CYCLING SARDINIA

Two Weeks Cycling Through Sardinia’s Villages, Mountains, and Shores

After our honeymoon ride through Corsica and Sardinia two years ago, we kept thinking about the part we barely touched—Sardinia itself. Leah had been pushing for a return ever since, and this spring we finally made it happen.

We mapped a route that would span the much of the island—coast to coast, north to south—knowing we couldn’t go deep everywhere, but wanting to see it for ourselves. To learn where we’d want to come back to. I’d been studying Italian intensively for eight months, which added a new layer to the ride: chatting with locals, joking with waiters, navigating hill towns without reaching for my phone.

We found rhythm in the hills, long silences between stony villages, and the joy of never quite knowing what kind of pasta—or pavement—was waiting around the next bend.

Arrival to Cagliari

We flew from Seattle to Amsterdam, then caught a short flight to Cagliari. By the time we landed, I was running low on sleep, dehydrated, and barely functioning. The teenager sitting next to me warned that she was afraid of flying, later proving it by sobbing and gripping the seat in front of her. We exchanged a few words in Italian—my first real-world test after eight months of intense daily study. I held my own, more or less.

At baggage claim, I had to head to a different area to retrieve our bike bags. As I tried to return to Leah, the staff pointed me toward the main exit. I explained I needed to get back to my wife; one of the guys waved me on, laughed, and said, “Ma perché non vai in vacanza senza moglie!?” I grinned, proud I understood the joke.

The train into town was five minutes—barely enough time to sit down, let alone check tickets. The hotel was a short walk away, but the two narrow flights of stairs and our 60-pound bike bags burned through whatever energy I had left. Our host wasn’t exactly thrilled to see us. He gestured a lot, explained that the building was historic and newly restored, and flinched whenever the bike bag wheels touched the carpet. Leah had messaged him the dimensions earlier and he’d agreed to hold them until the end of our tour, but based on the sighing and intense hand motions, he seemed to have changed his mind. He made a few calls and found another hotel down the street that would store them for a small fee. I hauled the bags back down and dropped them off at Il Gallo. If they were nervous about holding them for two weeks, they didn’t show it.

We walked around town and found dinner at Pizzeria Sa Schironada. I couldn’t tell you if it was great—my brain had checked out hours earlier. But we ended the day with smiles after a stop at Gelateria Vaniglia e Pistacchio. I got the namesake combo. The pistachio was rich and almost savory, the vanilla bright and floral.

The day hadn’t gone to plan, but we’d landed, adjusted, and ended on a sweet note. Tomorrow would sort itself out. Tutto passa.

Cagliari

Thanks to jet lag I woke up early in Cagliari, long before Leah. I studied Italian in the dark for nearly two hours—still holding onto my daily practice—and figured we’d be on our bikes by midmorning. The bikes and the forecast had other ideas. What should’ve taken twenty minutes stretched to ninety: a slow valve stem leak, sealant cleanup, a cracked knock block, a drained AXS battery, and the strong realization that we were too hungry to ride.

We grabbed pizza for lunch at Framento, something I could get used to. The skies were turning, and so was our mood—we shelved the ride altogether and took to the streets on foot instead.

We wandered uphill toward Castello, into narrower alleys and older stones. At one point, we ducked into Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta e Santa Cecilia, a 13th-century church, just as the rain began to fall harder. It was quiet and dim—stone, incense, and echo—and we sat there watching a few other silent travelers wait out the storm.

Later we stopped at Durke, a tiny pasticceria run by a woman named Maria Antonietta. We talked cookies, traditions, somehow Trump, and left with a bag of amarettes and papassini that would serve as cycling snacks for tomorrow’s big ride. These are old Sardinian sweets, rustic and dense, once carried by shepherds in cloth sacks. Sardinia, as we’d learn, remembers things other places forget.

When the rain let up, we walked to I Fenu for gelato: fragola camarosa and arancia. The strawberry was incredible—sweet, tart, high-intensity flavor. We stood outside trading bites, thinking about how easily gelato can flip a day around.

Dinner was at Old Friend, a modern spot doing ambitious things with Sardinian ingredients. The roasted squid with lamb ’nduja was smoky and briny, sharpened by cabbage. The muggine (grey mullet) came with curry, asparagus, and passionfruit—strange on paper, but phenomenal on the plate. We also had a risotto with casizolu and oxidized honey, which leaned funky and earthy in the best way.

We didn’t ride today—not even around the block to test the bikes. But we settled in. Into the city, the food, the pace of this island.

Cagliari to Muravera

We woke up wishing we hadn’t set an early alarm, not exactly eager to start what would be our longest mileage day of the trip. Front-loading the tour to get to the good stuff sooner had seemed like a brilliant idea when we were scheming the route back at home. Flaky croissants and sharp espressos helped shake the sleep off. My bike tires, thankfully, held air after yesterday’s patch job—unloading a half a bottle of sealant into them. Navigating out of Cagliari was just a little fussy, full of turns and traffic, but we slid into a proper bike lane soon enough, the city gradually giving way to quieter pavement.

Around mile eleven, the rain arrived and stayed—steady, soaking, insistent. It fell through the sweet, perfumed air we’d been catching whiffs of all morning, the kind of scent that made us glad we chose to return to Sardinia in April. We had more than 60 miles today, and nearly a third of them were under full downpour. Still, with mild temperatures and no wind, it never tipped into misery. The road hugged the coastline in a steady rhythm of climbs and curves. Even muted under a blanket of grey, you could tell—this road would be a cycling paradise in the sun.

The rain let up just as we descended into Villasimius, our halfway point for the day. We’d planned our stop at Ristorante Su Gigante, a modest hotel restaurant with a strong seafood reputation, and it more than delivered. Leah ordered pasta alle vongole, the tiny, sweet clams still tasting of the sea, while I went for the mixed grilled fish—all local, expertly cooked, and deeply satisfying. A basket of bread landed on our table with slices of pane carasau, the famously crisp Sardinian flatbread originally made for shepherds to carry on long journeys. We shared our first tiramisù of the trip—“pick me up,” literally—and it did. Leah changed into dry clothes. I didn’t, opting instead to simply wad up paper towels from the bathroom and stuff them into my shoes.

After lunch, the rain mostly let up. Aside from one long climb, the final thirty miles were kind—no more soaking down to the chamois, just road unspooling north. As we gained elevation, the landscape opened. Low scrub gave way to wide views of turquoise sea, still bright even under a lid of cloud cover. The climb came and went without drama, and from there it was all an exhale—rolling, open, smooth. A crack of sun would hit the hillsides, lighting damp shrubbery vivid. Even my socks had dried. Everything felt lighter. The scenery never stopped until we reached Muravera.

We rolled into Muravera just as the sun hung low, casting shadows across shuttered windows and silent cobblestone streets. The town felt paused—quiet, a little hollow. A few tiny cars zipped through the narrow alleys, but otherwise it was just us. Our B&B was clearly once a family home, not some styled-up guesthouse, and we were the only guests. Signora Luciana, the host’s mother, answered the door. She didn’t speak a word of English, but my Italian held up better than expected. The rooms were simple, rustic in a way that felt real. We rinsed out our clothes in the shower and hung it around a little space heater that looked about my age—a rattling old box with a loose plug that sounded like it was straining to stay alive.

