You can’t understand Sardinian speed limits. You can only ignore them. On the long drive back south to the last stop on our two-week, 1,850 kilometre journey, this becomes almost painfully clear once again.
Sardinian speed limits are Dadaism in its purest form: completely devoid of meaning. A higher power has shat them directly into the brains of the legislature from a great height. There was a storm cell in between. The poo froze in it. Unfortunately, its now harder consistency caused irreparable damage to the danger centre of the Sardinian legislature’s brain on impact.
A good wide country road in the Sardinian nowhere, frequented by two cars per hour. A sign warns ATTENTION! GROUND WAVE! Speed limit: 30 km/h. Like the surfers at the dropin, you now wait for the wave. You wait. And wait. Crawl. Look. Then you wait. But. The. Wave. Is coming. Not. It will NEVER come!
But what is coming? Signs. An unbelievable number of signs. 30km/h. Every kilometre. ATTENTION! GROUND WAVE, but now. Really? For over 30 kilometres! On an eight metre wide country road with a few gentle bends.
The result? No-one really sticks to any limits. Even electric wheelchairs race past you on the motorway, trailing long vapour trails towards the horizon. At some point, you’re not even startled by the sonic boom.
Change of scene. A really narrow, winding mountain road. Here you are suddenly allowed to drive the full 90 km/h. Theoretically. With hairpin bends the radius of a toilet bowl every 50 metres, that’s easier said than done. Suddenly travelling time rhymes with the theory of relativity.
Incidentally, it should also be noted that the Sardinian legislature warns of EVERY non-existent pothole 15 light years in advance. But if they do NOT do this, you can be absolutely certain that you will suffer a broken axle within a maximum of 30 seconds in the next pothole the size of a Grand Canyon.
All joking aside. It’s all rubbish. Had a massive case of hypoglycaemia since six o’clock in the morning on the way back from Sardinia. So. Half a litre of Coke and that’s it…
NOT. Motorway to Cagliari. Roadworks. 30 km/h, clear. Nobody keeps to it, sure. I also drive almost 70 for a few kilometres. A truck comes up behind me at a speed of easily 100 km/h. Pulls up to within a metre. Flashing lights. Claro. If a carabinieri stops me now and asks me why I’m speeding, I can honestly answer “To protect the lives of my family.”. That’s it. Done. Wipe it off!
Cagliari is big, steep, beautiful and full of culture. The window of our room looks directly onto a sixth-century basilica that was half-bombed during the Second World War. We live just one kilometre from the city centre in the middle of the ParkWarZone. I am delighted when I drop off the hire car near the airport the day before departure. The hire company doesn’t even give me the dachshund look that is usually so highly valued after the 1,850 kilometres I’ve driven in a fortnight. Warp Sardo demands its duty.
The train takes me back to the city centre for next to nothing. The last flamingos fly past the windows. One last tour through the really impressive old town centre with its narrow alleyways between venerable six-storey buildings. The Ristorante da Sarah enchants us with two sumptuous three-course menus for little money. Our Smurf thinks the word “cozze” is funny. And eats mussels until he’s bursting. Two menus win hands down against three people…
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.