journey through the Ionian waters and the intellectual and emotional explorations inspired by the landscapes, history, and mythology of the region makes this journey like a discovering about thinks that still have a question in me.

The act of sailing has always been a metaphor for life’s journey—navigating the unknown, embracing freedom, and contemplating existence. In the case of Lefkada and the surrounding Ionian islands, this symbolism is enriched by their deep-rooted association with mythology, poetry, and philosophy. These waters have seen countless stories unfold, from ancient Odyssean adventures to modern musings on love and loss.

Greece has long been a cradle of ideas. The natural beauty of its islands—like Lefkada with its striking cliffs and tranquil bays—provides the perfect backdrop for pondering universal questions. Philosophers such as Aristotle and Plato found meaning in the interconnectedness of nature and human thought, while poets like Sappho drew from the same landscapes to express profound emotions.

And now me With a men of other generation and with other thoughts that I will see day by day always more and I will have to handle them somehow.

Μεγανισση

Heading south (160 degrees), the sea is calm. We raise the jib to catch the few knots of wind, though it gradually diminishes. Thirty years ago, this was a sailor’s paradise. Massimo and his son, who was about to turn 13 in 1989, stopped here for the first time. Λυγιά (Lygia) is a small fishing harbor on the eastern coast of Lefkada. One day, I will return in the off-season to delve into the stories and knowledge of the people who live here.

We continue on our course; ahead of us lie Sparti and then Skorpios.

The green slopes down to the sea, and like atolls, the small islands emerge from the water, while boats move at different speeds: motorboats, sailboats, fishermen’s vessels, ferries, and even boats towing water sports equipment.

The jib is lowered, but we still rely on the engine to proceed. The sea resembles a silent, almost living surface, with waves smoothed into an oily sheen by the absence of wind.

We reach Meganissi and anchor in a quiet bay where I now listen to the cicada singing in the grove before me.

It’s true—cicadas sing until you look at them!

Lygia’s Quiet Charm
Lygia remains a hidden gem on Lefkada’s eastern coast. Known for its authentic fishing village atmosphere, it’s a place where life unfolds at its own unhurried pace. Returning off-season would indeed offer a deeper connection with the locals and their stories, as the bustle of tourists fades, revealing the island’s true character.

Sparti and Skorpios
Sparti and Skorpios are part of the Prigiponisia (the "Prince Islands"), a cluster of verdant islets dotting the Ionian Sea. Skorpios, once the private retreat of the Onassis family, is a place steeped in glamour and intrigue. Its lush vegetation and secluded coves make it an enchanting sight, even from a distance. Sparti, quieter and less known, complements this idyllic scene with its own unspoiled charm.

The Magic of Meganissi
Meganissi, with its labyrinth of bays and coves, is a sailor’s dream. Known for its tranquility, the island is a haven for those seeking refuge from the busier spots of the Ionian. Listening to the cicadas in such a serene setting highlights the connection between nature and solitude, a hallmark of the Greek islands.

The Song of the Cicada
The notion that cicadas stop singing when you look at them is a delightful mix of observation and myth. These creatures, long celebrated in Greek culture, symbolize summer, vitality, and even immortality. Their rhythmic song creates a backdrop for reflection, much like the sea itself.

La porta del paradiso dei velisti

Lefkada

From the inland sea where Kouga overlooks, we sail towards Preveza and pass through the canal that opens via the mobile bridge of Aghia Maura every hour. We will wait for the opening at 14:00/14:10 to reach Lefkada.

We stop at the marina to replenish our water supply and buy bread from the bakery. The souvlaki also found their place in the small shopping trip.

Towards evening, we anchor in front of Λυγιά, in the bay where other boats and catamarans are also moored. Each has its own life, its own story to tell. I am particularly intrigued by the small, solitary boats flying the Norwegian flags.

The name Lefkada (from λευκός, meaning "white") derives from the white cliffs facing the open sea towards Κεφαλονιά (Kefalonia), where unhappy lovers would throw themselves into the sea. This act recalls the Greek tradition of ending one’s sorrows with a leap into the void and then into the waters.

My thoughts to Sappho, to the Aegean...

The white cliffs of Cape Lefkatas, located at the southern tip of Lefkada, have been a source of legend and fascination since antiquity. The cliffs were a sacred site dedicated to the god Apollo. It was believed that sacrifices were made here to appease the gods, and the tradition of leaping from the cliffs began as a purification ritual.

