Return to Caprera – Part Two

Fifty years later, what remains?

The village of Caprera (Sardinia) – Part 2

The security guard—because obviously, he was one—was a young man, wearing black jeans and that shirt with the "VIGILPOL" logo on it, which was probably the only accessory his employer had given him. There were no imposing belts with flashlights, walkie-talkies, or even tear gas, no cap, even the car was as unmarked as could be. Moreover, if he protested my presence in these places, he didn't seem aggressive, but on the contrary, polite, piling up mi dispiace ("I'm sorry").

Having judged it harmless, I settled into my role: friendly, smiling, jovial, pretending not to understand any Italian, and explaining half in French, half in English, that I was a former member of the Club, that I had come back here by chance, that I had wanted to see the place again, that there was no barrier prohibiting access from the beach, that I had not seen any prohibition signs (which I would later verify were in fact very discreet, even non-existent), etc., etc.

 "And you just arrived?" he asked me.

 “Not five minutes ago!” I replied, instantly understanding in which direction he intended to go.

"And you didn't take any photos?" he continued, pointing at my camera.

 – No! I've barely arrived! I replied with disarming good faith.

In the meantime, he asked me, politely but firmly, to return to the beach and go back the way I had come. He pointed vaguely in the direction of the track which, skirting the village, gave public access to Cala Garibaldi and the native house (guardians?) built almost on the beach (a summer dream, certainly not cheerful in winter!).

Furious at having been caught out like a child, furious at having left my car in plain sight in front of the gate before even checking the beach access possibilities, I humbly retreated, all the while displaying a big smile and waving goodbye. So it was under good surveillance that I finally reached the beach, crossing the place where, in some photos, I had seen an orange barrier, but without finding the slightest trace of it under my feet.

On the beach, I strolled a little (I had to play the "discoverer" with conviction), taking in with a moved look this place that was at once so familiar to me, and suddenly so inaccessible, since now there was a security guard! I was frustrated, very unhappy, and I couldn't even let it show.

Club Bay, with its two islets and, on the left, the sailing hut.
Nothing has changed!!

I had expected there to be barriers; but there weren't any. But a security guard was another matter entirely! Disappointed, I went back up the sandy, stony, and uneven track that led from the beach to the road. The first thing was to get the car back and think about the situation, and for that I had a good kilometer to go; I might as well get on with it without delay, since there was nothing more to do here for the moment, and I had to continue ostentatiously playing the role of the duly reprimanded visitor who leaves with his tail between my legs. My security guard, in fact, never took his eyes off me, but soon I disappeared from his sight.

This short walk through the Sardinian scrubland, which was fragrant on this spring morning, gave me the opportunity to take some photos of a biotope that was visibly much richer and more diverse than what one could perceive in the heart of summer, when the heat crushes everything.

A glimpse of the Sardinian “maquis”

I reached the car. It hadn't been damaged in any way, but it was certainly its presence that had caught the security guard's attention. Perhaps he had simply made a routine round to the gate and, finding a "non-local" vehicle parked behind a bush, had been encouraged to take a tour of the village, just in case!? And I, who was daydreaming in the sun in the middle of what had been the restaurant, had been caught like a duck sitting on my back!

To give myself time to think about the situation, I went to the south of the island, towards the Due Mari and Cala Andreana, which I had also planned to photograph. However, these magnificent beaches appeared, to my surprise, completely covered with these small dried marine plants that the Mediterranean brings to the coast, and therefore without much photographic interest. So, here too, before the season, it was necessary to clean the beaches of what nature brought there during the winter! I had never known this, having only ever known these beaches in the summer, unlike the Breton beaches, which I have frequented in all seasons and whose faces I know all.

At the end of these marches and countermarches, it was 1:30 p.m. The Italians must have been in the middle of lunch. I hadn't seen many people since morning, but now I was truly all alone. It was now or never. Tomorrow, I would leave for Oristano, where my hotel was booked. It was impossible to stay any longer, and equally impossible to leave without having put my adult steps back into my adolescent steps, without having seen up close the sailing hut, the quay, the bar, the dance floor, in short, all the places where the heart of the village beat.

