I’ve been to Baja Sardinia twice now—once in June and once in early September. Both trips felt like summer postcards with sand in the corners. This is me, telling you what I loved, what bugged me, and the little things I wish I knew sooner.

If you want the blow-by-blow version—including the exact moment I ditched my phone and just listened to the waves—you can peek at my full first-person Baja Sardinia diary.

Getting There, Without Stress (Well, Mostly)

I flew into Olbia (OLB). I grabbed a tiny Fiat Panda and drove about 35 minutes to Baja Sardinia. Easy roads. Pretty views. I did miss a roundabout once because the sea flashed blue, and I got distracted—totally worth it.

Parking near the main beach was a mix. Street spots were free early in the day. After noon, I paid at a small lot near the square. It wasn’t cheap, but it wasn’t wild either.

If you want a deeper dive into local driving routes, hidden coves, and food stops, check out Antonello Salis’s insider Sardinia guide before you go.

The Beach That Hooked Me

The main beach is called Cala Battistoni. Soft sand. Clear water that fades from glass to turquoise to deep blue. On my first morning, I waded in and could see my toes. I could also see tiny fish zip past my ankles. I’m not a strong swimmer, but it felt safe and calm most days.

Bring reef-safe sunscreen. Some days you’ll see brown sea grass (posidonia) along the shore. It looks like mess, but it’s normal and protects the coast. I learned not to complain about nature doing its job.

I also wandered over to a quiet cove behind the Grand Hotel Smeraldo Beach. The rocks look like sculpture. I laid on a warm slab and listened to the water slap and hush. You know what? I almost fell asleep right there.

Food That Tastes Like Sea and Sun

I kept it simple. A plate of fregola with clams. Grilled sea bream with lemon. Pane carasau that crackled. I drank Vermentino di Gallura—cold, clean, a little salty. For dessert, I had seadas, warm and sticky with honey. Sticky fingers, happy heart.

One night, I sat by the square and ate a thin-crust pizza with anchovies. A local guy leaned over and said, “Good choice.” He was right. I love when a place nudges you toward simple food and it just sings.

Golden Hour: Where Sunset Feels Like a Show

Phi Beach is the sunset spot. It’s carved into rock, right by the sea, and it’s a whole scene. I went early one evening and got a front-row seat to the sky turning peach and gold. My Aperol spritz was strong and, yeah, pricey. But that view? It made me hush without trying. After dark, the music picks up. House beats. Bare feet. People floating from one rock to another like it’s a movie set.

Another night, I tried Ritual Club. It’s tucked in the rocks, almost like a cave garden. Soft lights, steps cut into stone, a little mystery. I danced, then cooled off outside where the air smelled like myrtle and salt.

If that after-sunset energy puts you in a social mood and you’re keen to meet someone beyond the dance floor, check out this locals-only “sex near me” personals page where you can scroll through nearby profiles and line up a spontaneous beach drink or late-night stroll without wasting any of your precious vacation time.

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A Quick Kid-Friendly Break

Aquadream is right in Baja Sardinia. It’s a small water park, good for a half day. I tried the big slide once, screamed once, and decided to cheer from a chair after that. Families seemed happy. Lines moved pretty fast. My niece would love it.

Day Trips That Made Me Stare

• La Maddalena archipelago by boat: I booked a day tour from Cannigione, which is close by. We stopped at islands with water so clear it looked fake. I swam, had a simple lunch on board, and got sun in places I forgot to sunscreen. No regrets.
• Porto Cervo: It’s a short drive. Shiny yachts. Fancy shops. I grabbed a gelato and people-watched from a shaded bench. Fun for an hour or two, then I missed the sand.

What I Loved

• The water: calm most days and silly clear.
• The vibe: relaxed by day, glam at sunset.
• The rocks: giant, warm, and kind of magical.
• The food: simple, fresh, and salty in the best way.

