In Oliena, Easter Sunday, as always, begins with gunfire. Shooters dressed in traditional costumes preserved here since the Renaissance line up along the railing of the lower main square’s Church of the Virgin Mary, firing their blank shots one after another—creating a literally ear-splitting, yet somehow harmonious acoustic space in preparation for the highlight of the celebration: s’incontru, the ritual of the encounter, when the statue of the risen Christ arrives from one side and that of the Virgin Mary from the other, both carried onto the main square strewn with rosemary and lavender, where Christ bows before his mother.
The floor of the small medieval church of Santa Croce is also covered with lavender. This is where the procession of the risen Christ will set off from. Around nine in the morning, it still stands empty. Only around ten does the core of the procession begin to gather here: the cross, the banners of religious confraternities, and the statue itself, which is placed on the table in the center. While waiting for the rest of the participants, those already present chat, take selfies, and offer pastries and wine. You can sense that the local winegrowers have saved their very best homemade wines for this occasion.
Then the procession slowly winds its way out of the chapel: the cross at the front, followed by the banners, and finally the statue is lifted up, with a long line of the faithful moving behind it.
At the end of the street opening onto the main square, they stop, waiting for the procession of the Virgin Mary to arrive on the opposite side. Between the two, the lavender carpet is already lined by men and women in traditional dress, forming a corridor through which the two statues enter and meet. Behind them stand the people of the village and visiting onlookers. For the second time, I encounter Hungarians among them—and they all say they were drawn here by earlier Easter Sunday reports from the Wang River.
At a central signal, the procession suddenly surges forward, entering the main square between the lines of people. I should have claimed a good spot behind the cordon in time to capture the meeting of Christ and his mother up close on video. From here, all that can be sensed is the distant movement of the two statues amid the festive crowd—and the exact moment of their encounter is marked by a thunderous volley of gunfire erupting from the direction of the church railing.
Then the procession sets off up the main street, escorting the statues and banners in double file to the upper main square, into the Church of Saint Ignatius for the Easter High Mass.
Bringing up the rear is a family of four, whose attire looks strikingly different from the others. “Why is it so different?” I ask them. It turns out they come from Samugheo on the west coast: the mother is originally from here, but she married there, and they are wearing the traditional costume of that region. It’s an astonishing richness—that this abundance of garments and jewelry we see in a single village exists in every village across the island, each in its own distinct form.
Those who managed to get inside the church listen to the Mass; those who didn’t gather in front of the bars along the main street, enjoying the social buzz with prosecco and red wine served by the bars, or with homemade wines and pastries passed around. People who have come home for the праздник reconnect with locals, take photos of newborns, and marvel at how much the children have grown. The kids, meanwhile, have their own lively social scene—charmingly grown-up in their ways—spotting stray balloons and practicing their steps for the round dance after the Mass.
Getting to the bar counter is hopeless, so I head down to the pub on the lower main square for a beer. The place is packed with the shooters from the morning ceremony. As I order at the counter, the man next to me—one of the shooters—immediately tells the young lady that this round is on him. We shake hands and start chatting. He explains that two years ago they brought the increasingly anarchic gunfire under control, setting up the “S’Incontru” civic association of the Oliena shooters. They pose for photos, and I promise to send them the pictures in the evening.
By the time I get back to the upper main square, the children are already sitting in rows around the dance floor. When the crowd pours out of the church, everyone comes down here. An accordion starts playing, and the dancing begins. The first one or two rounds are danced by the children, and then gradually separate circles form—first among the adults in traditional dress, and then among the villagers in everyday clothing.
Around one o’clock, people begin to drift away, drawn by the call of lunch. In the lower main square, everyone picks up a few sprigs of lavender and rosemary. We are told that once these have dried, they should be burned on the eve of Saint John, and the ashes used to make the sign of the cross three times.
We just manage to catch a “secret” procession bringing the statue of the Virgin Mary and the banners back from the main church to their original chapel. The everyday rhythms of life are beginning to reassert themselves.
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