It was a time of deep thougth for little me (so much in love with Sardinia...) and of adventure. Down to the beach in my red raincoat I dashed and up and down the golden bay (Idid not fear the lightning that scared Mimma so much) to look for those pretty nothings that the tide, in rolling waves, brought back from who know where: a broken bucket, a piece of oar, a funny looking doll, with weed tangled in its hair. My treasures, all mine. I went back home carrying them in my arms, my glossy cheeks sparkling in the white skies while Tavolara, sitting o the horizon, bore a hat of stranded clouds and smiled at me a deep, mysterious green smile, a shade of the pink and pale blue one it wore during the long, peaceful summer days, in glorious lush.
Tavolara, the island of my heart, seemed to understand me. It looked at my treasures with bountiful, motherlike eyes. I smiled back and stood still and watched and felt its magic spell. The spell I still feel now and forever.