What Bugged Me (A Little)

• Prices jump: sunset drinks at Phi Beach were steep, and chairs on the main beach add up. I skipped loungers and used a towel. Worked fine.
• Wind days: the mistral hit once and the sea got rough. I wore a light jacket at night and felt smart.
• Summer crowds: show up early for parking and a good spot on the sand. Late mornings felt like musical chairs.

Where I Stayed

I split between two spots on my trips:

• Hotel La Bisaccia: quiet, with a little cove and lawns that roll down to the sea. Breakfast on the terrace was slow and peaceful.
• Grand Hotel Smeraldo Beach: a bit livelier, with granite steps that lead to tiny beaches. I swam before coffee. That felt like a small win.

Both hotels were a short walk to the square, which made dinner easy.

If you’re still weighing up which corner of the island fits your style (and budget), my candid rundown of Sardinia’s best areas to stay might save you a few hours of map scrolling.

And for anyone flirting with the idea of going full resort—deck chairs, beach bar, the works—I also wrote an honest review of what a Sardinian beach resort stay really feels like.

Tiny Tips That Helped

• Bring water shoes if you plan to climb on the rocks. They grip well and save your toes.
• Go to the beach by 9:30 am for calm water and soft light.
• Keep cash for small beach bars and parking meters that don’t love cards.
• Save one night for a long walk along the shore after dinner. The sea glows. It really does.

Final Take

Baja Sardinia isn’t wild or fussy. It’s gentle and bright. It keeps you outside—barefoot, a little salted, and not checking your phone much. I went home with sea-soaked hair and a mood that felt new.

Would I go back? Yes. For the rocks. For the water. For that soft moment at sunset when everyone goes quiet, and the day slides into night like a secret.

You know what? I walked in a fan of piano and accordion. I walked out kind of buzzing. Not from coffee. From sound. Wild, careful, funny sound. Someone else had a similar rush in their own write-up, which you can read here.

Who are these two, anyway?

Antonello Salis plays piano like it’s a drum one minute and a river the next. He’s Sardinian, and you can hear the folk roots peeking through the jazz. Get a deeper taste of his restless discography and current projects on his official website. For a taste of him unaccompanied, check out this thoughtful All About Jazz review of his album “PianoSolo.” He also plays accordion, but this time he sat mostly at the grand. For a glimpse of how his accordion dialogues with even more unexpected partners—say, a berimbau—take a look at this night he shared with Naná Vasconcelos over here.

Simone Zanchini holds an accordion like a secret engine. He can make it sing sweet, or snarl, or storm. Sometimes all three in one breath.

People call them jazz. That’s fair. But it’s also play. It’s risk. It’s two big ears listening hard.

The room, the mood

Small hall. Low lights. No fancy set. Just a shiny grand, a chair, a couple mics, and that black-and-chrome accordion. I sat close enough to see the bellows move and the dust lift when Salis hit the low strings.

A couple in front of me whispered, “Is this free jazz?” I shrugged. Then the first note hit, and we all shut up.

First tune: a hush, then a grin

They opened quiet—so quiet you could hear the bellows breathe. Zanchini held a single note and bent it with the air, like a violin but warmer. Salis reached into the piano and plucked a low string with his left hand while his right hand tapped a tiny rhythm on the keys. No rush. Just a slow build.

Then he did that Salis thing: stood up mid-phrase, slapped the piano frame with his palm for a backbeat, and slid back to the bench without losing the pulse. I let out a tiny laugh. Couldn’t help it. It felt like a magic trick.

Real moments that stuck

• A quick quote of Caravan popped up, just two bars, and they twisted it into a knotted groove. Everyone caught it. You could feel the smirks.
• Zanchini did a bellows shake that sounded like far-off thunder, then snapped to a bright, almost music-box melody. The contrast hit hard.
• Salis muted the piano strings with a cloth and made a soft, dry clack under Zanchini’s line. It turned the grand into a giant kalimba for a minute.
• They slid into a simple folk phrase—felt Sardinian to me—and turned it inside out. Same shape, new colors. Like watching someone fold paper into a bird.
• At one point, Zanchini leaned into the mic and let a tiny growl sit under a high note. It was weird and human, in a good way.