Later, the legend of the cliffs became associated with love and despair. The most famous tale linked to this place is that of the poet Sappho of Lesbos. Sappho, heartbroken by her unrequited love for the ferryman Phaon, leapt from the cliffs to end her suffering. Passion and tragedy.

The floating bridge of Aghia Maura, which connects Lefkada to mainland Greece, is a modern marvel in a setting steeped in history. The area around the bridge is named after the medieval castle of Aghia Maura, built in the 14th century to protect the island from invaders. The castle, with its imposing walls and strategic location, stands as a reminder of Lefkada's turbulent past, marked by battles and changing rulers, including Venetians, Ottomans, and French.

Lygia (Λυγιά), where we anchored, is a picturesque fishing village known for its peaceful atmosphere and traditional tavernas. It’s a place where the rhythms of the sea define daily life. The sight of Norwegian boats, solitary yet resolute, adds an international flavor to the serene setting, hinting at the universal allure of the Ionian waters.
Lefkada’s proximity to Kefalonia, another gem of the Ionian Sea, further enriches its lore. The waters between the two islands have inspired countless sailors and poets, and they feature prominently in Homer’s epics. Kefalonia itself is often linked to the myth of Odysseus and his legendary kingdom of Ithaca, which lies nearby.

And still, we can sail through other waters, guided by my thoughts on the meaning of these places and the reflections born here over time.

Attraversamento del canale di Lefkada

All’alba nel golfo / il silenzio che regala poesia

Sailing Water

I come to know a world I hadn't imagined before—men who are both passionate and skilled sailors, living with the rhythm of the sea, each moment defined by the wind and the waves. I meet them in Preveza, a place in Greece I had never heard of before. Here, boatyards dot the landscape, and history whispers from the shores. Just a few kilometers from the town, there's a place where the Romans fought their first civil war, a chapter of history that played out in the very waters and hills I now gaze upon.

In this small town, where the pulse of history and the pulse of the sea both run deep, I embark on a journey with Massimo, an 80-year-old man whose life has been intertwined with the sea. He sails his boat, Alchinè, with a quiet wisdom born from decades of experience. Massimo was born on October 4th, 1937. As for me, I’m much younger, driven by an insatiable need to move, to discover, to find beauty, truth, and meaning in everything. I’ve come to know the world of sailing not just as a physical pursuit but as a dialogue between man, boat, and the vast, unpredictable sea.

This journey becomes something more than just a sail through the Mediterranean—it becomes a shared experience of learning. In the company of Massimo, I discover not only the technicalities of sailing, but the philosophy behind it: the relationship between a sailor and his boat, the delicate balance between control and surrender to the forces of nature. We speak little, but there’s an understanding between us—a silent exchange that runs deeper than words. The sea doesn’t need words to teach; it just demands presence, patience, and respect.

We sail through the waters of Preveza, and with every tack, every turn of the rudder, I feel myself becoming more attuned to the boat, the wind, and the rhythms of the sea. Massimo’s hands move with the ease of someone who has spent a lifetime in this dance, and though his movements are slow, they carry with them an effortless mastery. For me, it’s a moment of discovery: learning the art of sailing, not just as a sport, but as a way of life, a way of seeing the world that is shaped by patience, adaptability, and respect for forces greater than us.

Through him, I begin to understand that sailing isn’t just about crossing water; it’s about understanding the vastness of the world, about knowing when to hold tight and when to let go, about finding your place within the rhythm of the sea, the wind, and the sky.

We sail together, two different generations, but united by a shared love of the sea, and by a shared curiosity to explore the world—one that moves in ways beyond our control.

Αμβρακικός Κόλπος / Κουγα

Olbia

The last day. It's 1 PM, and my ferry departs from Olbia. The road is battered by a strong wind, a maestrale that pushes against me riding with every kilometer and makes it strong havy. I grip the bike tighter, my legs firmly planted, feeling the force of the wind pressing against my body. It’s a raw, visceral connection with the landscape, one that demands full attention. The wind isn’t just a force of nature; it’s a reminder of the island’s untamed spirit, always present, always powerful.

As I approach the tunnels, they offer a brief moment of relief, a pause from the relentless wind. The darkness of the tunnels feels like a small sanctuary, a brief escape, where I can collect myself before the journey resumes. But once I exit, the wind returns with full force. You find yourself riding with even more concentration, feeling the weight of each gust, yet pushing forward, the last 300 kilometers standing between me and the port.