Dinner didn’t go as planned. We walked back and forth along Muravera’s small main street for nearly an hour, every spot either dark or closed despite what Google Maps claimed. The only open place was a bar that didn’t serve food. With five minutes to spare before closing, we made it into a supermarket and grabbed what we could: some disappointing focaccia, a packaged octopus salad, and what turned out to be vegan prosciutto. Leah had picked up some ravioli too, but we couldn’t find a kitchen to cook it in. It wasn’t the Italian meal we’d spent today’s ride imagining—but we figured things would turn around tomorrow.

Ride stats: 5hr52min, 63mi, 3200ft (map)

Muravera to Tortolì

In the morning, our host Mauro—Signora Luciana’s son—felt bad we hadn’t found dinner the night before and insisted on making us breakfast himself. The night before, the dining room had already hinted at his family’s orange grove: bowls of oranges on every table, tucked into corners, even nestled among the ceramics on the mantle. He poured us glasses of freshly squeezed juice—spremuta, as it’s called in Italian—and it was so bright and sweet we’d spend the rest of the trip chasing that same flavor. The orange marmalade was homemade, too, and when we told him how good it was, he disappeared and came back holding a full jar for us to take. Not ideal cargo for a bike tour, but I took it anyway, knowing I’d spread it on toast back home and remember this exact room.

We left Muravera later than planned, the morning warmth already beginning to build. We stepped off the main road and followed a dirt track that looked more promising on the map than it felt under our tires. The cars we were avoiding turned out to be infrequent and respectful, with plenty of visibility, while the off-road detour quickly turned into an inefficient crawl—first a stream crossing, then a stretch of double track cluttered with loose rocks. I didn’t mind the bumpiness; I was riding my hardtail mountain bike, overkill for this trip but brought specifically to test ahead of a bigger solo ride later this year. Leah wasn’t enjoying the terrain, so I swapped onto her gravel bike, which handled it just fine.

Progress was slow, and we disagreed about when to return to pavement. I was getting anxious—there was a pasta shop in Tertenia I had my eye on, and it closed at 1 p.m. Between our lingering breakfast and the drag of the trail, our margin was vanishing. Once we hit tarmac again, I tucked in and pushed ahead alone, hoping to beat the clock and grab food for the both of us.

Tertenia looked like another near miss. My first and second lunch picks were both shuttered, just like the night before. We were moments from settling for a vending machine lunch when Leah spotted a small café still serving—Dardani Café. Four sleek road bikes leaned out front, and their riders, older guys in Lycra, were just sitting down. We joined a table next to them.

They turned out to be Australian cyclists doing a supported tour, and it seemed like they’d rather talk to us than each other. One even dragged his chair over to our table. They told stories of past bike trips—Mallorca, the Dolomites, New Zealand—and bemoaned cycling back home. “Australian drivers try to kill you,” one said raising his eybrows. Sardinia, by contrast, was paradise—even with the constant hum of "murder bikes" (which is how I kept hearing them pronounce motorbikes). The roads were filled with Germans on rented Ducatis, Italy doing its best to keep them coming.

At the next table, a trio of local men were chain-smoking and deep in a loud debate about English grammar, a strange coincidence until I realized we were the topic. When I came back from the bathroom, Leah was already talking to them—sort of. Only one of them knew a few words in English, and it was some of the worst English I’ve ever heard, clearly picked up by ear from passing travelers. When I replied in Italian, their eyes lit up.

What followed was my first real, extended conversation entirely in Italian. The men were giddy, offering stories, asking questions, laughing at their friend’s broken English, and thrilled they could finally be part of the exchange. Leah told me to tell one of them he looked like Pedro Pascal, and when I did, his friends groaned and swatted at him, muttering that they didn’t need his ego to swell. It was silly and perfect. My Italian held. I didn’t get my pasta shop, but I left with something better.

We lingered longer than planned at lunch—hard not to, with the warm sun and conversation still hanging in the air. The road afterward pitched gently uphill, a slow, quiet climb that didn’t demand much. When it finally broke, we flew down into farmland on back roads with pavement dotted with patches of dried cow pies.

We aimed for Tortolì, just outside of Arbatax, one of the larger towns along the east coast. Our Airbnb was modern and bright, a sharp contrast to the old stone home from the night before. We were the only guests again. Shoulder season perks.

Ride stats: 5hr4min, 55mi, 2700ft (map)

Tortolì to Baunei

We let ourselves sleep in until 8, a sweet indulgence given the last few days. The morning had an unrushed feel—sunlight pouring into the courtyard, no clock to race. We strolled to Is Culurgionis, a pasta shop and bakery on the edge of town. For once, Google was right—it was open. We ordered one of everything that looked good, which was nearly everything. The woman behind the counter was kind, and I wished I had the stomach to order seconds.

We wandered along the main pedestrian street until we found a lively café. Our host had told us not to worry about checkout time, and we had only a short ride ahead, so we lingered. A cappuccino and a macchiato were brought to us as the nearby tables filled with locals—animated, loud, happy. Sardinian breakfast chatter spilled around us and I tried to follow threads of conversation I could almost catch.

Back at the B&B, our host had handed us a small jar of local honey to take with us. It joined the orange marmalade already packed in my bike bag—gifts that would be a burden to carry, but I already knew I’d be glad I did once we were home.

We didn’t start riding until nearly 11 a.m.—a late, easy departure. In Triei, we paused at a café in the old stone piazza just beneath the church, where a few very elderly men sat quietly, mostly staring off. One of them had to be close to 100. By now, I was fully in the rhythm of greeting everyone we passed—buongiorno, salve, or ciao—a habit I now miss being back in Seattle.

I chatted briefly with the café owner and asked how his day was going. “Quando c’è il sole, c’è anche il mio sorriso,” he said—when the sun is out, so is my smile.

We ate our freezer ice creams in the shade, taking our time. It was one of the shorter days of the trip, and we were happy to let the minutes stretch out. Still, we had a solid climb ahead—Baunei sat high above us, and we’d count every switchback to get there.

The trail turned rough—dirt and crumbling pavement. Leah and I swapped bikes again, and I pushed ahead, hopping between scraps of shade where I could find them. Eventually, even those disappeared, and the only shadow was the one cast by my own bike. The sun was high and punishing, a reminder of our lazy morning.

Just three miles left—all of it steeper. Still, I wouldn’t change a thing. We needed that rest.

Near the top, I stashed my bike and jogged back down to meet Leah, who was pacing herself through the final grind. I gave her a push for the last few switchbacks into Baunei—a town known for its extraordinary number of centenarians, one of the world’s rare and storied Blue Zones.

Arriving in Baunei didn’t mean the climbing was done. The town clung to a steep hillside, and Leah had to walk the final stretch up to our B&B, pushing her bike past pastel homes and bright facades.

