Corsica : a tour in May 1999
1.
Bastia to Porto.
2.
Porto to Zonza.
3.
Zonza to Corte.
4.
Corte to Bastia.
Setting the scene.
This tour was made before the years of travel in our little camper van Modestine, which only started on our retirement in 2005, and are described in a lengthy series of on-line blogs. Our 1999 visit was a precious two weeks snatched from our annual leave and with the relatively recently acquired freedom of having both our children off our hands. Something of the exhilaration of this short period of liberty in such a beautiful island comes across in the detailed account that Jill painstaking wrote up by hand every day. It has been transcribed from her manuscript with very little editing to preserve the immediacy of her delight in everything that we experienced. Recent developments mean that our years of travel together have finally come to an end, but this account will serve as a fitting memory of one of the most enjoyable of our journeys.
Ian Maxted, September 2022
An oversimplified chronology of Corsica.
4000-1800 Late Neolithic & Chalcolithic. Megalithic site at Filitosa.
1800-700 Bronze Age. Torrean culture at Filitosa and Cucuruzzu.
900-700 Phoenician settlements along coast.
600-500 Carthaginian presence on the island.
566 BCE Greeks found Aleria.
535 BCE Etruscans assume control of the island.
238 BCE Roman province established after First Punic War.
430 CE Vandals and Ostrogoths dispute ownership of Corsica.
469 Vandals complete conquest of Corsica.
534 Byzantine Empire assumes control.
725 Becomes part of Lombard Kingdom.
774 Annexed by Charlemagne to Frankish realms.
1077 Becomes part of the Papal States.
1090 Administration allocated to Pisa, contested by Aragon.
1284 Genoa defeats Pisa and assumes control of Corsica.
1729 Corsicans initiate revolt against Genoa.
1755 Corsican Republic proclaimed under Pasquale Paoli.
1767 Republic of Genoa sells Corsica to France.
1769 Corsican Republic conquered by France.
1769 Napoléon Bonaparte born in Ajaccio.
1794 Anglo-Corsican Kingdom established.
1796 Corsica returned to French rule.
1801 Lucien Bonaparte founds Bibliothèque Municipale, Ajaccio.
1814 British troops land and briefly take over administration.
1920 Separatist movement founded.
1940 Corsica part of Vichy France
1942 Corsica occupied by Italian military forces.
1943 Liberation of Corsica after capitulation of Italy.
1976 Split into departments of Haute-Corse & Corse-du-Sud.
2018 Corsica become a united region of France.
Map of our travels in May 1999
Our route is marked in red, the numbers indicating the day of the month when we were travelling each section of the route and the larger red circles marking the places where we spent each night. Smaller red points locate major settlements or sites visited. Where there is no circle against the name it refers to a region rather than a specific locality.
Part 1. Bastia to Porto
Sunday 16 May, 1999
For once, we are not on a Brittany
ferry! This morning we flew to Corsica! We are
now sitting on the terrace of a hotel watching a rosy sunset on the Mediterranean. Below us is the harbour of a tiny seaside
village near the northernmost point of the island, with a flotilla of small fishing boats bobbing at anchor in the crystal
clear water of the harbour. From our
supper table we can see right to the seabed.
The harbour is teeming with tiny fish, and some not so tiny. There are also pretty pink jellyfish pulsing
their way through the water, the delicate umbrella pumping it forward with the
long pink tendrils following behind. The
harbour is surrounded by big old pink-rendered houses with roofs tiled in the
local green schist; the buildings stagger back up the hillside for maybe three
or four streets with the belfry of the village church showing above the topmost
street.
Centuri, jellyfish in harbour
The sun has just dropped below the horizon, and the sky is
diffused with a glorious array of colours ranging from crimson to rose pink and
bright orange to green and yellow.
Across the little harbour within shouting distance the fish
restaurant with its big tank of langoustines has turned on its little terraced
lights which reflect and refract in the gently lapping water. Here too the lights have gone on, along the rail
behind us, and in a parasol above our table. Halfway up the steep hillside the lights of
an even tinier village are now shining against the black outline of the crest
of the hill.
Inside the little hotel Corsican music is playing, adding to
the atmosphere, and a charming waitress has just finished serving the fourth
course of our Corsican meal. We are now
finishing our wine, feeling very full from fish soup with garlic croutons and
grated cheese followed by a locally caught fish - the landlord catches his own
fish. It's a tasty and very bony and meaty fish described as "darne de dentelle".
