In the heart of wild Sardinia

Warning. This is a story of effort and beauty. As we cannot ask the reader to scroll through the article whilst carrying a ten-kilo load on their shoulders, it is worth bearing in mind the so-called ‘Z factor’ (Z for rucksack) as you read on. Because the exertion involved in an experience such as the Santa Barbara Mining Trail is a key catalyst for emotions: it sharpens the senses whilst draining your energy reserves; it energises you whilst simultaneously sapping your strength.

The itinerary is a 520-kilometre circular route in south-western Sardinia, starting in Iglesias and returning to Iglesias thirty days later. The heritage in which you find yourself immersed offers the chance to explore the geology of Italy’s oldest land, with rocks formed 500 million years ago. There is archaeology, with sacred wells, the domus de janas (prehistoric tombs) and the nuraghi, which bear witness to human presence 8,000 years ago. There is, incredibly, the history of the mines, which began with the extraction of minerals 2,000 years before Christ and, passing through Carthage, the Roman Empire, Count Ugolino della Gherardesca, the House of Savoy, the First World War, Fascism and the technical innovations of the last century, extends right up to the present day, when everything that once represented sacrifice and ingenuity (the former more so, though the latter is also worthy of note) has become a monument. They call it industrial archaeology, but it would be better to define it as the vestiges of humanity: a humanity driven by desperate necessity. Underground, lead and zinc were sought and found. Silicosis, the disease that inexorably perforated the miners’ lungs, killing them through lack of air, was not sought, yet it was found. Work in the mine took place horizontally in the tunnels that followed the ore vein. Then there were the shafts, which served as vertical links between the various levels of the tunnels: they were used not only for ascending and descending, but also to bring the extracted ore to the surface and, though not as a priority, to facilitate air circulation. Walking through these tunnels, many of which are open to visitors, is a journey of a different kind: into the past, into the ingenuity and design skills of men from bygone eras, and above all into the suffering which, through a perfect historical and social alchemy, becomes an intensive cultivation of memory. Without clichés, without commemorations. It is all there around you, and it is difficult to remain merely a spectator.

Along those kilometres of stones and sand, caves and stony ground, one savours the blend of religion and the natural environment that the Almighty seems to have carefully devised to help us come to terms with the chaotic and violent times into which we have been plunged. In short, anyone in those wilds – where at every bend in the path an ancient church dating back at least ten centuries appears – can honour whichever model they choose, be it a God, a tree or a view; it matters little. After all, satisfaction also lies in finding an answer to a question we haven’t even asked ourselves. Technically, it is a challenging route. In some sections you walk on sand and in others on limestone and dolomite rocks that stand there to remind you that, for centuries before you, other men explored and dug into them in search of minerals: and there you realise that the weight of the rucksack on your shoulders is nothing compared to their burdens. The entire route is managed by a foundation (the Fondazione Cammino di Santa Barbara) set up specifically for this purpose: passionate young people, geologists constantly out and about checking the condition of the paths, and administrators who refuse to be tempted by the siren call of mass tourism, which devours and digests without savouring. Once, many walks ago, I asked myself a question that might seem daft to many of you: who actually enjoys the descents? Even today, the ‘walker’s paradox’ persists with startling clarity: between ascents and descents, there’s a complicated calculation that never adds up – there are mysteriously more of the former than the latter. One thing is certain: anyone with a bit of experience of the mountains and high-altitude running knows that steep descents are more tiring than the corresponding ascents. And it’s also a fine metaphor, if you like. We spend a lifetime avoiding the exertion that we then find precisely where we least expected it. On the Way of Saint Barbara, this idle question is enriched by a detail that’s no small matter. The start is often uphill and, as there are no refreshment points along the route, you have to set off right from the start with a full water supply on your back: that’s an extra three kilos, which, on a ten-kilo rucksack, is no small matter. The upside is that you know this from the outset, so there are no surprises. The downside is that you’re working your socks off right from the very first breath of adventure.

The stretch from Masua to Buggerru is one of the most demanding sections of the route. Obviously, there are climbs (and descents), but it’s only once you reach the sea that the charm of this unique experience really takes its toll. You trudge for ages over sand and rocks (mostly rocks). Not stones or pebbles: rocks. The sort of terrain that makes you long for the scree slopes, the usual nightmare of walkers. You’ll even come across a couple of small beaches with bathers who look at you as if you were their daft cousin: they’re sprawled on the foreshore, whilst you’re sweaty and fully kitted out, bolted to your rucksack like a martyr at a loss as to which cause to sacrifice yourself for. On the rocks, you need to be extremely careful (bear in mind the ‘Z-factor’). Stones that look solid wobble at the slightest touch of a metatarsal; supposedly stable footholds take pleasure in forming a jigsaw puzzle that tests your ability to contort yourself. The result is that when you come across a stretch of usable stones, you dash over them as fast as Giucas Casella over hot coals. With all that entails in terms of disregard for danger and, above all, for ridicule. And then there are the caves and tunnels, which together represent the truly unique feature of this route. Two examples. The underground passage at Porto Flavia, which opens out onto the cliff face opposite the majestic Pan di Zucchero rock, is a major engineering feat that once allowed minerals to be transported from the mines to the ships moored directly beneath the sheer rock face overlooking the sea. And above all, the depths of the Grotta di San Giovanni: immense, spectacularly lit, with Wi-Fi coverage and soft background music. It stretches for 850 metres, at the end of which you almost regret returning to the sunlight.

