- Joined
- May 7, 2011
- Messages
- 3,426
Somewhere in Gallura, Sardinia.
Sunday morning, autumn season. It's early, and the sunrays are still blocked by an acute rocky peak in the East.
On a secondary road, among oak trees and granite rocks, five people are waiting, and trying to keep warm. The rally car race will only begin a couple of hours later, so there's plenty of time to relax. The ambulance, truck and marshal car are parked facing the road, and everything is ready.
The air is still cold, but nature is awesome here, and two of the five decide to take a walk in the woods and enjoy nature. One is wearing work clothes and got down the truck, the other stepped out of the ambulance, and is wearing a well recognizable red jacket with white writings on them and a tag on his chest saying "Doc". They had never seen each other before, but both have done this kind of job before, so there's a sharing feeling between them. They walk around, stare at a nice burl, and eat fruits from a strawberry tree. Nature speaks enough to keep them silent.
On their way back to their checkpoint, they spot a man getting down an old red Fiat. The man is in his sixties, dressed in hunter's clothes; he's holding a rifle, and seems surprised to see people there on a Sunday morning. He walks slowly, as studying the two men, then he sees the signs saying the road is closed for the car race, and grunts. The man from the truck recognizes the hunter and waves his hand, and lets out a few words about the car race and the road being closed. The hunter suddenly seems to remember something and gives out a grinny laugh. He had forgot about the car race, he says. Meanwhile, he's reached the road, and sees the ambulance and truck parked twenty yards from him, and decides to stay and see what's going on. He's obviously not the least interested in car races, but in a small town everything out of the ordinary can be fun and diversion.
Only now he is told that the cars will pass in two hours, so he walks back to his car, locks the rifle inside, and comes back with a plastic bag in his hand. He chooses a rock along the desert road, under the shadow of a tree since the sun has come out of the peak now, and sits.
He opens the bag and pulls out a cloth and a newspaper, and sets them on the flat rock. Then, a sausage appears, followed by two pieces of different cheese, a piece of lard, and some typical thin crusty bread.
He waves and calls the five people at the checkpoint, with a tone that doesn't seem to accept a 'no thanks' answer. The five people walk towards the man, as he pulls out a pocket knife and starts slicing sausage and cutting cheese. Since he can't hunt, at least he will share some food and company.
The girl in the group looks a bit scared at the knife. It is, in fact, kind of big, at least 4,5" long closed, ram's horn handle, slender blade, friction folding, a resolza as they call it here. The hunters realizes the girl's reaction, and goes on cutting cheese.
The two men who first saw him get close, and try the food, a piece of bread with cheese, a slice of sausage, as the hunters proudly explains them that he's made the cheese himself, and the lard and sausage were made by his brother in law, no industrial thing at all, and as he does so, he pours red wine from an unlabelled bottle that just popped out. His friend's wine, of course.
It's 8:30 in the morning, and they're not supposed to drink wine since they're there for work, but refusing seems not an option, so they try the wine. Then the man with the 'Doc' tag pulls out a knife from his pocket, and slices some lard. This knife is smaller than the hunter's but kind of sharper, and the hunter comments that as he sees the younger man cut through the fatty white thing. So he asks him to handle the knife, examinates it carefully, and they start talking about blades.
After a while, as the others have gone back to the checkpoint, the hunter recollects the remaining food. He folds his knife, as the young man cleans his own with a purple bandana and puts it back in his pocket too. They shake hands, and go opposite ways, both smiling.
The road marshal car is already on its way...
Fausto
Sunday morning, autumn season. It's early, and the sunrays are still blocked by an acute rocky peak in the East.
On a secondary road, among oak trees and granite rocks, five people are waiting, and trying to keep warm. The rally car race will only begin a couple of hours later, so there's plenty of time to relax. The ambulance, truck and marshal car are parked facing the road, and everything is ready.
The air is still cold, but nature is awesome here, and two of the five decide to take a walk in the woods and enjoy nature. One is wearing work clothes and got down the truck, the other stepped out of the ambulance, and is wearing a well recognizable red jacket with white writings on them and a tag on his chest saying "Doc". They had never seen each other before, but both have done this kind of job before, so there's a sharing feeling between them. They walk around, stare at a nice burl, and eat fruits from a strawberry tree. Nature speaks enough to keep them silent.
On their way back to their checkpoint, they spot a man getting down an old red Fiat. The man is in his sixties, dressed in hunter's clothes; he's holding a rifle, and seems surprised to see people there on a Sunday morning. He walks slowly, as studying the two men, then he sees the signs saying the road is closed for the car race, and grunts. The man from the truck recognizes the hunter and waves his hand, and lets out a few words about the car race and the road being closed. The hunter suddenly seems to remember something and gives out a grinny laugh. He had forgot about the car race, he says. Meanwhile, he's reached the road, and sees the ambulance and truck parked twenty yards from him, and decides to stay and see what's going on. He's obviously not the least interested in car races, but in a small town everything out of the ordinary can be fun and diversion.
Only now he is told that the cars will pass in two hours, so he walks back to his car, locks the rifle inside, and comes back with a plastic bag in his hand. He chooses a rock along the desert road, under the shadow of a tree since the sun has come out of the peak now, and sits.
He opens the bag and pulls out a cloth and a newspaper, and sets them on the flat rock. Then, a sausage appears, followed by two pieces of different cheese, a piece of lard, and some typical thin crusty bread.
He waves and calls the five people at the checkpoint, with a tone that doesn't seem to accept a 'no thanks' answer. The five people walk towards the man, as he pulls out a pocket knife and starts slicing sausage and cutting cheese. Since he can't hunt, at least he will share some food and company.
The girl in the group looks a bit scared at the knife. It is, in fact, kind of big, at least 4,5" long closed, ram's horn handle, slender blade, friction folding, a resolza as they call it here. The hunters realizes the girl's reaction, and goes on cutting cheese.
The two men who first saw him get close, and try the food, a piece of bread with cheese, a slice of sausage, as the hunters proudly explains them that he's made the cheese himself, and the lard and sausage were made by his brother in law, no industrial thing at all, and as he does so, he pours red wine from an unlabelled bottle that just popped out. His friend's wine, of course.
It's 8:30 in the morning, and they're not supposed to drink wine since they're there for work, but refusing seems not an option, so they try the wine. Then the man with the 'Doc' tag pulls out a knife from his pocket, and slices some lard. This knife is smaller than the hunter's but kind of sharper, and the hunter comments that as he sees the younger man cut through the fatty white thing. So he asks him to handle the knife, examinates it carefully, and they start talking about blades.
After a while, as the others have gone back to the checkpoint, the hunter recollects the remaining food. He folds his knife, as the young man cleans his own with a purple bandana and puts it back in his pocket too. They shake hands, and go opposite ways, both smiling.
The road marshal car is already on its way...
Fausto
Italy is a place I would like to see before I die.
