Thinking that a change of scenery would do us good, we had driven over the snow-covered Supramonte from the Ogliastra region to Cala Gonone. We were dubious about this move having heard that Cala Gonone is considered the most popular, well-known (and most crowded) area of the island. On our first week we had spent two days climbing in Cala down by the rocky spiaggia (beach) of Codula Fuili and at the super classic multi-pitch slabs of La Poltrona above town. There’s nothing quite like climbing on the beach with the warm Med air wrapping you like you like Dante’s vision of Paradsio. One route stands above the rest in Fuili, a short two-pitch climb (Wolof, 6a) that begins nearly in the water and is so grand it would seem to trump the very words of mentioning it.

Still, I have to say when you see a tremendously hirsute German dude wearing a one-piece bikini under his climbing harness grunt up some 5b limestone slab, you begin to reconsider the notion of paradise.

So far we’d enjoyed total seclusion out in the hinterlands of Sardegna, climbing by ourselves and only coming into contact with the sweet Sards. Sure, we would have welcomed a run-in with Italian climbers, or any climbers really. The impulse to wave flags and get nationalistic when climbing has thankfully passed. We’re all part of the same ratty tribe moving through the world with the same earnest snap of carabiners.

And I’m no prude either. I’ve sunbathed plenty naked, my naughty bit hanging in the wind and waves of my old hippie haunt of Santa Cruz, California. Nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to get all puritanically bunched up about. (Though let’s get one thing clear: I’ve never climbed nude for the simple fact that calling out “watch me” at the crux would seem beyond the limits of male dignity.)