Dispatch from Sardinia

There are certain sounds that belong to summer: the whir of cicadas, the low call of a wood pigeon somewhere out of sight; the quiet clatter of forks against plates, glasses meeting, conversations dissolving into one another while the tide laps stones beneath a seaside lunch terrace; the measured knock of halyards against aluminum masts as sailboats drift in a harbor. These acoustics announce an entire season. By April, I was already thinking about them, and of June, when heat would inevitably settle over Milan, my adopted city. And so as spring arrived, I began planning a long weekend somewhere I had never been, preferably within easy reach of Malpensa (or better still, Linate). Menorca. Porquerolles. The Dalmatian Coast. And then, unexpectedly, Sardinia came to mind.

Unlike other storied places, Sardinia hadn’t beckoned as my thoughts wandered across a map. Its northeastern corner, Costa Smeralda, existed as snapshots in my mind—a coastline surrounded by the Tyrrhenian Sea, familiar only as a vast spectrum of blues and greens. I knew this water better than I knew the island. What I could conjure came mostly from faded stories and images—the Agnellis on their yacht off Porto Cervo, jetsetters in Pucci strolling through town, the mythical glamour of another era. Beyond these visual fragments rooted in the 1960s, Sardinia remained opaque. I decided to see how much ground I could cover in four short days, away from the hazy veil of Slim Aarons’ photos and more recent pulse of helicopter blades overhead.

With no destination I felt compelled to reach first, I decided to keep moving. Three hotels in four nights, lunch at a fourth. Sardinia has recently welcomed a number of noteworthy luxury hotels (with more to come), but I found myself drawn instead to more intimate properties recommended through my personal grapevine. Every conversation ahead of my trip added another possibility: a sacred pasta maker in Nuoro; an architectural curiosity my dear friend Silvia, who owns a house on the island, insisted I must see. The itinerary assembled itself, one suggestion at a time.

Catching an 8 a.m. flight from Milan, then quickly collecting a rental car at Olbia Airport (from AM Service—thank you, Yolanda), I found myself with a few hours to spare before checking into my first hotel. Among Silvia’s suggestions was Thursday market day in the charming village of San Pantaleo. Thirty minutes later I had squeezed into an unofficial roadside parking space and slipped into the slow current of locals and visitors winding through the narrow streets. Shopping rarely anchors my travels, but the tidy storefront of Yashu e Prem beckoned. Stepping inside, I immediately recognized that certain joy a shop prompts when it’s been created with artistry and care, bearing the imprint of owners who still unlock the door each morning. Yashu, who began her career in Valentino’s atelier, and Prem, formerly a colorist for Christian Dior, now design their own collection, which lines the crisp white walls in three beautiful rooms, alongside other thoughtfully chosen clothing and accessory lines. I left with a white organza shirt and a navy-and-white striped t-shirt, which became my uniform for the next four days and, I imagine, for many summers to come.

With a basket of cherries and a small wedge of smoky Fiore Sardo from the market on the seat beside me, I set out for Petra Segreta, where I would settle in for the first night. Nestled into its namesake rocky terrain with a view to La Maddalena archipelago, this Relais & Châteaux hotel feels entirely removed from the world below. With this summer’s first European heat wave peaking, I was grateful for both the staff’s beautifully choreographed welcome—which included rosemary lemonade and a swift buggy ride to my cool room—and the plunge pool just outside my door. I enjoyed multiple dips, including one before and after a massage in the property’s serene Balinese hut, where drifting off to the island’s native scents—immortelle, myrtle, and juniper—is inevitable. Dinner at sunset was made with ingredients from the resort’s garden and included a hummus with fresh zucchini and julienned carrots to start, followed by local red snapper carpaccio with strawberries and tomato and a glass of Sardinian Semidano. I made my way back to my room under a sky thick with stars.

