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In three road-hugging jeeps, we made our way up the mountain, sometimes gasping at the long drop from the road's edge to the valley below, sometimes spellbound by the sheer beauty of this place---the Supramonte Mountains, on the Gennargentu Massif, the deep heart of Sardinia. Our drivers were used to driving the torturous roads, and to leading hiking, climbing, and kayaking tours, exploring canyons and caves and finding remnants of the island's prehistoric inhabitants. They knew every inch of this rocky wilderness.

The expedition was a soft adventure but an enchanting one, called "Lunch with a Shepherd." When the road ended we followed a path to the mountaintop home of Giovanni, the shepherd, who has lived there alone (with a dog and his sheep) for 50 years. He attended school in the town where he was born, and though a handsome man, he never married. Watching us approach, he sat inside the window of a hand built, domed oven, turning the spit on which roasted a suckling pig.

Gathering on a large primitive patio with a rock floor and a thatched roof, backed by gnarled old oak trees and pines, we looked across a green valley at the next range of mountains. Our "rustic lunch" was served on wooden platters Ð Sardinian flat bread called Carasau, black olives, tomatoes, salami, wild boar sausages, Pecorino cheese hand made and aged by Giovanni, homemade honey and almonds - and pork, crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, redolent of the aromatic wood it was roasted over, washed down with homemade red wine. Delicious!

Giovanni frowned more than he smiled, but there were occasional smiles. He and his three helpers spoke among themselves in the ancient Sardinian language that people speak in this part of the island. It's pure Latin - what the Romans spoke when they were the dominant culture here over 2,000 years ago. It doesn't even sound like modern Italian.

Roughly 162 miles long and 75 miles wide, Sardinia is the second largest island in the Mediterranean. Only Sicily is bigger. Its history is long and complicated, with mysterious beginnings. There were people here in the Neolithic Age, evidenced by menhirs and strange tombs as well as obsidian tools and pottery.

From 1800 to 500 BC, a Bronze Age culture called the Nuraghi populated Sardinia. Archeologists have not been able to discover where these people came from or why they disappeared. But they left unmistakable reminders of their presence in large circular towers built by stacking heavy, rectangular stones. These are found all over the island. More than 7,000 towers have been discovered and reconstructed. They vary in size, some of them with fortifying walls and surrounding smaller towers, some with two or three entrances and second and third floors. It's estimated that there may be as many as 30,000 Nuraghi towers yet to be unearthed from their covering mounds. If you visit Sardinia, you will surely see at least one of these mysterious ruins.

In about 900 BC, Phoenician traders came by sea and stayed to build coastal towns that have remained important urban centers to this day. Then came the Carthaginians who were less peaceful. They wanted to conquer the whole island and made a good beginning, but in the Punic Wars with the Romans, they lost control. Sardinia became a Roman province in 227 BC and despite incursions by Vandals in the 5th Century, Rome remained in power.

The Republics of Pisa and Genoa were invaders and so were Aragon and Catalonia from Spain. In fact, the Catalan language is still widely spoken. Moors, Turks and pirates made raids; the Kings of Savoy ruled for over 150 years. Then in 1948, all of Italy became a republic and Sardinia became a self-governing Region of Italy. So many footprints, so many different facial characteristics, so many languages and dialects are found on this big island.

For many people Ð including me until I visited last May Ð Sardinia is known only for a posh resort called the Costa Smeralda (Emerald Coast). Fifty years ago, the island's jagged northeast coast was sparsely populated. I was told that one day in the early 1960s, the Aga Khan was sailing his yacht in coastal waters when a storm came up. He sought shelter in a rock-bound bay and later returned to the scene for a better look. Whether the storm story is true or not, the Aga Khan was captivated by the peninsula whose shoreline was cleft into rocky coves with hidden white sand beaches and bays that were natural harbors. The sea was green in the deep water but in the long shallows nearer the shore, it was so transparent that he could clearly see the sea floor and the boulders that were half buried in the sand. Inland, he saw pine trees clinging to wind-sculpted granite and a verdant green scrub. That spit of land was an unspoiled paradise. A group of investors and developers were gathered and in a short time, the Costa Smeralda became a prime luxury destination for the international rich and famous.

You need a car (and a map) to get around Sardinia. Don't drive past the Costa Smeralda. It's fun to join the jet set in their play. Beside the resorts, there are private villas; opulent, I'm sure, though mostly hidden discreetly behind the rocky hills. One of these was pointed out to me as belonging to the former Russian President Vladimir Putin. But I couldn't corroborate that and I think that Putin is merely a frequent visitor at the sprawling, pink villa belonging to his good friend, Italian Premier Silvio Berlusconi.