Our host, Angelo, greeted us with an easy smile and fluent English, which he immediately switched to Italian when he realized I could hold a conversation. At one point, he asked how I’d learned so much in just eight months—he had a few employees struggling with the language and wanted to help. I gave him some tips, flattered by the assumption that I must live in Italy because of my pronunciation.

Angelo told me this B&B had once been his grandmother’s house, and he’d been born in the room right across the hall from ours. He lives now on “the continent,” in Bolzano. I mentioned I’d be cycling there in a few months. “You’re crazy,” he laughed. “Even steeper than this.”

We had lunch at the aptly named Ristorante Belvedere, where every table overlooked the vast valley below. We ordered two bowls of malloreddus—one with a rich goat ragù, the other alla campidanese, a tomato and sausage sauce from the island’s south. Malloreddus is one of Sardinia’s signature pastas: small, ridged, and shell-like, perfect for catching sauce.

It was also where we discovered OranSoda, a fizzy canned aranciata made with Sicilian oranges. Like so many things in Italy, the label proudly declared its origin. Pistachios from Bronte. Vinegar from Modena. Oranges from Sicily. Every ingredient with a hometown. I found myself daydreaming about visiting them all.

We wandered the steep lanes of Baunei on foot, our glutes humming with every uphill step. Around every corner, a glimpse of tiled rooftops and the valley spilling out below. On a quiet side street, we passed elderly residents sitting motionless on balconies, watching the afternoon drift by. Maybe that was part of the secret—daily climbs and daily rest.

I'm not sure if gelato leads to a long life, but it certainly leads to a happy one. We found some of the best at Timasù Gelateria. Leah chose strawberry and pistachio—two flavors that, in Sardinia, consistently punch above their weight. I went with fiordilatte, the unadorned milk base that so many others are built on. Simple, creamy, perfect.

Dinner was a satisfying meal at Pizzeria San Pietro—thin, blistered crusts with bright, simple toppings. Baunei had more visitors than we’d seen in days. It’s the southern gateway to the Selvaggio Blu, a multi-day coastal trek known for its remoteness and beauty. At nearby tables, young Germans in hiking boots stumbled through ordering in English. I felt a quiet pride in the hours I’d spent studying Italian—so I wouldn’t have to do that.

Later, we watched the sun drop behind the mountains from the rooftop. The hills turned lavender, then blue, the valley below fading into dusk. I video called my family and tried to share the view. But of course, the camera couldn’t quite capture the hush, the scale, the improbable magic of being right here.

Ride stats: 1hr37min, 13mi, 1900ft (map)

Baunei to Urzulei

We started the next morning at a café with an eye-opening view, though the vibe didn’t quite match the warmth of the smaller towns we’d passed through—more tourists, maybe. Still, the essentials were there. Due spremute had become non-negotiable, and we’d marvel at how much better the oranges were here. To eat: a pistachio croissant or a chocolate one (or both), a homemade slice of torta della nonna I could never resist, and if a tiramisù caught my eye, I’d always find room for that too.

A breakfast like that—eaten in the sun, overlooking the valley, with a day of riding ahead—made it hard to complain about anything.

The ride out of Baunei was spectacular from the start. We climbed gently through alpine meadows, the air clean and sweet, the views wide and hushed. Grey limestone spires jutted from the hills, and all around us, animals grazed—cows, sheep, pigs, horses—unbothered, unhurried, living their long Sardinian lives. Maybe breathing this air helped.

Eventually, we peeled off the main road and coasted toward Urzulei, dropping fast—seven hundred steep feet in just a couple of miles. We stopped partway down to acknowledge what that meant: tomorrow, we’d be climbing right back out. Still, we didn’t hesitate. Everything had been worth it so far.

Urzulei was quiet—a ghost town in the mid-afternoon sun. The walls were covered in striking murals, mostly portraits of former village elders. Lemon trees hung heavy over narrow walkways, their fruit nearly brushing our shoulders.

It didn’t look promising for lunch, but luck was with us: La Ruota was the only place open, and it turned out to be just what we needed. We split a plate of ravioli and another of culurgiones—a Sardinian pasta shaped like a plump, braided dumpling, stuffed with potato, mint, and local pecorino.

Afterward, we checked into our B&B and met Maria Antonietta, our kind and chatty host. I felt a little guilty turning down her offer of a glass of local wine. The rest of the afternoon passed slowly, sweetly. Leah napped. I studied more Italian.

In the late afternoon, we shook off our laziness and wandered out into Urzulei. The town was so still I was almost startled each time we turned a corner and saw someone else. The streets felt like a time capsule—walls painted with black-and-white murals that looked like old photographs brought to life, showing villagers in traditional dress, scenes of daily life from another era.

We also came across a few tiny bronze sculptures displayed behind glass—Nuragic figurines, thousands of years old, with stylized poses and wide eyes. They were quiet reminders that this island had been settled and shaped long before Rome, long before paved roads.

That night, we ate pizza at a quiet local bar—the only real option in town—and talked about the route ahead. The early climb out tomorrow was going to be a challenge, no question. But we were already excited to see what the next day would bring.

Ride stats: 1hr38min, 15mi, 1400ft (map)

Urzulei to Cala Gonone

Maria served us breakfast on the terrace—cheese, honey, fruit, fresh bread—all local, much of it homemade. As we ate, she pointed out where everything came from: the fig tree down the hill, the goat pasture beyond the ridge. Hosting, for her, wasn’t business. It was care.

The climb out of Urzulei was short and gentle, made easier by the cool morning air. I realized how ideal it was to start a ride this way—climbing with a full belly, before the heat set in.

We returned to the high meadows, where a band of goats came pouring across the road, bells clinking in soft harmony, hooves tapping against the pavement. They moved like a school of fish, parting around Leah and closing ranks again, self-guided and silent but for the music of their bells and the bleating of the smaller ones. No shepherd, no dog—just instinct and rhythm. Cars slowed and drivers leaned out for a look, but they were only catching a glimpse. We were inside it.

We had time to spare, so we took a detour—an out-and-back that clung to the mountainside beneath a towering cliff. The road was empty, overlooked by anyone in a car, probably never marked as anything worth stopping for.

But on bikes, it was impossible to miss. The limestone walls above us overhung the road like breaking waves, frozen mid-crash. They reminded me of the sea cliffs around Phuket, the ones we climbed and sailed past years ago. Different continent, same awe.

The road hugged the edge of a ridgeline, and across the canyon we could see the far wall of Gorropu—massive grey limestone cliffs, pale and streaked. Gorropu is often called the “Grand Canyon of Europe,” and at its deepest, the gorge drops more than 1,600 feet.

After cresting the high point, we knew the rest of the day would be mostly downhill. We could’ve let gravity take over and ripped down the descent, but instead we stopped often. Midday traffic had thinned for the lunch hour, the road was quiet, and it felt entirely wrong to rush past something this rare.

We stopped at Chiosco Monte Longu, a casual restaurant perched high above Cala Gonone with a wide, uninterrupted view of the sea. A few other tables were filled with Italian climbers in La Sportiva shirts and chalky pants, fresh off the rock and retreating from the heat.