The dance between them

Here’s the thing: their timing is tight, but not stiff. They push and pull. One leans forward, the other leans back, and the time breathes. When Salis stacks big, crunchy chords (jazz folks call them clusters), Zanchini answers with thin, high threads. When Zanchini goes fast, like “how are those fingers doing that” fast, Salis drops to a single note pedal point and makes space.

They stop on a dime. Then they hang. Then, wham—back in. It’s theater without the drama hands.

How it made me feel

I felt my chest lift when they hit the big swells. I felt calm during the whisper parts. I caught myself tapping the seat rail like a kid. I also got a bit teary on a slow tune midway through—no big reason, just that warm, late-night kind of feeling music can give. Turns out I’m not the only one; another audience member wrote about getting hit in much the same way here. Funny how that happens when folks trust a melody.

I tested them at home, too

After the show, I put on their duo recording on my phone while cooking pasta. Studio sound is cleaner, of course. You hear the tiny reeds and the felt on the hammers. The wild edges are still there, but a bit neater. One track starts with a slow drone and a small, bright piano figure; another breaks a standard into puzzle pieces and fits them back together. If you want another perspective on Salis holding the stage all by himself, JazzTimes published a sharp take on that same “PianoSolo” session that captures much of what I heard. It’s not the same as the room—nothing is—but it holds up. It’s good company for a slow simmer.

What I loved

• Humor without being cute
• Big dynamic swings—whisper to roar
• Real folk flavor under the jazz lines
• That inside-piano percussion (I’m a sucker for it)
• Zanchini’s control of air and attack; the man paints with bellows

Tiny gripes, because I’m me

• A couple free sections ran a bit long. I like space, but I also like a landing.
• One loud peak felt harsh in the room. Might’ve been the mic, not them.

Who should go hear them?

• If you love Monk, Piazzolla, or short stories with surprise endings
• If you like your jazz with mud on the boots and sparkle on top
• If you want to feel risk, not just hear notes

Maybe skip if you need tidy, verse-chorus songs all night. This isn’t that.

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Final word

I came for craft. I stayed for heart. These two listen so hard that you feel braver, just sitting there. Is that corny? Maybe. But I walked out lighter, and I kept hearing that soft bellows breath in my head. And dinner tasted better, which says a lot, since the pasta was kind of overcooked.

I spent a week hopping between farms in Sardinia. Real farms. Real food. Real early mornings. I wanted quiet. I got roosters. And somehow, that was perfect. For the meticulous, dinner-plate-by-dinner-plate breakdown of each stop, I put together this expanded trip diary you can skim later.

You know what? Agriturismo isn’t fancy. It’s slow. It’s family. It’s a lot of food. If that sounds good, keep reading. If you want a pool bar, maybe not. I’ll tell you exactly what I loved, what bugged me, and where I’d go again.

What even is an agriturismo?

It’s a farm stay. You sleep in a simple room or a small house. You eat what the farm grows or raises. Dinner is often a set menu. Wine shows up like a cousin at a picnic. You won’t go hungry. You will need a car.
If you’re mapping out a route beyond these farm gates, Antonello Salis’s site is packed with Sardinia-only intel that steers you to the good stuff.

Alright, now the real stories.

Stop 1: Sa Mandra (near Alghero) — Feast mode

I landed in Alghero late, and Sa Mandra was 10 minutes from the airport.
If you want a peek beforehand, Sa Mandra’s official site and the crowd-sourced reviews on TripAdvisor give a photo-heavy preview of the rooms and those never-ending platters.
I rolled in hungry and a bit cranky. Then dinner happened.

• Antipasti kept coming: artichokes, local salami, pecorino, stuffed zucchini.
• Malloreddus pasta with sausage? Yes. Rich but not heavy.
• Porceddu (suckling pig) with crispy skin. Unreal.
• Seadas for dessert with warm honey. Sweet. Cheesy. It sounds odd, but trust me.