Finally, I arrive at the harbor, and the ferry is there—this time, right on time. There’s a sense of closure, of completing a journey both physically and emotionally. As I park the bike, I take one last look at Sardinia and at its imagines in my mind: its mountains, its waters, its winds. These elements will stay with me long after I leave I think, my body surely will remind them for a wile. “Arrivederci, Sardegna, with your wild winds, your mountains that cradle the sky, and your endless waters. your beauty . Ciao 💙.”

I board the ship, feeling the finality of it all, but also a quiet sense of gratitude. Sardinia, with all its rugged beauty and deeply rooted stories, has left a mark on you. It’s a place that calls to me—not just with its landscapes, but with its people, its rhythms, and its soul. And though the journey ends here, the memories, like the tides, will continue to wash over me.

fiume cedrino

What else is there to ask for, if not a genuine connection, a real relationship without pretenses, without the layers we often hide behind? Here, by the sea, there is the vulnerability of facing the night alone, the quiet fear of sleeping in the cold, of being exposed, without the warmth of company or the comfort of certainty. Yet, in that fear, there’s also the search for something deeper—the calm that the still sea offers, the peace it carries, the steady rhythm that can seep into your own mind.

It’s a search for that inner stillness, a quiet place within yourself where the world outside doesn’t matter so much. As the sea whispers, the wind hums its song, a lullaby that invites you to soften, to let go. You long for that calm, for the sensation of drifting into sleep not with anxiety, but with acceptance. It’s the surrender to the night, to the elements, to the unknowable future.

In the sound of the waves, in the rustling of the breeze, there is something profoundly comforting. Not an escape, but a return to something more primal, more honest. The world around you becomes a companion in your solitude, and in that space, you begin to realize that the stillness of the sea reflects the stillness you seek within yourself. The sea, vast and ancient, has no need for explanations, no expectations. It simply is. And perhaps, in learning to rest like the sea, we, too, can simply be—without artifice, without pretense.

You let the waves carry you, as they always have, to a place where you can dream in harmony with the sound of the water, the wind—both outside and inside you. The fear, the uncertainty, the noise—everything falls away, until all that remains is the pure, comforting rhythm of life itself, breathing in sync with the ocean.

wind

As I ride north, the wind blows fiercely—the maestrale, a wind that is as much a part of Sardinia as the very mountains and seas that surround it. The road winds alongside the rugged mountains, which, like silent guardians, watch over the path that leads to the sea. With every turn, the air changes: the cool, fresh breeze slowly gives way to the warmth of the setting sun, its golden light casting long shadows that stretch across the land.

Eventually, you reach a marble quarry. The sight feels surreal, like stepping into a frame from an Antonioni film. The sharp, industrial shapes of the quarry clash with the raw beauty of the natural landscape, and it’s almost as if time stands still. The machinery, now quiet, still echoes the sounds of human labor. This contrast between the natural world and the human imprint on it stirs a deep reflection, a contemplation of humanity's relationship with the earth.

This scene, though distinct, transports you to another place—another memory. You think back to your time on Lipari, where you visited the old, abandoned pumice quarries. The land there, too, had a strange, desolate beauty, where the earth and the bodies of the workers seemed to merge. The workers, once laboring under the harsh sun, were no longer there, but their presence lingered, woven into the very fabric of the landscape. You recall the weight of history, the sweat, the struggle, and the sacrifice of those who had worked in these harsh conditions. In those abandoned quarries, the lines between human reality and the earth seemed to blur—bodies and stone, labor and land, forever intertwined.

The quarry before me now, with its veins of marble cutting through the earth, is a reminder of the harsh realities humans have faced in their relentless pursuit of shaping the world. And yet, there is something strangely beautiful in this human imprint, a kind of paradox: the beauty of the earth shaped by human hands, the tragedy of labor immortalized in stone.

After a brief pause, I gather myself and continue my journey, heading toward Olbia’s harbor, where the next chapter of my adventure awaits. The sea, the sky, and the wind guides me, as they always have. But as I ride, I carry with you the weight of these reflections—the deep connection between the earth and its people, the land and its labor, the past and the present.

explore

I never would have imagined that following the state road would lead me into this lush green world, surrounded by the scent of mimosa trees in July and the bright yellow of broom flowers standing out against the vibrant green of the woods!