Cala Gonone is the northern counterpart to Baunei—a hub for outdoor adventure on Sardinia’s east coast. But where Baunei feels tucked away and low-key, Cala Gonone is busier and more built-up. On the map, its streets form a perfect little grid. It sits right on the water, with outfitters offering boat tours and gear rentals, drawing a steady mix of climbers, hikers, and beachgoers.

From this height, it looked small and sunlit, the red-roofed town floating on a calm blue bay. We ordered pizzas and a caprese and lingered.

We coasted down a few switchbacks, then turned off the main road toward Hotel Pranos. Perched high above the sea, the boutique hotel offered a sweeping view of the coastline and Cala Gonone far below. We’d booked two nights, and it immediately felt like the right call.

Cala Gonone was the obvious base for boat trips and excursions, but I had no desire to be down there. It struck me as a tourist town—and besides, we had the better view from up here. Through the front desk, we arranged a dinghy rental at the Cala Gonone marina for the next day.

I dipped in the pool briefly. The water was cold, and the breeze didn’t help, but Leah lasted longer than I did. I stretched out under the sun, the air full of birdsong, and stared toward the blue horizon of the Mediterranean, pretending I could make out the mainland if I squinted hard enough.

Later, I sat in a lounge chair with a Crodino, practiced a little Italian, and let my thoughts drift. I pictured a future trip—climbing on these same cliffs with the kids in a few years. There was something quietly satisfying about seeing a place and knowing, with certainty, you’d return.

That evening we went for a walk. Our hotel didn’t serve dinner, and Cala Gonone was at least an hour’s hike downhill. Instead, we followed a dirt road that contoured along the hillside, offering long, quiet views of the cliffs and the sea, glowing with the last light of day.

We were headed to Agriturismo Nuraghe Mannu, where I’d made a reservation earlier. An agriturismo is a working farm that also hosts guests or serves meals made from its own harvests—a way to experience traditional cooking, more rustic than refined, but deeply tied to place.

Dinner began at 8 p.m. and unfolded over the next three hours. The terrace was full: a mother and daughter, clusters of tourists, and a table of young Italians who looked like they were on break from city life, chatting over emptied bottles and the last pours of red. The food came in waves—Sardinian bread, cured meats, sautéed vegetables, liver, pasta, lamb, salad, crispy pork, fruit, then coffee and grappa. Every bite seemed to echo the land we’d just walked through. It was hearty, generous, unpolished. I probably wouldn’t do it again, but I’d recommend it at least once. It really did feel like eating at a farm.

We walked back in the dark, headlamps throwing cones of light onto the gravel. We’d eaten too much and started to fade before dessert even arrived. I wished we’d left a little earlier—but we hadn’t. Full, tired, a little dazed, we let the evening stretch longer than it needed to. Not the worst problem to have on vacation.

Ride stats: 2hr4min, 24mi, 1900ft (map)

Exploring the coast

After breakfast at the hotel, we walked up to the main road to hitch a ride. A thin layer of cloud had settled over the coast—Leah was skeptical. It wasn’t the spectacular, sunlit backdrop we’d hoped for on a day of boat touring. Still, we stuck out a thumb.

Within a minute, an older German couple pulled over and gave us a lift. The ride down to Cala Gonone took less than five minutes—a stretch we were glad not to walk.

At the marina, we picked up snacks, paid 150 euros, signed the rental paperwork, and were handed a safety sheet. The staff gave us a rapid-fire rundown: how to start the engine, where to go, where not to go, how to anchor, how not to beach the boat. It was all straightforward in hindsight, but at the time it felt like cramming for a practical exam we were about to take at sea.

Alessandro, a lanky young local, then gave us a quick tour of the boat, repeated the instructions, and waved us off. Suddenly, we were alone, steering into open water.

The plan was to tear south to Cala Goloritzé, the furthest point our rental allowed in the Gulf of Orosei—twelve nautical miles. We covered it in about 40 minutes, cutting through calm water as the cliffs grew steeper and more sculpted. Then we turned around and eased our way back north, stopping to anchor wherever looked inviting.

As the skies began to clear, we slowed our pace and edged closer to the cliffs. The rock faces—massive and sculpted—revealed more detail with every passing minute. Some looked like walled fortresses, others like cathedral spires or the spine of a dragon. One ridge narrowed into a shark fin; another rose into a sheer buttress, streaked in honey, ash, and bone. We cut the engine and drifted beneath them, craning our necks. The cliffs loomed above in absolute silence. Even from a moving boat, the land felt perfectly still.

We anchored in a turquoise cove beneath stained limestone. Leah had already stripped down, waiting only for the sun to push through the thinning clouds. The water was clear, cold, unreal in color. I wasn’t eager—open water isn’t my thing—but eventually, the need to pee outweighed my hesitation.

The shock faded fast. I adjusted to the cold, though I’ve never liked the slap of water on my face, the taste of salt that finds its way in no matter what. Still, I swam toward shore and leaned against a sun-warmed rock. Its surface was rough and pocked with tiny seashells, a quiet reminder of how long this place had been collecting time.

A few other dinghies had dropped anchor nearby. Some people swam. Most didn’t. The cove felt hushed and luminous, with cliffs leaning closer the longer we stayed.

Cala Luna was the last of the big beaches, and the most visited. Hikers from Cala Gonone had made their way there on foot—a well-worn trail that wound along the cliffs before dropping to the cove. I later read you could do a hybrid: hike in, then catch a boat back for sixteen euros.

Every euro we spent on the dinghy felt worth it. It was shoulder season, but some beaches were already crowded—umbrellas planted in tight rows across the sand. We had found quieter places: small coves tucked beneath limestone overhangs, where we could float in silence, cliffs rising above and no one else in sight.

We hadn’t broken a sweat, but it still felt like time for a treat. We stopped at Fancello for gelato—tiramisu and pistachio—and ate it on a bench facing the sea. Then we wandered over to Skybar, a rooftop terrace overlooking the white rooftops of Cala Gonone and the long arc of the bay. Another reminder it was shoulder season: for a full hour, we had the place to ourselves, sipping spritzes as the light softened.

Dinner was at Sa Cuchina Osteria. We arrived just after six and were the first ones in. The place has only five tables, and by the time we placed our orders, we’d seen a dozen hopefuls turned away. The owner, an older woman from Barbagia, managed the room while her husband worked the kitchen. The menu was short and regional—pastas with ragu and sausage, rustic and deeply flavored.

For dessert, we split two: fried ravioli stuffed with ricotta and orange zest, and a seada drizzled with honey and oozing warm Pecorino Sardo. The check took a while to arrive, but no one seemed to mind. As we left, I told her in Italian that they were true artisans. She beamed. It was our favorite meal so far.

Dinner ran long, and by the time we stepped outside, the sun was slipping away. We tried to hitch a ride, but the few cars climbing the road either didn’t stop or couldn’t fit us.

So we walked. Past the last lights of town, we found the goat path that climbed the hillside—a faint ribbon of dust and rock. My sneakers still had recessed SPD cleats, which clicked and scraped against the gravel. Leah wore the headlamp; I used my phone light. A cool breeze followed us uphill, the dark horizon to our left, the lights of Cala Gonone flickering behind us.

