Built by the Aga Khan, Sardinia’s Costa Smeralda has become the favored playground of today’s little-red-Maserati and private-jet crowd. 

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(continued)

They — and everyone else — are here to be seen. There are Continental society figures, entertainers, tanned barons of business and fashion models holding tiny dogs, all representing a full deck of European nationalities. There are even a few slightly confused, though happily ginned-up, Americans. A contented, sun-kissed buzz carries through the tents along with the clink of champagne flutes.

The match ends near sunset, and the turbines of a nearby helicopter roar to life. Some friends and I join the gaggle filing out to waiting craft and cars, which carry us back to our resorts and villas to briefly freshen up for the dinner awaiting us at the Hotel Cala Di Volpe (39-0789-976-111; hotelcaladivolpe.com).

== “L’appetito vien mangiando” == is an old Italian saying, meaning, roughly, “The act of eating makes you hungry.” It’s an apt expression in Costa Smeralda, where meals are monstrous and unrelenting. One begins, it seems, where the previous one ends.

Hotel Cala Di Volpe’s interior mixes the rough-hewn walls, gnarled-wood balustrades and rustic wide-plank floors of an exquisite hunting lodge with Gaudí-esque columns and trompe l’oeil. Rattan chairs crowd the spacious patio, which is lit in soothing amber.

The dinner is a free-for-all, with local specialties and classic Italian mainstays: crispy towers of pane carasau; succulent buffalo mozzarella caprese; zesty squares of soy-drenched tuna; sea bass marinated in vinegar; la fregola, a soupy pasta with thin slices of asparagus and peppers. A rack of lamb, served rare, arrives with roasted potatoes, fresh mint sauce and zucchini crostini, all crowned with a stuffed tomato. A relentless march of food — princely, even — ends with a brisk, ephemeral sorbet made with native lemons.

The next morning we drive slowly along the winding road toward the yacht basin. At one turn, we get a view through the haze of the mesa-like island of Tavolara, its sheer cliffs dropping straight into the sea. In the bay, sailboats ride a steady breeze. At the recently renovated Yacht Club Costa Smeralda (39-0789-902-200; yccs.it), dozens of classic yachts crawl with crews scuffling through final preparations for that day’s Rolex Veteran’s Boat Rally.

The yacht club hosts us aboard one of its largest launches, and we slice out into the gusty bay to watch the yachts — massive racing machines that thread the course with impossible grace. Dozens of viewing boats such as ours ply the waters, and while the yachts are clearly the spectacle, we mostly chat and wave at other spectators. A deckhand passes out prosciutto sandwiches. We uncork wine and begin to eat anew.

That evening I check into the Hotel Pitrizza, a sumptuous, secluded group of discreet stone villas west of Porto Cervo and the crown jewel of the princely Emerald Coast. My villa comes with its own outdoor Jacuzzi. I’m told that soap star Susan Lucci — American royalty in her own right — occupies the neighboring villa. Sure enough, when I am out for my evening constitutional, we cross paths and she smiles as if we were friends.

After “participating” in several of Sardinia’s regal sports, I’m ready to indulge in the third, most sensuous, pursuit. I smile back at her. She’s older than I am, but has an ethereal glow about her, her features so fine they might be chipped from Lucite.

But our fantasy romance ends when her husband arrives. Just as well. After all, how much royalty can one man take? 

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