This was served with a tomato and herb sauce, rice and salad, and was followed
by a mild goat's cheese white and "a bit like yoghurt with the wet bits removed",
says Ian. Finally we were served pasticcio,
a Corsican desert of semolina tart served cold with a pleasant sharp-tasting
sauce.
Centuri, view of the harbour
This village is called Centuri and it is on the western side
of Cap Corse near the top joint of the finger on the fist of Corsica
pointing northwards. A stroll around the village showed it to be a very
pleasant little place. Children played
in the narrow road outside their front doors whilst women sat chatting on their
doorsteps. There were cactuses
everywhere some huge thick succulents with all sorts of different flowers sprouting
from them. Ones we pay a fortune for in
a pot from a garden centre in England
grow by the roadside or on patches of waste ground here, and are a hundred times bigger! Lizards, yellow or green,
bask in the sun on patches of stony ground or on the tops of walls darting away
like lightning if we get too close.
Flowers are everywhere. The only
ones familiar to me are ragwort and red poppies, but there are many other poppy-like
flowers in pinks, whites and pale yellows.
There are thick succulent-leaved plants bearing aster-like heads in
mauves, yellows, and orange-reds but undoubtedly the many different cactuses are
the plants that intrigue us the most.
Centuri, lizard
All over the hillsides, as soon as they start to rise up, not
much more than a few hundred yards inland from the coast, lies the maquis. We
weren't sure what it was until we saw it, and then we realised at once. It is a dense covering of scrubby, low bushes
and stunted trees interspersed with heath land, jagged, bare, grey arid rock,
and masses of smaller plants and shrubs all of which seem to be flowering
especially for our benefit. It is
supposed to have such a powerful fragrance that Napoléon, a native of Corsica claimed that he could recognise Corsica with his
eyes shut just by its smell alone. I
wouldn't go that far. Smell-wise it
reminded me of Dartmoor because of the aroma
of decaying animal droppings. Here it's
goats and mouflons, and in the warm sunshine with the blue of the Mediterranean and the towering inland mountains as a
backdrop it is far from unpleasant.
Monday, 17 May, 1999
It is going to be difficult finding time to keep this up to
date. We got up yesterday at 3.30 am to
be at Gatwick by 4.45 for our flight. We stayed with Aunt José overnight, where
we left our car Wotan, and took a taxi to the airport. We arrived at Bastia airport by 9.00 am.
We picked up the car we've hired for a couple of weeks and ventured out into
the big wide Corsican world. I've been
really relieved to find less traffic around than I had expected - very little in
fact, but all coming from the opposite direction, which is a difficulty for me
on very twisty roads when I'm unfamiliar with the left hand drive Peugeot 206
and the roads are not well maintained, particularly at the edges. Several times we encountered coaches on unnavigable
bends, so was forced to reverse - now
where have they hidden reverse gear on this car?
We took the easy option from the airport, to familiarise
ourselves with the car, and drove north to Bastia, then parked and walked
around the Sunday market in the warm sunshine (20 degrees), taking shade beneath
the palm trees surrounding the enormous square with its statue of Napoléon. The people of the town were out in family
groups, children playing whilst parents sat at shaded tables drinking beer or
eating ices. On the market people were
queuing for freshly cooked balls of something.
We asked what they were, and were given one each to try. They turned out to be cubes of Corsican
goat's cheese wrapped in dough and deep fried.
We bought a couple each, a banana one for pudding, which we ate sitting
on the sea wall overlooking the harbour, where the ferries were arriving from Nice
or from Italy. Corsica has
its own ferry company Ferryterainée Corse. There were also Mobyline ferries.
Bastia, main square with statue of Napoléon
We walked around the old harbour and amidst a network of
local alleys, dark and shady, very narrow with huge dilapidated old buildings
divided as flats, each with its line of washing hanging from the windows. The entrances stood open and seemed full of
rubbish bins and sacks of cement where restoration work had been started but
hadn't got very far. In the alleyways
docile dogs slept flat out on their sides.
The whole area was very run down, and in no better state of repair than Budapest, about which I
wrote in such a negative style. However
with the Mediterranean climate, lack of graffiti and many tubs of geraniums,
this was far more acceptable.
Bastia, houses in town centre
We climbed up to the citadel which was in fact a whole
little old town within the city walls, overlooking the old harbour. Again we walked around the little streets,
almost deserted except for children playing and the ubiquitous washing drying.
Bastia, the harbour, seen from the citadel
We returned to the car and made our way north along the east
coast of Cap Corse, a narrow road, with the sea to our right and the hills
covered in the maquis to our left. Fortunately there was not much traffic, and
we could drive slowly, pulling in to look at the views as we progressed.