We made it back by 9:30. I didn’t study Italian that night, but after all the ordering, chatting, and asking for directions, I figured I could let today slide.

Cala Gonone to Dorgali

I woke up groggy. Maybe it was the spritz, or too many hours on the dinghy without sunscreen. Leah had been up ten minutes earlier—woken by the sound of my bike tipping over. Outside, the wind was howling, nothing like the forecasted 7mph.

We ate breakfast inside, watching rain blow sideways across the patio. The Mediterranean was a smear of gray. Overnight, the weather had flipped seasons. I was glad we hadn’t saved the boat for today.

We asked for a late checkout and waited it out. Just after eleven, the rain eased. We loaded up and rolled out. The road climbed steeply out of town—just five miles, our shortest ride of the trip—but it was humid, and our legs felt heavy. The cliffs and sea dropped away behind us.

At the top, the road narrowed into a pair of tunnels, pitch black and bored through the mountain. One was closed to cars, so we took it. Leah lit the way with her headlamp. I followed close, tires echoing on damp pavement. It felt like a passage—leaving the coast behind and slipping into Sardinia’s stony interior.

Dorgali was much bigger than Cala Gonone. It felt like a real town—lived-in, not made for visitors. Cala Gonone had been a sponge, soaking up the tourists along its waterfront. Here, the streets moved to a different rhythm: teenagers roaming the piazza, church bells ringing, old men nursing tiny coffees in plastic chairs.

We checked in around 12:30 p.m., wheeling our bikes into Palazzo Cherchi, a restored noble home with painted ceilings and antique furniture. The rooms had a quiet elegance—frescoed walls, wrought-iron beds, carved wooden dressers. One hallway held a full set of Sardinian encyclopedias; another displayed ceramic jugs and plates patterned with bulls and peacocks, set atop handwoven cloths.

We did a load of laundry and brought our damp clothes up to the rooftop. The town spilled out below—cracked tile roofs, sun-faded shutters, geraniums in terracotta pots. The air smelled of warm stone and mountain wind. Dorgali was ringed by hills, close and green. It felt like the kind of place people actually lived.

We wandered the narrow, twisting streets of Dorgali. The town felt worn in and quietly lived. Stone steps climbed between faded buildings, their walls chipped and streaked with moss. Painted murals and black-and-white portraits were mounted like public memory—religious parades, proud faces in traditional dress.

We found a great lunch spot, Lìtu Osteria. We split the bucatini all’amatriciana and roasted octopus with creamed tomato and cooked wine sauce—both excellent. For dessert, a generous tiramisù. Leah said it was her favorite meal of the trip so far.

Midway through, Tupac’s extremely graphic “Hit ’Em Up” started playing. The older German couple next to us looked horrified and amused in equal measure. I wondered if the staff, who spoke some English, knew what they’d put on.

We returned to Lìtu for dinner. Leah had the spaghetti alle vongole with bottarga—my first taste of the Sardinian salted roe, sharp and briny. I had the ravioli al ragù dorgalese, rich and herbal, with what tasted like rosemary in the sauce. On the walk back, we passed thick hedges of it lining the sidewalk. I ran my hands through the leaves just to catch the scent.

We ended the night with gelato, as usual. Teenagers clustered near the church, then peeled off into the alleyways in packs. The streets echoed with footsteps and laughter. Now and then, a scooter buzzed to life and zipped away into the dark.

Ride stats: 43min, 5mi, 800ft (map)

Dorgali to Orgosolo

We started the day with breakfast in the old stone room—jams, cookies, and cake on porcelain platters. The sun was out, the wind had eased, and it finally felt like spring.

Leaving Dorgali, we coasted into a quiet, scenic descent. Rosemary lined the sidewalks. We stopped to tuck a few sprigs into our handlebars, just to hold on to the scent a little longer.

We got passed by a group of road cyclists—probably German, all on lightweight bikes. Leah told me to pass them, so I dropped into my aero bars and surged ahead. They’d been riding slow, and I held the lead for a while.

But then the headwind kicked up, and my low tire pressure started to drag. They passed us back, though not for long—they kept stopping to regroup.

We turned off the road toward Su Gologone Experience Hotel, arriving early after our sprint. It gave us time to wander the grounds—whitewashed walls, terracotta paths, and fig and olive trees casting dappled shade. Every corner felt deliberately styled: copper pans against turquoise plaster, hand-carved masks, bright cushions on curved benches.

With rooms starting around $500 a night, it’s not a casual stopover. But walking through, it was clear what guests were paying for. The place felt like a living museum of Sardinian heritage—part hotel, part gallery.

The cactus garden was in full bloom. Leah sank into a shaded hammock, half-asleep beside giant agaves. We strolled through herb beds, scarecrows in bright cloaks standing watch. Everything felt still, like the day was on pause.

We stopped into the little shop on the property, a breezy open-air space filled with locally made ceramics, textiles, and herbal goods. Leah picked out a small potpourri sachet of lavender, sage, and wild Sardinian herbs for her mom. We couldn’t buy much—we’d have to carry it—but it was fun to browse.

I chatted in Italian with the woman running the shop, who lit up when she heard we’d biked all the way from Cagliari.

For lunch, we sat near the massive open hearth where whole suckling pigs hung beside glowing coals. I was briefly tempted to order one—until I remembered the climb ahead. Instead, we shared two excellent pastas: gnochetti with wild boar ragù and a thick bucatini in tomato sauce. A side of rustic sausage, pan-fried potatoes, and green beans rounded out the meal. Leah got gelato with honey; I had a seada, that classic Sardinian pastry—fried dough filled with cheese, drizzled with warm honey.

We filled our bottles, wandered the rooms one last time, and gave ourselves a few minutes to digest before rolling back out into the sun.

The young host who spoke perfect English told us she was from Milan but now lived in Trieste. I mentioned I’d be heading to Trieste in September for my next ride, and she lit up. When we asked for a good route to Orgosolo, our goal for tonight, she recommended checking Strava heat maps. “I’m jealous of your adventure,” she said. “I wish I had my bike.” She was working at Su Gologone for seven months out of the year, part of what she called her new life. Leah wondered what that meant — what kind of life had brought her here, so far from Milan and Trieste, and how it felt to start over in this place.

Back on the bikes, I skipped adding air to my soft rear tire. The patch job was holding, and I didn’t want to risk messing with the valve. I’d just have to keep riding on low pressure and feel a bit more burn in my legs.

We rode west into a steady headwind, the kind that makes you question whether tailwinds even exist. Leah reminded me that our last Sardinia trip also ran west, also into the wind.

The climb was long and steady, but we were rewarded with a view: an endless sweep of farmland and orchards below a pale limestone wall, glowing in the afternoon sun. A slow grind, but a beautiful one.

As we reached Oliena, the town seemed quiet from the main road. We spotted the enormous mural of Giovanni Corbeddu Salis, the famous bandito of Barbagia. Sardinia’s Robin Hood. The painting showed him with his rifle in hand, eyes scanning the hills. He’d been known for robbing the rich and giving to the poor, keeping nothing for himself. Eventually, he was surrounded in the mountains and killed by a marksman. The town still seems to carry his legend in its bones.