The air is fresh, the sky crystal clear, and the wind blows erratically, like it’s dancing through the trees. I look at the mountains, their peaks standing tall in the distance, and I think about poetry. The sun moves toward the west, casting a warm glow over everything. There’s a quiet kind of peace in this moment, as if the landscape itself is offering a conversation, an invitation to slow down and listen.

How much knowledge, I wonder, can we truly gather just by moving through the world, by simply engaging in the act of traveling, of being present in each moment? There’s a kind of wisdom that comes not from seeking answers, but from the act of dialogue itself—the way the mountains speak through their silence, the trees through their fragrance, and the wind through its unpredictable gusts. Every step, every turn, every breath we take seems to be a small act of discovery. It’s not just the destination, but the journey itself that teaches us, that opens up new ways of seeing and understanding.

And in this quiet communion with the land, I realize: we are constantly learning, simply by moving, by being in tune with the rhythm of the earth and its many voices.

drive

Dopo il risveglio in spiaggia con il mare e nell’acqua salata il corpo sorride al nuovo giorno iniziato in questa natura, dove l’uomo ha trovato e scelto in modo per conviverci e tentare di dominarla nello stesso tempo.

Oggi si parte verso Nord la strada che percorreremo costeggerà la costa est. Con calma dopo una buona colazione è una doccia in albergo da Lisa.

Tatti è carica ma va bene anche così per me. Tuttavia Imparare a gestire il tempo e il bisogno di oggetti in quell’arco di tempo pensando agli imprevisti, ma anche alla libertà di scegliere in ogni momento di continuare il viaggio o cambiare rotta è un assestare tra bisogno e esigenza e in un certo senso il nostro rapporto con la paura e la libertà.

Ci vuole pratica ed è la prassi migliore maestra. Proseguo il viaggio verso Olbia.

La statale SS125 percorre paesaggi e cittadine deserte il sole è forte e ho bisogno di fare benzina. Mi dice un uomo al bar di fare 5 km e arrivare al Penitenziario e li troverò il benzinaio. Federico un po’ storto, preoccupato forse. Risolviamo il problema del biglietto e meno male che l’agenzia sotto casa a Roma ci ha risposto e gentilmente aiutato.

Fantastico ! Vado a cercare il benzinaio. Percorro la strada indicatami, ai lati canneti e campi ricchi di fonte d’acqua per qualche km che non conto ma sembrano più di 5…. mi viene il dubbio se ho preso la giusta direzione e mi accosto.

Sembra di essere in un luogo di nessuno e allo stesso tempo qualcuno ci deve essere! Vado avanti in moto la strada finisce con un edificio che vedo da lontano.

Un edificio giallino colpito dalla luce accecante del sole.

E come detto il benzinaio accanto. Il benzinaio è una signora sorridente pelle poco abbronzata che esce e mi dice come usare il distributore e poi di pagare da lei dopo.

Mi racconta del penitenziario chiuso venivano incarcerati per la maggior parte persone dal Veneto.

Ora le prigioni sono chiuse e i locali non tutti vengono usati per vivere abitare, ma a me sembra tutto deserto.

Arriva un bambino con una macchinetta sulla quale è orgogliosamente seduto,

a motore. Gli chiedo se deve fare benzina anche e lui e ci salutiamo.

Qui l’acqua sembra essere lontana, lontana dall’’ardente luce e calore del sole sulle pietre color ambra.

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After waking up on the beach, with the sea and the salty water, the body smiles at the new day that begins in this nature, where man has found and chosen a way to coexist with it and try to dominate it at the same time.

Today we head north. The road we’ll follow will run along the eastern coast. Slowly, after a good breakfast and a shower at Lisa’s hotel.

Tatti is packed, but it’s fine with me. However, learning to manage time and the need for objects within that span of time, thinking about unexpected events, while also embracing the freedom to choose at any moment to continue the journey or change course, is a balance between necessity and desire. In a way, it reflects our relationship with fear and freedom.

It takes practice, and practice is the best teacher. I continue my journey towards Olbia.

The SS125 highway passes through deserted landscapes and small towns. The sun is strong, and I need to fuel up. A man at a bar tells me to drive 5 km to reach the penitentiary, where I’ll find the gas station. Federico is a bit worried, maybe. We solve the ticket issue, and thankfully the agency below our apartment in Rome responded and helped us kindly.