We stopped at Erbalunga, a small fishing village north of Bastia, wandering out
along the harbour wall and peering into the clear water with shoals of
tiny fishes. A walk through narrow
alleyways, all neatly paved with the green schist rock, brought us under
archways and between the pink houses to the romantic ruin of one of the many Genoese
watch towers that line the coast.
Erbalunga
Then
on north, still hugging the coast, to Machinaggio, where the road turned inland,
climbing through the maquis with marvellous views of the hills and sea, to
emerge at a more open area over 1000 feet above sea level where a car park at
the side of the road lay at the foot of a short path to a ruined windmill le Moulin
Mattei, where there was a panorama of the northernmost point of Corsica. At the other side of the pass were the stumps
of two other windmills with a flock of goats grazing around them. We descended back to the car and, leaving the main road,
took a narrow route down to Centuri where we found our hotel.
Cap Corse
The Monday morning proved to be rainy with a stiff breeze. We
walked through the village, more deserted than the Sunday, picked up some bread
at the baker's, and set off, climbing tortuous road through the maquis to join
the main road running south along the west side of Cap Corse.
The west coast of Cap Corse
Main road is rather an overstatement. It is in fact the only possible route down the west side of the Cape. The surface is badly maintained and pitted, whilst the edges are broken away. Sometimes a two foot high wall protects one, psychologically at least, from the drop down the cliffs into the sea, sometimes there is nothing a few wisps of scrubs. The road is so twisting that for much of the time we didn't get above second gear, driving in the centre of the road and feeling our way around the blind bends. Fortunately there was little traffic, mainly motorcyclists, a practical way to travel here or, the other extreme, coaches. At one point we stopped to admire the scenery, a drop to the sea, the cliffs covered by the maquis, with views across to little hamlets on the other side of the inlet, with snow showing on the distant mountains. Far away, appearing and disappearing as it rounded the many twists, we watched the approach of a coach. As we stood by the roadside, we were passed by a coach making its descent. It was really quite exciting from our vantage point as they got closer and closer until they finally met, with much hooting, on a 45 degree bend, with rock on one side and absolutely nothing on the other. They passed eventually, and the drivers must be skilled at such incidents.
At the hotel in Centuri we heard the staff listening to the meteo and bringing in all the umbrellas from the terrace where we ate last night, saying a storm was due. I don't know where or how it arrived, but it certainly did! On the narrow coast road it was quite scary being buffeted by really strong winds that came and went as we rounded different sections of the cliff face. On the sea, white horses were whipped up and raced along the coast. Sometimes whirlwinds of foam spiralled up from the surface of the sea and flew along, gathering momentum as they raced inland. It was very impressive, and the distant mountains turned black against the pale grey sky. A dust cloud blew up and completely smothered the car, turning quickly to a pale mud as it started to rain. Parked by the roadside, Ian opened his door to take a photo and our map of Corsica was whipped from the car by the wind and carried in a split second far out to sea. I was terrified for a moment as Ian dived to try to rescue it! Anyway, we can now confirm that Ian's navigational skills have been blown right off Corse.
We arrived at Pino, a pleasant little village with little alleys leading to old houses scattered up and down the hillside. We parked on the road and climbed down to the church - no roads in the village - past tumbling buildings with rusty wrought-iron gateways with fig trees, olives, peach, orange and lemon trees growing in terraces below the village. Sheltered behind little drystone walls constructed from the local grey-green schist, little vegetable gardens were flourishing. We followed a little narrow lane up past eucalyptus trees and cactuses to a collection of tumbled cottages clinging to the cliffs above the sea, the wind whipping our jackets as we buffeted against the warm, mist-laden wind. One of the cottage doors stood open, and inside we could see a young man sitting at his computer, busy using the internet. It seemed so very incongruous!
Pino
Climbing back up to the road, we found the village shop, where we bought some cards and managed to replace our lost map. Here we paid 15 francs, about the price of a cup of coffee - brilliant value and a fraction of what we'd paid in Exeter for the one blown away.
The coast road near Pino
We continued down the coast. As it was raining heavily at this point, we pulled off the road and picnicked in the car with a magnificent view of the white-capped waves in the sea below and the white-capped peaks of the mountains beyond where the snow was still packed in their crevices. A little later we again parked and forced our way into the
tight packed maquis by the roadside to "faire pipi". It had stopped raining and the herbs and
shrubs gave off a lovely perfume. Apart
from the many flowers there was wild fennel, sage and rosemary plus many I
didn't recognise.
