In a world of angry over-tourism, it’s time to visit Italy’s emptiest region

Barbagia! There are few names in the world that entirely capture the spirit of a place, but Barbagia is one. Originally, it was the Roman poet Cicero's description of this sinewy chunk of central/eastern Sardinia that had refused to submit to Rome, and thus comprised barbarians . Yet, even today, it aptly summarises the stubborn, piratical flavour of this region: adorned with a celebrated coastline – yet fretted with wild, forbidding mountains.

Perhaps coincidentally – or not – this is also the emptiest region of Italy, with the fewest inhabitants per square kilometre. And in a world of angry over-tourism , that is an attraction in itself. Which is why, right now, I am basking like a sun-drunk lizard on the quietly lush Barbagian coast.

My precise location is Santa Maria Navarrese. It's the sort of modest Med village you might easily overlook. But there's history and beauty here. In the "centre", you'll find an austere mediaeval chapel – a bare-boned box of holiness – built for an 11th-century Spanish princess. Right outside is, reputedly, one of the oldest olive trees in Europe, responsible for several millennia of oil production. It is a lovely place to eat a panino. Or maybe pop across the road to an excellent beach café, L'Olivastro, for a pizza and a pistachio gelato .

Stuffed and ice-creamed, I walk ten yards for a late-afternoon swim in the Tyrrhenian Sea. The September sun is warm, the sands are uncrowded and the waters are a piercingly jewel-like blue, or maybe turquoise swirled with emerald. We are, after all, just a few hours south of the billionaire swank that is the Costa Smeralda – though everything here is, thankfully, five times cheaper.

My dip done, I head along the beach to my hotel. As resorts go, Lanthia is pleasantly sotto vocce: tranquil, suave and tucked behind a private wooded cove. The dainty pool is blissfully unused, except by me. And the restaurant comes highly recommended, especially for its traditional Sardinian tucker: like a unique dessert – sebadas – which turns out to be a fried, hot cheesy dumpling drenched in bittersweet Sardinian honey, which is at first disappointing, then becomes delicious. I've no idea why.

And now, after three days of fabulous seaside loafing, I am ready for the interior.

Heading west, the road climbs quickly, the slopes crowd around, and soon the landscape becomes something older, sterner, stranger. Not quite like normal Italy. In fact, not quite like anywhere.

Yes, there are cypresses, baroque churches and classically crumbling villages. Yet all of this sits within harsh and mighty chasms. It's like Tuscany got sliced up and dropped into the Grand Canyon .

Locals tell me that in certain Barbagian gorges, the winter winds are so violent they murderously hurl flocks of pigeons against the rocks. The hiking all round is unsurprisingly excellent – try the epic Su Gorropu canyon, or the grand ascent to the Bronze Age village of Tiscali – but maybe do it in spring and autumn, not December. Or August.

My next stop is Jerzu, one of Barbagia's fabled wine towns. As I crest the ridge, it appears as a splash of ochre, concrete and amiable scruffiness, perched on another cliff. On the eighth disturbingly tight roundabout, I find Antichi Poderi, a venerated co-operative devoted to cannonau, Sardinia's muscular red wine.

The locals are proud of this winery, and claim it produces the best cannonau on the island. This also makes it, apparently, the perfect accompaniment to Sardinia's notorious "maggot cheese" , casu marzu . In the tasting hall, I ask the friendly girl at reception where I can get this cheese. I've always wanted to try it.

She smiles: "It is illegal, it is banned by the EU. But maybe…" Now she laughs, loudly and points at the surrounding mountains. "Somewhere out there?"

Her words have a savour of rebellion, and that's fitting. This is Barbagia, after all, and the people who rebuffed the Roman legions still affect a spirit of revolution. And nowhere is that traditional defiance more obvious than in the town of Orgosolo.

Until the late 20th century, Orgosolo was known mostly for minor mafias. Then, sometime in the 1960s, they abandoned kidnapping and took up mural-painting. But they didn't opt for charming pastoral scenes – they mutinously splattered the walls with every radical cause imaginable: Che, Vietnam, Mao, everything. The whole town has since, quite piquantly, become a tourist spectacle: literally capitalising on its anti-capitalism.

In the main square, a little van arrives – with signs for prodotti tipici – and the driver unloads some truly splendid Sardinian produce. I buy corbezzolo honey, the island's famous strawberry-tree honey (key to that coastal dessert), fig jam, olive oil , some pane carasau crispbread (great with soft cheeses) and then head off for a confrontation with Barbagia's vertiginous past.

Sardinia is known for its megalithic sites – mostly associated with the remarkable Nuragic culture that flourished here around 1000BC. But I am intent on tracking down something even older and, perhaps, even more compelling: The Necropolis of Sas Concas.

It takes me hours. Google Maps goes wrong, Apple maps gives up; then, on a side road near Oliena (famed for its ambrosial red wine), I find a little fingerpost. Sas Concas. And yep, here I am. A sequence of ominous tombs is carved into a limestone ridge: like eye sockets in skulls.

There is no kiosk, no gate, no guard – just barbed wire and a sign saying "call this person if you want to get in". For a moment, I hesitate, then I remember I am in the land of mutiny, so I jump the fence and scramble through the prickly pears. Eventually, I reach the tombs, which date back maybe 5,000 years. And in the largest vault, I locate my reason for making the effort. Here, in front of me, are the Capovolti, AKA "the Inverted Men".

They are not much at first glance, just stick figures carved upside down. Yet, on scrutiny, you realise they are arranged with a deeply eerie perspective, as though you are viewing a row of torture victims, or souls descending head-first into the other realm. No one knows what they signify. A warning? Ritual? Human sacrifice?

The silence in the tombs is intense. The Inverted Men stare at me. The sunlight throbs outside. Time to go.

My time in Italy's loneliest corner is almost done, and I have one more stop. Happily, it is special: Su Gologone, one of the most enticing little hotels in the Western Med.

I first came here years ago, and adored it; pleasingly it has not changed. A rambling, labyrinthine, white-washed Italianate hacienda, it boasts shady courtyards and sensuous hammocks, and green walls decorated with pagan masks and vivid ceramics.

It also hosts an excellent restaurant that does some of the best Sardinian cuisine (make sure you try the suckling pig). And at the far end is a glorious rooftop bar surrounded by soaring cliffs – which burn apricot and gold as the sun sets – and the aperitivi are served . Tonight it is full of wealthy northern Italians with perfect teeth and €900 loafers, and they're all guzzling delicious canapes.

I have found civilisation: in the empty land of the barbarians. Perhaps the maggot cheese can wait until tomorrow.

How to do it

Sean Thomas was a guest of Original Travel, which arranges tailor-made holidays to destinations around the world. A version of his seven-night itinerary costs from £2,600pp, based on two sharing and including return flights, car hire and B&B accommodation (020 3582 4990; www.originaltravel.co.uk ).

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