Friday morning began slowly and disappeared into work and a handful of loose ends before the weekend properly began. Descending from the granite labyrinth of Petra Segreta, I made my way to Valle dell’Erica, whose greatest luxury proved to be its unparalleled setting, with uninterrupted views across the Strait of Bonifacio to Corsica’s sheer limestone cliffs. Situated at the island’s northern tip, with nearly 70 acres of rambling beaches, coves, and nature trails, there is no better place for a family to settle in and unplug. With multiple pools, six restaurants, and a spa built around thalassotherapy, the resort is designed to make leaving almost unnecessary. The scale, I realized, wasn’t simply expanse. It was freedom. No sooner had I queried the team about a trip to the archipelago than they had arranged a day on the water, departing from their sister property, Hotel Capo d’Orso. As we moved through waters as varied as sea glass, my guide filled the miles with stories—of conquering Phoenicians and Spaniards, of Garibaldi’s final home on Caprera, of the wild horses of Giara further south. Over the course of the afternoon, Sardinia became something more than the water that surrounds it.

It was over a late and long lunch at Capo d’Orso that Sardinia truly stole my heart. Suntanned and salty from touring the coves and diving into the sea, I discreetly wandered through the hotel’s maze of intimate pools and gardens. Perched directly on the shoreline with a private marina that accommodates just a few well-tended boats, Capo d’Orso is the hotel that Milanese and Roman families have been returning to for generations, often reserving the same suite for the following summer before the current one has ended. A tiny dock floats just off a private terrace where lunch is as languorous as a day with nowhere left to go. This is where all my favorite sounds of summer came into harmony: the cicadas, the hum of guests enjoying meandering conversations over a memorable meal, the gentle knock of hulls against the dock. There is a soundtrack to time at Capo d’Orso, though it exists in the quiet register of what the gracious, engaging manager—himself a member of the owning family—called “silent luxury.” I left already planning to return. To sway in the hammock with a view to the sea. To gather small bouquets of basil, thyme, and rockrose from the chef’s well-tended kitchen terrace. To traverse the winding pathways that lead down to the secluded swimming bays. The best hotels become part of not only your memory, but also your dreams. This is how I felt about Capo d’Orso, wending my way up from its calm just outside the village of Palau.

By Sunday morning, with just 24 hours remaining in my visit, I set out on an ambitious day trip with my sights set on making it to Costa Paradiso, where the remarkable house Silvia mentioned sits on a rocky cliff. Always one to plan, I decided to leave this day largely to chance and pointed the car south toward Nuoro, a mystical mountainous town near the island’s center. The town was quiet when I arrived. The museums were closed—it was Sunday—and su filindeu, the rare “threads of God” pasta, would have to be savored next time. I used the destination as a way to loop back north and drive along the dramatic western coastline, with La Cupola as my ultimate destination. The building is shrouded in mystery, and I wondered if I would actually find it as I drove through the narrow roads lined with pink granite in late afternoon light. When the Google Maps message “You’ve arrived,” appeared, I had reached a dead end. This is where intrepid curiosity had to replace GPS. I parked and looked for official landmark signs. There were none. I walked down a path having seen a domed house I thought might be the masterpiece described in the few mentions I could find online. It was a red herring, a modern duplicate. But glancing to my right, like a wink in the treeline, was the structure I’d been looking for.

Walking back up to the road, I found a padlocked gate whose twisted metal top made it clear I wasn’t the first to climb over. I found my footing, made it to the other side, and followed a rough path down and around until La Cupola, the abandoned home of film director Michelangelo Antonioni and his then-wife, Monica Vitti, in the late ‘60s, came into full view. Designed by Dante Bini, this marvel was created using the experimental “binishell” technique, which involves inflating a concrete dome with air. The result is at once prehistoric and sci-fi, made even more intriguing by the way it remains, skeletal, at the edge of a precipitous drop that falls hundreds of feet to the rocky seaside below.

I wandered around the curved exterior wall, peering in windows, feeling the thrill of a renegade mission. Rounding the northern edge, I discovered the side door wide open and dared to go inside. Years of neglect and uncertainty about the building’s future (it is privately owned and seems caught in preservationists’ no man’s land) have resulted in tremendous decay, yet no less wonder. I climbed the curved stairs, peered up at the fantastical walkway, and came upon a massive curved window framing a sliver of Corsica in the far distance. I imagined actors, artists, poets, and intellectuals gathering for heady conversations with the director, known for his moody, modernist films. These are the discoveries I carry home with me. I was moved by the building’s daring form and cinematic mythology and felt grateful to have witnessed this piece of history, not yet touched by the gloss of restoration. Though it was finally declared an Italian cultural asset in 2015, I climbed back up to my car and over the fence with a sense of ambivalence. Should La Cupola be left to crumble, with its curved walls remaining years from now like those of an ancient ruin? Or would it benefit from careful repair, which would take decades and millions of dollars? Only time will tell.