The hotels built by the Aga Khan are still 5-Star properties, with impeccable service and as bright a shine as they had when they were brand new. There are also more affordable accommodations in the area. You don't need to own a mega-yacht to watch a regatta from Porto Cervo, or a string of polo ponies to see a World Cup Polo tournament at the nearby Shergan Equestrian Club - or to bask on a clear water, white sand beach at one of those nameless inlets that ring the Costa Smeralda.

The ancient Romans also knew how to live luxuriously. That's evident from the impressive remains of the cities they built 2,000 years ago. The Roman Empire left a significant mark on Sardinia as it did all over much of Europe and the Middle East.

Ghosts of long-ago residents linger in archeological sites like Nora Ð especially in Nora - because the echoes of their daily lives echo down streets still paved in stone, in the foundations of houses, a theater, marketplace, a forum, a standing temple column and extensive thermal baths. Mosaics decorate floors, and troughs that may have been sewers line the streets.

Nora was built on a promontory at the southern end of Sardinia. The first settlers were Phoenician; sea traders who would want to live near the water. The conquering Romans arrived in 238 BC and they enlarged the Phoenician city. At one time, 16,000 people lived there, some in small neighborhood houses, some in suburban villas.

Almost entirely surrounded by the blue Mediterranean, Nora must have been a beautiful place to live. What remains of it is a beautiful ruin, including some that's under water, the result of years of unrelenting tide. Once an important urban center, Nora was probably the seat of the Roman governor, but the town of Cagliari, just 20 miles north, was growing in population and importance. The provincial government moved to Cagliari and by the 8th Century, Nora was abandoned.

Cagliari became the capital and largest city. Because of its location on a wide bay, it's open to sea trade and it's always been the doorway to Sardinia. The city creeps up a hill behind the harbor and from the walled heights of the old Castello, you can see a blue lagoon and the longest beach on the island.

We decided to take a quick look at the cathedral. Built in the 12th Century, it was reconstructed in the 17th.

On the outside, the original simple Romanesque style was preserved. The inside contains marble remnants, some of them 800 years old. The presbytery is ferociously guarded by ancient, life-sized lions that are about to eat their victims. Underneath the altar is a technicolor crypt of inlaid marble where paintings of early martyrs line the walls; a fiendish face atop a corner pillar grimaces and sticks out its tongue; and naughty cherubs parade around the tombs of a Queen of France and a King of Sicily. Guidebooks call it Baroque. I call it gorgeously garish, even a little scary Ð and fascinating.

But it was the First of May and something big was going on in Cagliari Ð the Festa di Sant'Efisio. The story of St. Efisio is older than legends. Defender of the Faith and protector of the people, he has been held dear to their hearts for centuries. He was a young captain in the Imperial Roman Army, sent to fight the Christian population but he experienced a vision and became a convert. He was brought to Cagliari, imprisoned and tortured, then executed on a beach at Nora.

When a terrible plague raged across Sardinia in the mid 17th Century, 10,000 people died in Cagliari alone. They prayed to Efisio to save the city. The epidemic passed in May of 1657 and in thanks, they carried his image in procession to Nora and back. That was the start of a tradition that has continued to this day, the parade becoming more elaborate as the years go by. This year, over 3000 participants were chosen to represent families from villages all over the island.

First came the colorful "traccas" pulled by flower-bedecked oxen and carrying families - men, women and children, all wearing 17th Century garb of rich fabric, lace and velvet, authentic jewelry, even shoes and boots of the period. Some people walked alone, some in groups or horseback. They sang hymns, songs from their villages and prayed. There were babes in arms, black-robed women carrying their rosaries, costumed toddlers trotting along, trying to keep up with their older siblings. Men from a fishing village walked barefoot Ð including a little boy who couldn't have been more than two. After they passed the reviewing stand, his father picked him up and carried him.

I was impressed by the horses. One proud young woman rode alone, her long red and gold pleated skirt spread artfully over the back of a handsome horse. A group of men, all dressed in black, rode white horses eight abreast in close symmetry. There was no doubt that the marchers' motivation was sincere faith and gratitude that their saint had kept them safe. They were also having a great time.

At the end came basket-carrying women strewing rose petals inch-deep over the wide street; then a phalanx of police, on motorcycles and on horseback, and red-robed cardinals.

The purple-robed bishop did not march, but he was down in the street to welcome the saint. And finally the statue of Efisio himself in a golden carriage pulled by a team of oxen. It was a wild scene Ð crowd, police, and photographers all vying for position. I saw devout believers pick up handfuls of petals, tossing them toward the passing saint. I was moved to do the same.

Hotel Le Palme, Costa Smeralda: www.hotellepalmeportocervo.it

Mountain adventures: www.barbagiainsolita.it