Come what may, after all, they weren't going to put me in prison, were they? For starters, I could walk along the sea, that was a right guaranteed by law, surely, in Italy as in France?

So I turned back, determined. This time, I took the track that led to Cala Garibaldi and, as I approached the beach and the house on it (which was very inhabited), I displayed the caution of a snake, hiding the Peugeot in a side path, in the right direction to make a quick departure if necessary, getting out without slamming the door, preparing the camera equipment in advance to be ready to shoot instantly. Then, I went to the beach by taking a roundabout route, passing as much as possible out of sight of the house, making sure that no one had spotted me, and waiting several minutes scanning the pine forest, hidden behind a rock, before advancing into open ground.

Person.

Taking care to stay close to the water, so that no one would suspect me of wanting to enter private property, I advanced towards the small jetty. What had been the diving hut was in a rather pitiful state, surrounded by rubbish brought in by the sea and giving off an unpleasant odor.

The diving box

The climb to the bar was blocked by a low fence and a sign that said " Proprietà privata ." Nothing would be easier than climbing over it when the time came. However, I continued along the sea towards the sailing hut.

I was truly entering what had once been my fiefdom. I walked slowly along the quayside where, once upon a time, the cradles of straps on which the dinghies were carried after each outing were lined up, and the inclined concrete planes that were used to launch them. Some of the wooden sleepers that allowed them to be placed on the cement without damaging the hulls were even still there, but most had disappeared.

Above all, the quay was completely empty, desolate, Haussmannian in width now that no boats were moored there. The water retained that perfect transparency that made it possible to spot sea urchins and avoid stepping on them, and as everywhere else, the silence weighed like a leaden pall.

Halfway along the quay, a staircase provided access to the huts that were spread out along this sort of promontory at the bottom of which the quay wound. This staircase was blocked and appeared to be in poor condition. However, in the worst case scenario, it would provide easy access to the rest of the village.

I finally reached the sailing hut, which, like most of the village's solid buildings, seemed particularly deteriorating, so much so that its facade was propped up along its entire length to prevent imminent collapse. The staircase leading to the roof terrace, where, once upon a time, sheltered by the reeds, I had spent so many happy moments dreaming of my future voyages across all the seas of the globe, was so worn away by the years and rust that I didn't dare venture there.

The sail box

Contemplating the decrepitude, and already almost the ruin, of this place which had been for me, first an almost unattainable Mecca, then a familiar haunt where I had learned so much and experienced so much, was a painful moment. Why did this village have to die? Why did vacationers no longer know how to be content with what a simple village of huts could offer?

I imagine that I held part of the answer within myself, having chosen, when I came to La Maddalena, to stay at the Hotel Excelsior, which proudly displayed its four stars!

However, when I placed my hand on the same half-door of white-painted wood on which, almost 50 years ago, I leaned to distribute the sail bags to the GMs, I furtively crushed a tear of nostalgia, because that past was also, and for a long time, gone forever.

I went to the end of the pier, where some new developments had been made since my time. Abandonment, and soon death, no doubt, reigned. I returned slowly, along the water whose crystalline transparency seemed immutable, fresh as on the first day, as at the dawn of humanity. The wicket I used to open as a child had a narrow opening where I slipped my lens, swinging a flash. I could not enter the sail hut, which was firmly closed: no breaking in, unless absolutely necessary, that is my principle; At least I brought back an image which, although it was unclear and did not deserve to be included here, made me review and relive the past moments, as if it were yesterday: the pattern imprinted in the cement of the floor, the way the walls were painted, their recesses, even a piece of reef line, a Caravelle or other, which was still lying on the ground, forgotten there since 2007, but which could have already been there, at the end of the summer of 1968!

Caprera 1968: the author with the puppy of the caique Cucciolo (puppy in Italian)

Caprera 1968: Jacky the presenter in the arms of Czopp, head of sports

Caprera 68, GO presentation: my friend Røden-Pascoli is the tall, red-bearded man in the background, to the right of the long-haired blonde

With a heavy heart, I quietly closed the door on my past and walked back to the foot of the ramp leading up to the bar. I hesitated for a moment, looked around, then made up my mind and quickly climbed over the flimsy fence. Here too, everything was aged, rusted, eaten away, and on the verge of mineral and metallic decay.