A few minutes later, we were climbing a quiet mountain road—just a gentle grade at first, winding past scattered homes and overgrown driveways. Three puppies appeared on the roadside, no people in sight. Two were skittish, trembling behind a gate with wide, worried eyes. The third, a scrappy medium-sized one, trotted up to Leah, cautious but curious. She knelt and offered them amaretti cookies, which sealed the deal. Eventually, even the smallest one crept closer. Each time a motorcycle rumbled past, they’d spook and rush under our legs for shelter.

We made our final climb to Orgosolo, tracing the road we’d ridden all day through folds of green and limestone. From the saddle, we could see the patchwork of fields and switchbacks behind us, everything bathed in late-afternoon light.

As we rolled into town, the murals began to appear—first one, then another, until they were everywhere. Entire buildings wrapped in art, most of it fiercely political: slogans, protest signs, scenes of struggle and solidarity. I’d seen a few photos online, but they hadn’t prepared me for what it felt like to bike past them, one after the next—the whole town like an open-air gallery. I wished we’d arrived earlier, with time to walk slowly and take it all in. The murals made Orgosolo feel different from anywhere else we’d been in Sardinia—louder, bolder.

We had dinner at a pizza spot called Su Lizu. Leah noticed the framed Guinness World Record certificates—one for the most pizzas made in 12 hours (10,065), another for the most in a single hour (1,500), and one for the longest pizza ever made. I figured if nothing else, Angelo Mura knew his way around a ball of dough.

Turns out he really did. The crust was superb—light and chewy with just the right char—and the toppings were excellent. I had a pizza with porcini mushrooms, pancetta, and buffalo mozzarella, and I think it might’ve been my favorite of the trip. One rule I’ve learned: if you’re getting mushrooms, look for something named—porcini, oyster—anything but just funghi.

I’d also heard that Su Lizu’s tiramisu was house-made and worth ordering. They had it that night, and for four euros, it might’ve been the best dessert of the trip. Definitely the best tiramisu. I started to wonder if Angelo was gunning for a record in that category too.

Tomorrow’s a big day—not for riding, but for covering ground. We’ll be trading coastlines, using the train to cut some of the distance.

As we walked back to our lodging, the town was quiet, the sky already dark. Beyond the rooftops, storm clouds hung low over the mountains—heavy and bruised. We hoped they’d blow through by morning.

Ride stats: 3hr10min, 29.5mi, 2900ft (map)

Orgosolo to Bosa

We started early with a basic in-room breakfast—prepackaged pastries and coffee pods, convenient given the train we needed to catch. It was colder than recent days, both from the early hour and the return to normal spring temps. The descent out of Orgosolo was fast and quiet.

Ten miles in, we hit the climb to Nuoro—steep, busy, and with relentless morning traffic. It felt like the first real city we’d been in: apartment blocks, buses, traffic rules we couldn’t ignore. We accidentally rode the wrong way up a one-way street and dodged cars with barely a shoulder.

We rolled straight onto the station platform and ducked into the station café to confirm the 10:00 train to Macomer. A man in uniform sipping a cappuccino nodded. We grabbed espressos and pastries, then boarded with a few minutes to spare. But as soon as we sat down, a ticket checker appeared, visibly annoyed when I told him in Italian that we still needed to buy tickets (I had assumed we could purchase them onboard). He rattled off something sharp in Italian, then marched me off the train to a small booth hidden from view. On the walk over, he kept asking if I thought this was a joke. I apologized.

Inside, I bought the tickets—from the same guy who’d been behind the café counter. The scanner didn’t work, so he waved me off: “Vai, corri!” I ran. The train was only delayed a few seconds.

Back onboard, the ticket checker was all smiles—maybe trying to make up for his earlier tone. The ride through central Sardinia was lush and quiet: rolling hills, grazing sheep, no cell service. By the time we reached Macomer at 11:30, it felt like we’d already had a full day. But Bosa still lay ahead.

We stopped at a café on the edge of town. Lunch wouldn’t be served for another hour, so we sat outside and stared at the map. There were two ways to get to Bosa: the direct highway route, all downhill and fast, or a longer detour with some climbing.

We chose the detour.

It started with a gentle climb on a quiet road—so quiet we counted maybe four cars in an hour. The sun was out, and the farmland around us felt oddly paused, as if the workers had just stepped away. The towns we passed—Sagama, Tinnura, and Suni—were strung along the route like museum galleries. Sagama had a stone church with thick walls and a domed bell tower. Tinnura was packed with murals: a dying soldier, masked figures in shaggy white wool and horns, a man brushing down horses. No tourists. Just us, pedaling through it all like we’d slipped into someone else’s dream.

I could see why people romanticize Bosa. The historic center was a maze of narrow, pastel-painted streets, with buildings that leaned gently into age. Cobblestones rolled beneath our tires, some slick with moss, others dry and sun-bleached. Window boxes overflowed with flowers; grapevines snaked up the facades. But for all its charm, the alleys were tight and dim, with barely a sliver of sky overhead. It was hard to imagine sunlight ever hitting the ground. The air hung still and damp, carrying the faint scent of mold.

We went out for a walk to catch the last of the light. The town glowed—peach and rose facades lit by the sunset. We wandered slowly, picked up snacks for the ride tomorrow, and eventually settled on a spot for an early dinner.

I wasn’t expecting much from the food—Bosa leaned touristy. But Trattoria Nonna Rita, tucked into a quiet piazza with tables under a white canopy and vines climbing the walls, felt like a good choice.

For the first time on the trip, we skipped dessert. No gelato, no tiramisu—just a quiet walk home through empty streets, shutters drawn, cobblestones glinting under the streetlamps.

Ride stats: 1hr10min, 13mi, 1300ft (map)

Ride stats: 2hr6min, 23mi, 1000ft (map)

Bosa to Alghero

We slept in, ate breakfast at the hotel, and rolled out late. The day began with a climb—and wind. Within minutes, it was howling against us, cold rain sweeping in from the north. Behind us, the sky was blue and sunlit; ahead, thick dark clouds waited. It felt like we were crossing into the storm.

Leah paused to pull on her rain layers. I kept pedaling. After ten wet minutes, the rain stopped and the wind did its part to dry me off.

The riding only got better from there. The road twisted along the cliffs, dipping and rising with the coastline. It felt like Big Sur, but wilder, more Mediterranean—like Big Sur and Maui had a windblown Sardinian cousin. Each turn revealed another stretch of glittering blue, or a hidden cove framed by cliffs and maquis.

Wildflowers flared across the hillsides, and soft green brush gave the road a silvery edge. The tarmac was smooth. Cars passed politely, if at all. But even in that bliss, part of us was eager to reach Alghero. Leah was set on renting a scooter to explore the terrain north of town.