The dining room felt like someone’s big family hall. Kids ran around. Staff moved fast but smiled a lot. I saw a grandmother tap a bowl and nod like, “More.” Same, nonna. Same.

My room was rustic—stone walls, sturdy bed, quiet at night. No designer lamps. But I slept great. In the morning, I walked past donkeys and olive trees. Bells on sheep made a soft clink. Funny thing: I came for food. I stayed for the calm.

What bugged me: dinner is long, like two hours. Also, set menu. If you’re picky, speak up early. And bring some cash just in case—one night the card machine had “a moment.”

Would I go back? Yes, for a big group dinner. It’s a crowd-pleaser.

Stop 2: S’Ozzastru (near Orosei) — Goat mornings and sea afternoons

Here, I woke to goat bleats and soft light. Breakfast had warm ricotta, fig jam, and still-warm bread. I watched a woman ladle ricotta like it was nothing. Simple food can hit you right in the chest.

The place sits between mountains and the sea—exactly the kind of inland-meets-coast combo I raved about in my guide to Sardinia’s best areas to stay—so I drove 20 minutes to a beach, swam, and came back dusty and happy. My tiny room had a porch where I sat with a glass of Cannonau (local red) and pretended I knew a lot about wine. I don’t. It still tasted good.

One small hitch: mosquitos at sunset. Bring spray. Also, some dirt roads. My poor rental car (a tiny Fiat Panda) did its best. Oh, and dinner was early—if you arrive late, you miss the starters. I learned the hard way and never did it again.

Would I bring kids here? Yes. Space to run. Animals to watch. Parents can breathe. If you’re plotting a full family itinerary, this no-fuss cheat-sheet to Sardinia with kids lays out easy resort options for the days you want a break from goat alarms.

Stop 3: Il Muto di Gallura (Aggius) — Old stones, slow nights

This one felt older. Stone houses, thick walls, and a hush at night. I walked under cork oaks and thought about nothing. That never happens at home.

Dinner was hearty: zuppa gallurese (bread, broth, and cheese baked into a sort of pie), roast meats, wild herbs, and a little glass of mirto after. The staff said “piano piano” a lot—slowly, slowly—which matched the vibe. Even the wind seemed to hush.

It wasn’t perfect. The room was dim. The shower was tiny. But the peace? Big. I slept like a log.

Would I send a friend here? The one who loves old towns and quiet—yes. The one who lives for nightlife—no.

The good stuff

• Food with a story. Not fancy, just proud.
• Hosts who treat you like a cousin, not a client.
• Clean air, real stars, animal sounds. It gets in your bones.
• Value: dinners were often set price and fair, with wine included.
• Kids can be kids. Couples can be quiet. Both work.

The gripes (because I’m honest)

• Set menus. If you don’t eat pork or gluten, tell them when you book.
• Long meals. Lovely, but not fast.
• You need a car. Full stop.
• Bugs at dusk. Not awful, but pack spray.
• Card machines can be moody. Cash helps.

Real moments that stuck with me

• A farmer handed me a warm egg and said, “Domani, omelette.” I did as told.
• The way pane carasau crunches under soft cheese. It sounds like snow.
• A cat sat on my shoe during dessert and refused to move. I didn’t either.
• The smell of rosemary after a short rain. Sharp, sweet, and clean.
• A shy “buona sera” from a kid carrying bread like a prize.

Tips I wish I knew

• Book dinner with your room. Show up hungry.
• Ask for a farm walk. Many hosts love to show you around.
• Bring cash, bug spray, and a light sweater. Nights can be cool.
• If you’re gluten-free or veggie, message them in advance.
• Plan lazy mornings. Breakfast is worth the linger.

Who should go

• Food lovers who like stories with their sauce.
• Families who want space and zero screens at the table.
• Couples who prefer stars to clubs.
• Solo travelers who don’t mind quiet, long meals, and friendly nods.

If you want sleek hotels, this isn’t it. If you want people, land, and meals that feel like Sunday, you’ll be happy. I went for the food. I left with a softer heart. Funny how that happens.