The stairs leading up to the bar terrace

A few moments later, I emerged onto the terrace overlooking the bay, a magnificent, wild and peaceful viewpoint, open to everyone, cup of coffee or glass of grappa in hand.

Caprera 1981: the author in the village in GM

The varnished wooden bench that ran along the railing, and on which my mother had photographed me, was gone, but otherwise, nothing had changed. Everything was falling into ruin, that's all.

I turned back to the bar, still recognizable with its wood-paneled bottle racks, but which was also threatening to collapse, offering a rather melancholic spectacle. A large clear plastic garbage bag lay in a corner, abandoned there since the bar's closure eight years ago.

Compare this photo and the one below: between them, 47 years

 Caprera 1968

I took a few more steps. Before my eyes now stretched out, below, the amphitheater, the dance floor, the orchestra platform, the stage where thousands of shows had been performed in front of hundreds of thousands of GMs, in short, the place where, every evening and throughout all these years and decades, the heart of the village beat! But that heart had stopped beating a long time ago, and I could no longer hear, from the depths of my childhood memories, anything but the almost faded echoes of the applause, the songs, and the comic tirades that had amused and moved young and old alike throughout their wonderful vacations!

There were nothing here but ghosts, whose diffuse outlines I could discern moving on the stage, behind the orchestral instruments, on the stands! These ghosts played, sang and clapped their hands, but it was only in my head, for in truth there reigned an absolute silence here, even more oppressive than elsewhere because it was here that there had been the most joy, exuberance, pleasure in being together, carelessness about tomorrow.

All of that had vanished forever into the mists of time. I could remember it, but nothing more.

The entrance to the entertainment complex, gutted by vandals who certainly found nothing inside worth breaking down the door for!

I also noticed that over the years, a certain amount of work had been done here. In addition to the predictable effects of that marvelous invention, the precautionary principle, which had caused railings to spring up here and there, reed roofs had been added where previously the shade of the pine trees had been sufficient, and enclosed storage areas had been built, probably for the sets of the animation, which was very cramped within its original walls, I remembered.

Continuing on my way to complete the loop that brought me back under the pine forest, I noticed, next to the hostesses' hut, now built in solid form, another rather large building (see photo below), with a sort of covered courtyard on the ground floor, and a roof terrace on the upper floor. I had never seen this construction, and I was unable to guess what it could be used for! Perhaps someone who has stayed in Caprera more recently than me could enlighten me!

The Mystery Building

To complete my visit, I then headed towards the hut districts located beyond the bar, on the promontory of the sailing hut. This was the last area I had "inhabited" in Caprera.

I didn't find "my" hut there, for lack of remembering its name, but I found with amusement "my" sanitary ware. The sink basins no longer had the same shape, but apart from that, everything looked terribly similar.

I then went back down to the beach and, as a farewell to the village, I walked to the end of the pier, where, in the past, I used to come and play with the little black dog of the caique Cucciolo, who made the daily sea trips, except on the days of departures and arrivals, when he escorted the GM to or from Palau. On this raw concrete pier, nothing had changed either. From there, the view took in the whole village, the mountains, the fort where we sometimes went to spend the night in bivouac. I knew that I had to fill myself with this view and these memories, because it was certainly the last time in my life that I would come here, and then, as everything has an end, I returned slowly to the beach.

The village pier

The sail box from the end of the pier

The Mini-Club straw huts

I had barely set foot on the beach, in "authorized" territory, when my friend the security guard, having finished his good lunch prepared by the mamma, reappeared in his black Fiat. I gave him a big smile, waved to him like an old friend who you find, as you expected, always in the same place, showed him an old syringe lying on the sand, and left without looking back after greeting him in my best Italian, which left him speechless since he had thought that I didn't know how to go beyond buongiorno .

Did he suspect that my camera, my eyes, and my heart were full of memories freshly harvested inside what was, I imagine, the private property of the Archipelago di La Maddalena Natural Park? I don't know, but I hope for his sake that he applied the instructions with that fatalistic common sense that makes up a good part of Italian wisdom: let's chase away intruders when we see them, if that's our job, and when we don't, eh! Well, we're not paid enough to be on the warpath night and day, are we?

END