The magic of Sardinia in winter

Sardinia is an island divided between mare e monti: the mountains and the sea. While the coastline is the most spectacular in low season, it is the island’s mountainous interior that takes on a new life at this time of year. The landscape in November resembles an English April: lush with grass, the once-scrawny sheep now plump and winsome, their long-legged lambs gambolling around in the open countryside. The mornings are dewy, the trees are mostly evergreens so there are no stark and barren landscapes; instead the eternal silver of olive leaves and the rich earth brown of exposed cork trees. The corbezzolo, or strawberry tree, is crested with clusters of little white bell flowers, which are gradually replaced by nature’s own Christmas baubles, spiky and spherical red fruits that bob about in the breeze.

Ever since I can remember, I have had my holidays the wrong way round. Working as a chef, my days off would often be midweek, and I’d work on New Year’s Eve, Easter Day, bank holidays – most national holidays. Such is the hospitality worker’s life. Galleries were seen, restaurants tried, places visited always on the most obscure days at the most obscure hours; the twilight life of those who work to cater for other’s needs. I didn’t mind at all. In fact, I adored it. There was nothing better than feeling that I had some normally busy corner of London all to myself.

I feel the same about off-season in Sardinia. Perhaps I shouldn’t write this and I should keep it a secret, but there are some days here in January that are far superior to any in July. With temperatures capable of reaching the high teens even in mid-winter – where you’ll find yourself stripping to short sleeves, contemplating a swim in the achingly azure water, and even catching the faint whine of a distant mosquito – it’s hard to really equate this mild, sleeping season with the frosted, bleak winter we know here in the UK. And then there is the food.

There are days in January that are far superior to any in July

In midsummer, stone fruit and giant melons please easily and brazen and beefy tomatoes are bloated with juice, but it is the off-season produce that gives me true pleasure. Winter is the time for citrus, and the glossy green trees are laden with lemons and oranges dangling over walls and gathering in gutters. There are blood oranges, small, smooth and unassuming, cut open to reveal violent scarlet insides, with juice and zest the very essence of orange but mixed with an almost raspberry tartness. There are the signature spiny artichokes, waxy and pale green with vicious yellow spikes, which snap and squeak in the hand. I like them sliced finely and tossed in grassy new olive oil. The olives are harvested in winter too, around November, while still green, and the countryside rattles with the sound of the mechanical arm that shakes the fruit from their branches.

While the island is seen almost exclusively as a summer destination by tourists, who come in search of the inevitable spaghetti con vongole, charcoal-grilled squid and gelato, the food of winter seems almost more representative of the rugged and wild character of Sardinia. The famous strong flavours make sense in these months, such as the rich, dark and winey stew of cinghiale (wild boar) slow cooked with the soft, bitter olives just freshly harvested, which have a flavour and texture unlike any jarred or tinned one we know. These olives are soft and melting, like a cooked grape, and there are the full-bodied red wines to wash everything down. Cannonau is the most celebrated – strong in percentage and fruity in flavour. There are also pungent, nutty, crumbling or creamy pecorinos that precede, end or even make up most meals, and there are chestnuts roasted in great cauldrons on the street and shovelled into little paper bags, to be picked at with ash-stained fingers as you take your passeggiata around the cold cobbled streets.

Summer eating may be as smooth and sweet as peaches and cream, but it’s winter food that excites me, because it is a time of contrasts. Of the electric, vital freshness of citrus, the enlivening tang of my beloved bitter greens; the juicy crunch of puntarella, offset by a sharp and salty anchovy dressing, and it is also the time for sweet and earthy braised beans; for rich ragùs and glossy pasta enriched with fresh egg yolks. We will light the fire and burn the olive wood we pruned from our trees, roasting fresh semola sourdough over the flames and drizzling it with the newly pressed oil.

Yes, winter here has its magic, made more special by the fact that so few are here to witness it. There, the secret is out. 

Letitia Clark’s latest book, Wild Figs & Fennel: A Year in an Italian Kitchen, is published by Hardie Grant at £30

Model, Bibi Breslin at IMG. Casting, Piergiorgio Del Moro and Helena Balladino at DM Casting. Hair, Alexander Soltermann at Home. Make-up, Helene Vasnier at Home. Photographer’s assistant, Marlee Pasinetti. Stylist’s assistants, Aylin Bayhan and Elsa Durousseau. Local production, Voltura Sardinia. Production, Town. Shot at Hotel Pitrizza. Special thanks to Anne-Laure Pandolfi