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I walked into a small jazz club in Rome thinking I knew what piano could do. I walked out grinning, a little stunned, and kind of buzzing. That’s what Antonello Salis does. He plays piano and accordion. He also plays the room, the crowd, and even silence. And you know what? It works. Another listener captured a similar feeling in their write-up, Antonello Salis made my night feel bigger than the room.

Curious to trace the journey behind that fearless energy, I later wandered through Antonello Salis' official site and found the same playful depth etched into every project he lists there.

A tiny room, a huge sound

The show was late. It was at Alexanderplatz Jazz Club, the kind of place where your knees touch the stage if you lean in. He came out with an accordion first. No big speech. Just a slow, sweet waltz.

Curious about the spot itself? You can dig into its legacy and nightly vibe in this Romeing overview of Alexanderplatz Jazz Club.

Then, boom—he flipped the mood. He squeezed a fast run that made the lights seem brighter. People laughed, but we didn’t mean to. We were surprised. That same playful back-and-forth surfaces in his duo sets, like the one documented in my night with Antonello Salis & Simone Zanchini.

He moved to the piano and turned it into a whole band. He used “prepared piano” tricks—he reached inside and muted strings with his hand. That gives a dry, thumpy sound. He also tapped the wood like a drum. Then he’d snap back to clean, bright notes, and it felt like sun after rain. I know that sounds cheesy. But it did.

During one tune, he started a modal vamp. That’s a simple, looping groove. He stacked little rhythms on top. Polyrhythm, they call it. My foot went rogue. It found a new beat. The couple next to me whispered, then they went silent. We all—just listened.

The little things I caught

• His left hand felt like thunder. His right hand felt like rain.
• He grunts a bit when he gets excited. Not too much. Just enough to pull you in.
• He’ll start a melody that sounds like folk music from home, then twist it. It turns bold and free.
• He makes you wait. He leaves space. When the next note lands, it lands hard.

He told one short story, too. It was about Sardinia and wind. Simple words. Big feeling. I could almost smell salt. For a taste of how he meshes bellows with global percussion, check out the reflection on Berimbau and Bellows: my night with Nan Vasconcelos and Antonello Salis.

At home with his records

After the show, I bought a CD at the little merch table. Cash only, by the way. Later that week, I played his solo stuff while I cooked pasta. Sauce simmered. He went from tender to wild in one track. Not many artists can do that without losing me. He didn’t.

I also streamed a duo set with trumpet. The horn held a long, soft note while he let the accordion sigh under it. Real hush. Then he cut through with sharp piano chords—like a lighthouse blink. I hit replay. Twice. Ok, three times.

What I loved (and what bugged me a bit)

Loved:

• The switch between accordion and piano. It felt like two voices in one body.
• The humor. He makes chaos feel friendly.
• The risk. He takes leaps and somehow lands on beat.

Bugged me:

• A few noisy parts ran long. I like noise, but I also like a clean landing.
• No setlist on the table. I wanted names to find later.
• The sound guy let the piano mic ring once. A small squeal. It passed, but still.

Is Antonello Salis for you?

• Yes, if you like surprise, color, and heart.
• Yes, if you enjoy folk shades floating through jazz.
• Maybe not, if you need neat, tidy tunes. This isn’t background music. It asks for your ears.

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Quick tips if you go

• Sit close. Seeing his hands will help your brain make sense of the sound.
• Bring a small bill or two for a CD.
• If you’re sound-sensitive, pack earplugs. He gets loud, then soft. That swing is the point.
• Don’t talk during the quiet parts. You’ll miss the best bits.

Final take

Antonello Salis made a small club feel like a theater, and then like a kitchen, and then like a cliff at dusk. He’s warm. He’s fearless. He’s also human. Some choices didn’t land for me, and that’s fine. The risk is part of the joy.

Would I see him again? In a heartbeat. I still hear that last chord hanging in the air. It felt like he threw it to us and let us keep it. Someone else summed up a similar rush in the piece I spent a night with Salis Antonello—here’s how it hit me, and I can’t help nodding along.