A journey is made up of encounters that are, for the most part, out of the ordinary. Especially those with animals. Dogs are a factor that should not be underestimated. Shepherd dogs can be aggressive in certain situations. It must be said that the Foundation is always vigilant. For example, in the official app, an alternative route is provided for one stage – the one from Nuxis to Santadi – in the event of dogs being present. One evening in a posada in Candiani, I spent a good hour in the company of a fox. It approached me warily at first, then became increasingly trusting. It was hoping for a treat, but to no avail. It was also drawn to my shoes, and this strange obsession was explained the following day when I was told that the animal in question had a history of stealing footwear. In fact, a few weeks earlier, it had stolen the boots of a lady who, unwisely, had left them outside her room. On the Gonnesa coast, there is a beach called Funtana Bau which is equipped to welcome animals, especially dogs. This year’s surprise is a little goat born with an abdominal hernia that threatened to leave her paralysed. You can spot her every morning doing physiotherapy by the sea, as it seems swimming does her good.

It’s easy to get lost in a tangle of paths. It happened to me in rather complicated circumstances. I’ll keep it brief, because describing two hours spent in the brambles, with a precipice you can’t see but know is waiting for you amidst the exposed rocks, risks failing to convey the full picture. And besides, when things look bleak but we still manage to pull it off, it’s better to highlight the result, not the rough patch we went through. In short, happy and carefree as a Boy Scout, I was misled by a fork in the path. It was a deceptive fork, it must be said, because it’s precisely the intuitive route that leads you astray. Just think what a trick: you’re heading in one direction and everything is inexorably guiding you towards your longed-for destination. Instead, there’s a crucial moment when you have to turn off (these are rocky paths through the trees, not motorway junctions), but you don’t think about it. You’re happy, you’re almost there, your legs still have an unusual vigour, it’s warm but not too hot. The obvious choice leads you towards that dirt track ahead of you, not the half-hidden path to the left. In an instant, you find yourself in the steep, impassable void of a wilderness that brooks no cheating. And which, incidentally, deprives you of mobile signal: ‘Sort it out yourself,’ it whispers, quite rightly, in the breeze offering illusory comfort. Fortunately, there’s the compass, issuing its unyielding command: north-west, and sort it out yourself. My own business, as it turned out, amounted to a dip in disinfectant, nothing more (the brambles scratch just by looking at them).

Never stray from the planned route. But then temptation rears its head. And the tempter is the owner of a farmhouse in Is Zuddas. “I grew up here, practically on my own. Ever since I was a child, this has been my playground: dirt tracks, scree slopes, the woods,” he says as he suggests an alternative route to bypass a gruelling climb that the cheerful sadism of this trail’s planners has placed between me and my next destination. I’m unsure. A good rule for any walker is never to stray from the route mapped out by someone who knows more than you do. But now I’m standing before someone who knows more than anyone else: those mountains, those paths – he knows them as well as someone who grew up there. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could name every single stone. The chap takes the map and, with a pen, marks a stretch out in the middle of nowhere. Then, noticing my bewildered look, he jots down some key words on a piece of paper: “Gava, river with a bridge, gate (‘if it’s closed, close it again; if it’s open, leave it open’), river without a bridge…”. ‘Gate’ means animals roaming free – specifically sheepdogs – who aren’t particularly friendly towards anyone who gets in the way of their work. He reassures me: ‘They’re not usually out and about at that time of day.’ That ‘usually’ sends a shiver down my spine, but I don’t let on. His calmness is hypnotic. Almost in a trance, I choose to trust him. And I’m glad I did.

On the Way of Saint Barbara, you walk for kilometres through the middle of nowhere – which is not emptiness but the integrity and rigour of nature – and when you come across a village, or the semblance of one, you realise there is a harmony to be unravelled: just like in a crossword puzzle. In the silence of the six to seven hours of daily walking, a fleeting thought occasionally creeps in – such as ‘will I manage to climb the three hundred steps at Gonnosfanadiga?’ or ‘will three litres of water be enough?’ or ‘what will tonight’s bed be like?’ – and it is up to the fatigue to chase it away. This is what makes a hike so special: it brings about an anarchic levelling of the usual contingencies and somehow makes them all reducible to a mere question of ‘survival’ (the quotation marks are there to take the drama out of the word). Solutions to these discomforts often come about by chance. For instance, when it’s hot, I’ve tried a rather unusual method of cooling down. Whenever I came across the entrance to an old mine, I’d stand in front of it and enjoy the cool draught coming from deep within.

It is a celebration of a magical sense of absence – the telephone network, modern conveniences – which reveals and indeed accentuates the sense of identity of tiny settlements which, despite having only a handful of inhabitants, appear socially complete and fulfilled. This is the exact opposite of our cities, which go to great lengths to flaunt every aspect of social cohesion – from safety and comfort to services and attractions – yet have missed the mark even before taking aim: there is no point in trumpeting where you want to go if you do not know where you are.

The final stages of the Way of Saint Barbara are long and sun-drenched, forcing the walker to weave their way through the shadows of the few scattered saplings or even to skirt round the bushes. The approach to the island of Sant’Antioco via the salt pan embankments is well worth the effort of walking through sun and salt, with a horizon that seems never to materialise into a landing place. And once there, the effort doesn’t weigh on you at all. What makes this walk unique is that the effort always pays off, more so than in other experiences. You’re never alone, even when you are, because it’s a continuous succession of history and stories: there’s always a stone, a tunnel, a ravine, an example of industrial archaeology, an unexpected tale to remind you that you’re not there by chance. A sort of tourist predestination. It’s the dictatorship of beauty, which suffocates everything that doesn’t belong to it. It doesn’t distract; it captivates. It doesn’t wipe away the sweat; it nourishes the mind. It doesn’t console; it intoxicates. A walk like this should be recommended by psychologists and priests as a means of reconnection: with oneself, with a god, with any entity capable of keeping at bay the temptation to see ourselves as marathon runners taking shortcuts. Blessed is the discovery of those who do not seek but find.