Fantastic! I go in search of the gas station. I follow the road he pointed out, passing by reed beds and fields full of water sources for a few kilometers, though it feels like more than 5. I start to doubt if I’ve taken the right direction and pull over.

It feels like being in no man’s land, yet someone must be here! I continue by motorcycle; the road ends at a building I see from afar.

A yellowish building struck by the blinding light of the sun.

As promised, the gas station is next to it. The gas station attendant is a smiling woman, with lightly tanned skin, who comes out and shows me how to use the pump and tells me to pay her afterward.

She tells me about the closed penitentiary, where most of the prisoners came from Veneto.

Now the prisons are closed, and not all of the buildings are used for living. But everything seems deserted to me.

A child arrives with a small toy motorbike, proudly sitting on it.

I ask him if he also needs gas, and we exchange goodbyes.

Here, the water seems far away—distant from the burning light and heat of the sun on the amber-colored stones.

the sky

La luna nuova nel cielo ieri sera e oggi le nuvole con il loro timido bisogno di piangere e sentirsi presenti nel ciclo ecologico della vita. La temperatura è africana, il vento ricorda l’Africa l’acqua si dipinge di trasparenza colorata qualcosa di prezioso agli occhi e i piedi felici di sentirsi baciati da essa.

Parto verso nord percorrendo la costa occidentale.

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he new moon in the sky last night, and today the clouds with their timid need to cry and feel present in the ecological cycle of life.
The temperature is African, the wind reminds me of Africa, and the water is painted in transparent, colorful hues—something precious to the eyes, and my feet happy to feel kissed by it.

I head north, traveling along the western coast.

Costa rei

A warm night, lying there, caught in the thought of wanting to rearrange things, to make sense of it all. But then, something clicks. Maybe it's fine just as it is. The gentle sound of the sea fills the air, and the breeze rises around 2 AM, whispering a quiet invitation for the body to surrender. Finally, it does, letting go of the tension, the worries, the restless thoughts.

The dawn arrives quietly, without rushing. The sea is calm, its waves softly lapping against the shore, sending a melody of peace and companionship. It’s as if the world itself has slowed down, wrapped in a gentle embrace. In the quiet, the sea becomes a kind of dialogue, speaking not with words, but with a rhythm, a calming pulse that matches the beat of your own heart.

As the morning light slowly unfurls, the colors appear—soft pastels that seem to melt into one another. The sky holds a delicate hue, reminiscent of the works of Piero Guccione, especially his Nuolvette (Little Clouds), where every shade of light seems to tell a story, to whisper a secret. The light, the sea, the breeze—they all become part of a living canvas, an invitation to stop, to breathe, to simply be. It’s in these moments that the world feels right, just as it is, untouched and full of quiet beauty.

And so, you wake—not with haste, but gently, like the dawn itself, taking in the beauty of the day ahead. Everything is in its place, even if it’s never quite arranged the way we imagine it should be. It’s perfect just as it is.

friendship

After 100 km from Cagliari, rolling parallel to the sea along Costa Rei.
The atmosphere here is somewhat touristy, especially with people from Switzerland, but the locals who work here are truly kind and welcoming.

Here, I meet Lisa and the girls again. After years without seeing each other, it feels like it was just yesterday, though we all carry with us a bit more life experience now.

Italy is playing for the UEFA Cup, and a table of Swiss people watches the match with us as we enjoy marinated mussels and beer. He was born in Switzerland and raised by Calabrian parents, married with children and grandchildren. Everyone is here. We speak in Kuhdeutsch (Swiss German), and have a lovely evening, celebrating Italy’s victory.

The water is crystal clear, the sand golden, and the sky, with its light, fills me with sweetness and delicate harmony at dawn.

This is how the day begins: the body in the sea, searching with my gaze into the depths for that essential, true, pure presence. In the trail of the currents, I find peace in the white sand.

The embrace of this transparent sea and its water channels life into my skin—refreshing, with a desire to stay immersed and simply look.

water as a source of peace

The clarity of the sea, the search for purity in its depths, and the embrace of its refreshing coolness all speak to a deeper connection with nature. Water, in many spiritual traditions, is a symbol of life, renewal, and tranquility. Here, the sea is not just a physical experience but a metaphor for cleansing, reflection, and the balance between the body and soul. Can be ?!