Alghero was beautiful—sunny, palm-lined, and alive with color. It felt like a tourist city that people actually lived in. The buildings had a slightly different look, with terracotta domes, ochre walls, and wrought-iron balconies that hinted at the town’s Catalan past. For centuries, this part of Sardinia was under Spanish rule, and the language, food, and architecture still carry traces of it.

We dropped the bikes and went looking for a snack. It was 3:30—too late for lunch, too early for dinner. The first two gelato shops looked promising until they didn’t: one had gummy worms as a topping, the other had a unicorn flavor and a full Harry Potter theme. We bailed. Leah found a quiet bar with a small gelato counter. I got the pistachio from Bronte—no frills, just excellent.

We got to the scooter rental place and I told the guy I’d ridden one before—in Bali, seven years ago. He nodded like that was good enough. I didn’t mention the accident.

We wrapped up the paperwork. Technically, he said, we should have an international driver’s license. We did—it was just sitting at home.

He gave a quick demo of the bike, Leah climbed on the back, and we took off. No test ride, no quiet parking lot—just straight into traffic. I was nervous. Mostly because I didn’t want to screw up with Leah behind me. She promised to stay calm and not yell, which helped. And honestly, it felt nice having her arms around me.

Twenty minutes in, the traffic thinned, and so did my nerves. We were out of the city, and the road opened up.

We rode all the way to the end of the road, where the cliffs dropped steeply into the sea near Neptune’s Grotto. At the overlook, we met a British kid—originally from Rome—traveling with his mom. He was 21 and kept wondering out loud why he was still living in London.

The scenery was unbelievable. Pale limestone bluffs plunged into the sea, streaked with yellow-green scrub clinging in tufts. The water below shimmered with a silver sheen in the late sun, and far down, the waves hissed softly against the rocks. We scrambled over the jagged limestone closer to the edge and spotted tiny figures along the trail—hikers winding toward the cliffs, and further down, climbers tucked into the shade of a sea cave.

It was getting late and we had an 8 PM dinner reservation, but we couldn’t resist checking out a few more beaches. One was unreachable, but the other opened into a long, golden arc of sand fringed with pine trees. The water was shallow and still, rippling clear over tiny shells and polished pebbles.

Leah crouched at the shoreline and dipped her hand in—warm enough to swim. She had her swimsuit on under her jacket, just in case. We didn’t have time. Something to save for later. She looked up and asked, “Why don’t we just stay another day?” I’d heard that more than once on this trip, which felt like a very good sign.

We made it to Musciora just in time and dove straight into the eight-course tasting menu. Leah was still wearing her swimsuit under her rain jacket. I had on my sun hoodie—the only thing that felt even vaguely clean. As Leah put it, it was the best meal she’s ever had while dressed for both a hike and a swim.

The food was phenomenal: thoughtful, seafood-forward, deeply Sardinian, yet playful and inventive. The standout might’ve been the octopus—smoky, tender, perfect. A close second was the beef tartare, topped with an olive oil powder that vanished on the tongue. The oysters surprised us with how good they were. By the end, the eight courses had quietly expanded to thirteen, including a pre-dessert and a final dessert topped with spun sugar.

The meal stretched over three hours—great value, less ideal for two travelers who hadn’t changed clothes. Afterward, we swung by a gas station to fill the scooter. Leah figured out the pump, we dropped the bike off, and walked back through the quiet streets to our hotel.

It was after midnight—easily the latest we’d been up this whole trip. Fortunately, there wasn’t much riding left. Unfortunately, the train in the morning wouldn’t wait.

Ride stats: 2hr52min, 29mi, 2900ft (map)

Alghero to Portoscuso

We started the morning early with a quick breakfast—we had a train to catch. Actually, we had three. The first leg was a short, fairly crowded local train, but we managed to wedge our bikes on without much trouble. It took us to Sassari, where we waited about half an hour for the next: a regional train heading south. This would be the long haul—three hours down to Cagliari.

It was hot on the train, and we wished we’d packed better snacks. The incredible dinner the night before had left us too full—and too tired—to plan ahead. After a layover in Cagliari, we boarded our final train to Carbonia.

Carbonia felt pretty industrial. We grabbed a quick snack at the station bar, but Leah was still hungry. At 3 p.m., options were slim. We vetoed a McDonald’s and found a restaurant where the chef, wrapping up for the day, graciously agreed to cook us two simple pasta dishes.

Then came the ride—our least favorite stretch of the trip. A straight, dull road through flat terrain, broken up by roundabouts and fast-moving traffic. Eventually we merged onto a highway, which, thankfully, had a wide shoulder and good visibility. Still, the gusts from passing cement trucks were intense.

Finally, we turned off toward the coast and rode north through a quieter industrial zone lined with wind turbines and looming factories. The road was empty. The air was still. We were nearly in Portoscuso.

We rolled into Portoscuso and were greeted warmly by our host, Giuseppe. He told us the house had been in his family for generations and made us feel instantly at home. When I mentioned I’d only been studying Italian for eight months, he laughed and said I already spoke better than some Italians—a generous joke, but a kind one.

Leah asked about the best way to get back to Carbonia the next day for our final train to Cagliari. We told him our plan: ferry to Carloforte for lunch on San Pietro Island, then ferry back to Portoscuso for a last ride to Carbonia. He shook his head and offered a smarter route—skip the return to Portoscuso and instead take the ferry from Carloforte to Sant’Antioco. From there, we could follow a bike path along the coast to Carbonia. It would be longer, but flatter, safer, and more scenic.

I’d been curious about biking on Sant’Antioco but hadn’t figured out how to make it work. This route avoided the dull highway and gave us something fresh to look forward to.

He approved of our dinner spot for the evening, and when we mentioned having tuna in Carloforte the next day, he grinned and said, “The tuna’s better in Portoscuso.” A funny claim, considering they share the same sea—and probably the same fish—just thirty minutes apart by boat.

According to a sushi chef who gave me a tour of the Toyosu fish market, the tuna from this part of the Mediterranean is the second best in the world—just behind the Tsugaru Strait. So for dinner, we went to Sa Musciara.

We started with tuna tartare and octopus salad with potato. Then came grilled fatty tuna belly and a shared tiramisu. Our waiter—a warm, chatty guy—kept the mood light. I felt confident enough to banter with him in Italian, and we traded a few jokes. He closed the meal with a complimentary mirto—the local herbal liqueur made from myrtle berries, and a fixture of Sardinian hospitality.

We paid the bill and stepped outside to catch what was left of the sunset. Leah suggested a walk through town. The streets were quiet, almost deserted. She said the waterfront and the restaurant reminded her of Gloucester. Funny she brought that up—New England’s known for its bluefin, too.

And as with nearly every place we’d visited, Leah said, “We should stay another night, change the plan.” And, as always, I said no.

Ride stats: 53min, 11mi, 300ft (map)

Portoscuso to Carloforte to Cagliari

We started the morning with what might’ve been the best breakfast of the entire trip. Giuseppe had laid out a full spread in the courtyard: yogurt, pastries, fruit, cured meats, fresh bread, and a focaccia sandwich stacked with tomato, mozzarella, and arugula. I think I ate three of those. There was also a simple torta—light, buttery, perfect with coffee.