With a final destination ahead, I set out for the hour’s drive across Gallura to rest my head for one last night, this time at Gallicantu. Pulling into the driveway, shouldered by olive trees and a weathered fence line, I was curious what lay behind these rustic doors. A fairytale, I would learn, is the only way to describe this enchanted place. Checking into the tranquil reception area, which is nestled into a historic stazzo—a traditional rural farmhouse—I was met by Marco, Gallicantu’s owner, and shown to one of only nine rooms, each featuring elements that tell the story of the property’s past. Sculptural tree limbs are tucked into the architecture to create passageways and salvaged doors, wooden stools, and pottery vessels suggest a reverence for land that was cared for by farmers long before Marco and his wife, Raffaella, arrived.

Over dinner, I heard the tale of Gallicantu’s origins, a story told in chapters by Marco and Raffaella. With a dream of honoring the sacred territory inland from Sardinia’s dazzling coast, Marco set out to build a true retreat, honoring the island’s rough-hewn beauty and governed by a slower clock. With no specific hospitality experience and yet a deeply held vision, he discovered the stazzo after hiking through property after property across this northern region. One day, with daylight fading, he pushed through brambles and piles of rubble, feeling an energy and hearing a call he could not resist. In short time, the address was his. Over the course of two years, clearing everything from washing machines and car parts to forlorn shoes and hunting paraphernalia, he came to know every square inch of the acreage. Where morning light filtered through the leaves. Which trees had sheltered sheep centuries before, and which caves had done the same for their shepherds. In clearing the land, planting fruit trees where he knew they would flourish, and making way for new life, the name for this retreat became inevitable: Gallicantu, a historic Sardinian word meaning “dawn.” Marco, along with his team, navigated the pandemic slowdown, never wavering in his commitment to honor the land’s natural beauty, and with Raffaella’s partnership, he opened Gallicantu in 2022. Finishing a beautiful meal of local seafood as our conversation continued to unfurl, and watching other guests linger under the giant olive tree, I knew I would be sad to leave the next morning.

And so, I did not. With temperatures still soaring back in Milan, I arranged for one last night at Gallicantu, giving me time to linger over breakfast, which is made in the retreat’s open kitchen and enjoyed in a serene glass room set among the boulders with yet another soaring view to Corsica. Fresh cherries and pears from trees just outside my room, eggs from a local farm, and baked goods that I knew would make my discerning and food-loving friend, Christine, swoon—it was the type of meal that tucks into your heart, as so many details at this magical place did throughout my stay.

With one final afternoon to enjoy the countryside, Marco, perhaps sensing my curious nature, invited me on a short field trip, mentioning only that there was a local landmark he thought I’d appreciate. We set out in his sage green Defender, which had clearly witnessed—in fact, participated in—the clearing and creation of Gallicantu. Over the course of the bumpy ride, across backroads and through treacherous turns and ultimately, down a steep drive to a small rocky parking lot, Marco said something that stuck with me, “It’s not what’s here,” referring to Gallura’s humble terrain, “it’s what’s not here.” There are no fast cars. Or fancy restaurants. Or gourmet shops. Only peace and quiet and history and Mother Nature’s patient cycle of beauty and decay. And with that, we stepped out of the Defender, and I followed Marco down a short path to witness the most ancient olive tree in Europe, wise and twisted, estimated to be 4,000 years old. Circling the tree, I felt a profound sense of connection to this dense, weathered island, and I knew I would be back soon, to bring friends to Gallicantu and to explore its even more primitive central and southern reaches, where ragged granite and fragrant shrub meet the untamed sea.

On a practical note, it was mentioned several times during my visit to Sardinia that for the first time, there are direct flights between JFK and Olbia Airport, with four departures each week.