I already know that soon this place will feel like an illusion. The morning wake up call of the butcher shouting through his megaphone; the midnight ceremony by the fridge as we scavenge salami and cheese; the twists and turns of the mountain roads, and the black-clad widows nodding their good mornings.
On our first day in Baunei we drive to the nearest beach, Santa Maria Navaresse, which lies on the edge of the valley. A swim, despite the distinct lack of sun, then a lunch of anchovy pizza with a potato crust and a huge tuna salad at the beach bar. We ask the waiter whether any shops are open on Sunday afternoons, he shrugs, and suggests that maybe – just maybe – we’ll be able to find one in Lotzorai.
It is closing. I slip in and grab the basics: fonzies, cards, wine. At home, we play gin rummy and sip coffee as the storm rumbles overhead.
To The Table 