But the real highlight was the conversation. We lingered at the table chatting with Joanna and Rod, the only other guests at the B&B. We’d met them briefly the night before, but over breakfast we got to see how funny and thoughtful they were. Retired and well-traveled, they talked about everything from the quirks of European cultures to why we should consider having kids. They were headed to Palermo next, with no set return date. We both wished we’d had more time—maybe even a full meal together.

We ended up chatting so long over breakfast that we nearly missed our 10 a.m. checkout. Giuseppe didn’t seem to mind—if anything, he looked pleased we were getting along so well.

The downside: we missed the 10:30 ferry and had to wait for the 11:50.

We biked across town to the beach. Leah was thrilled to get in the water—shallow, clear, and impossibly blue. I stashed my bike above the sand and wandered barefoot.

I crossed paths with a shirtless, tanned, heavily tattooed Italian man in a speedo and said buongiorno, as had become habit. He stopped to say it back—and somehow, we were talking. I think he asked if we were cycling. I still had my helmet on under my hood, looking ridiculous in long sleeves and cargo shorts next to him.

His name was Giancarlo. We talked for fifteen minutes, all in Italian. He lit up when I told him I was American—as had nearly every Italian who realized we weren’t European. We talked about life in Sardinia, the kinds of tourists who visit, and how he races bikes every Sunday when he’s not on his motorcycle. He was delighted to joke about the new pope also being American, and asked if I knew him.

When I mentioned that my neighbor back home was also named Giancarlo, he was stunned: “There are Giancarlos in America?” As we walked, he waved to a friend—another tanned, tattooed, speedo-clad twin—and said, “Questo è Raja, il mio amico americano!” Leah was watching from the water, cracking up—I assume.

We took a selfie together. He took one too, on his phone.

Before we parted, he offered a small cultural correction: when someone says in bocca al lupo (“into the wolf’s mouth,” the Italian version of “break a leg”), instead of saying crepi (“may it die”)—say vita! Life. I liked that.

We said our goodbyes and hurried off to catch the ferry.

We caught the ferry and had a breezy, beautiful ride over to Carloforte. Because of the delay, we only had a few minutes before our lunch reservation.

Still, I made a quick detour to Pescheria Feola, a well-known fish shop in town. The owner—gruff but good-humored—watched me eye the tuna and asked how many I wanted. When I said two of each, he grinned and said, “Ma sono in offerta…”—gently suggesting I was making a mistake. I left with eight cans: bluefin and yellowfin, some to gift, some for me. A lot to strap onto a bike, but it was the last day of riding.

The shop carried a few types, but I went for tonno sott’olio: yellowfin—milder, firmer—and bluefin, the local prize. Rich, buttery, and packed in olive oil. The kind of thing you build a meal around.

From there, we pedaled to Da Nicolo, past pastel buildings and palm-lined streets. Carloforte has Ligurian roots, but there’s a clear North African feel too.

At lunch, we repeated part of last night’s order—tuna tartare and octopus. Both were good, but Musciara’s versions had the edge. Their tartare was silkier, dressed in just enough olive oil. The octopus here leaned sweeter, more balsamic-forward.

The standout was the linguine with tuna. Simple, perfect, unforgettable. They’ve been making it since 1973. I made a mental note to try recreating it at home—with one of my new tins, of course.

We had a few minutes before the ferry, so we took one last spin through town, just soaking it all in. Once again, Leah suggested we stay longer—maybe take a later train back. And, as always, I said no. I had more planned for the day.

The ferry was packed—not with cars, but with about 50 German tourists, all on e-bikes. They were part of a cycling group headed to Calasetta, the port town on Sant’Antioco. There were only four cars total, which made the bike-to-car ratio pretty funny.

When we pulled into Calasetta, we got a surprise: Giuseppe was there, waiting with a friend. He’d come to return the sports bra Leah had forgotten on the beach in Portoscuso. She had messaged him about it, assuming we’d have to pay to ship it home.

We dropped off our bikes at the hotel where we’d stashed our bike bags two weeks earlier. From there, we grabbed our city clothes, checked into a hotel, and set out on foot.

Cagliari felt noticeably busier than when we’d first arrived. The streets were crowded now, full of tourists—even though high season hadn’t technically started. We walked through the city toward Gelateria Chiccheria.

That evening we took a short cab to ChiaroScuro. I chatted with the driver the whole way—ten minutes of Italian, just one word I missed. When he found out we were American, he said, “So this is a real trip for you!”

At the restaurant, we skipped the tasting menu and ordered à la carte. After two weeks in Sardinia, we knew what we liked. Roasted cauliflower with egg cream and almonds to start. Then two pastas: filindeu in sheep’s broth—an ultra-rare dish of fine, hand-pulled strands—and pillowy gnocchi in radish extract. Both were excellent.

Next came lentil soup, then lamb poached in olive oil for four hours, served with a crisp potato pavé. For dessert, Leah picked Il Limone—a lemon filled with curd, mousse, and candied peel. Bright, creamy, and stunning.

We walked home full and happy, joking about one last gelato. We didn’t. Instead, we wandered back slowly, the air still warm, the city alive around us. It felt good to be on foot for good this time. Our trip had been a success.

Ride stats: 1hr17min, 18mi, 500ft (map)

Cagliari

We woke up and broke down the bikes, taking our time with the final pack-up. For lunch, we went to Sa Domu, where I finally ordered fregula—tiny, toasted semolina pasta—and immediately wished I’d gotten it more often.

Over lunch, we talked about how lucky we felt: no injuries (especially not on the scooter day), and almost every meal had been excellent. We’d covered a lot of ground without rushing, and more importantly, we now knew which places we’d return to.

We didn’t linger long in any one town, but that was the point. We wanted to move through the island slowly, to feel the texture of it: how the air changed, how bread smelled, how people said greeted each other. Sardinia was more than just one place—it’s dozens. Each town with its own pace, pride, and flavors. And after two weeks, we left with full hearts, tired legs, and a deeper appreciation of Sardinia.

We came to Sardinia to get a feel for the place—its coasts, hills, and villages—so we’d know where to return. And we do. But what stayed with me more than the scenery was the stillness: the space between towns, the sense that many places were quietly fading with a shrinking, aging population. And yet, I was struck by how much care was being taken by those who remained—crafting perfect pane carasau, pulling filindeu by hand, preserving recipes and rituals with quiet pride.

We had long stretches of silence, plenty of time to talk, and more than a few things to laugh about. I picked up habits I want to keep—spremuta with breakfast, good olive oil and salt on flatbread, tuna folded into warm pasta—and left with a firmer grip on Italian, thanks to dozens of small conversations that slowly added up.

But more than anything, I’m grateful I got to do it all with Leah. The ride, the rhythm, the quiet moments in between.

“La vita in Sardegna è forse la migliore che un uomo possa augurarsi: ventiquattromila chilometri di foreste, di campagne, di coste immerse in un mare miracoloso dovrebbero coincidere con quello che io consiglierei al buon Dio di regalarci come Paradiso.”

Fabrizio De André was right. If there’s a version of paradise you can reach by bike, I think we found it.