Beside the road too on the outskirts of Pino and other
villages through which we passed were many family tombs, almost tiny houses amongst the
scrub, which staggering neglected down the hillside. There was also for each village the necropolis
where, as in northern Spain, there were sealed tombs stacked one above the other, also on the hillside outside
the village.
The wind was by now frighteningly strong as an arrived at Nonza,
a little village perched in an unbelievably precarious position on the cliffs,
the walls of the houses rising straight up from the vertical cliff face, the
waves way way below.
Nonza
We were blown sideways as we walked across the village
square to the church of Saint Julie, patron saint of Corsica,
and of Nonza in particular. We looked
back from the steps of the church to the wild and windy sea, turned the handle
of the church door and entered into a beautiful silent baroque church with
candles burning before the statue and reliquary of Saint Julie, the strong
smell of burning incense, oil paintings of religious scenes, a main altar with
flowers and statues of Our Lady, the Sacred Heart, Saint Theresa and Saint
Roche, a haven of peaceful tranquility. We bought a postcard of Saint Julie
for my sister Julie's birthday on the 20 May - it seems Saint
Julie's feast day is the 22 May - and
went to the little café on the town square to shelter from the wind and the
rain whilst writing postcards and where Ian set the locals right about the
height of their highest mountain Monte Cinto - 2706 metres.
Fontaine de Sainte Julie
We then explored the little alleys and narrow
steep passages and steps of the tiny town on the seaward side of the road. The feel of the place, in fact of the whole
of the area we visited so far, is Italian not French. The language may be French though we mainly
hear people speaking Corsican between themselves, which seems far more Italian than
French. The way of life, the names of
the villages, and the names of the people are all very Italian. In this village there were huge beautifully shaped
Italian pots filled with geraniums in flower or with small fig trees or orange
trees.
Everywhere was overrun with all kinds of flowering cactus. At
one point a resident had cut a way through the cliff path with a machete, leaving
huge hacked spiky cactus leaves to step over.
I found one shaped exactly like Corsica
which I'm hoping to take home with me but it will probably dry out and be
pointless really – though it has a lovely point at the moment, just like Cap Corse!
Cactus plants by the roadside
We climbed up to one of the Genoese towers that surround the entire island and still stand as picturesque ruins. The wind was the strongest we've ever encountered and we, along with some people coming down, were forced to sit down on the steps to avoid being blown over. A man advised us not to continue unless we weighed at least 200 kilos. There was a rather frail lady aged 80, so she told us, halfway up, afraid to go on or back clinging to the rock face. Someone helped her down. We struggled to the top; the views were superb but it was frightening so we crawled back down to the relative safety of the houses, where our chief fear was of being hit by falling slates.
Then we descended among ruined terraces and lemon trees
full of fruit, down broken picturesque steps to the fountain of Saint Julie,
which came out of the rock face as two little springs. Tradition has it that Saint Julie was
martyred for her Christian faith by having her breasts hacked off and hurled
against the cliff face, from where two miraculous fountains sprang.
Nonza
Down here it was sheltered from the wind, and as the rain
had stopped it was quite warm and pleasant.
Nobody else bothered to clamber down so it was peaceful wandering the
uneven paths between the tiny walled terraces seeing the tumbled remains of
once prosperous houses long since abandoned, but where the fruit trees still
continued to flourish with nobody to collect their produce.
We returned to the car and continued with very great
trepidation along the coast road. We
reached a complete road blockage on a sharp bend stuck behind a coach halfway
round the bend. It was terrifying to see
the way the coach shook and rolled as it was blasted by the wind, exposed on
the bend. I held back, protected in some
measure by the cliff face. Someone
climbed down from the coach to see what was causing the holdup ahead of them,
and had to get down on his knees and crawl to avoid being blown away. We later discovered that a motorcyclist had
been blown off his bike, and people around the bend were helping him. Fortunately he stayed on the road and was
not badly hurt.
We followed down behind the coach - a good place to be as, if the driver could get round the bends, I knew there was nothing coming, and could follow. We eventually descended to sea level at Saint Florent where we parked by the port de plaisance and found a little hotel nearby - nothing special, but clean with a shower at 220 francs per night.
The town seems very pleasant, with fishermen casting their
lines between the yachts and pleasure craft.
We sat, sheltered by a beautiful fragrant hedge, warm in the evening sun sun as it
set behind the mountains, eating salad rolls we'd bought accompanied by a
bottle of Corsican wine, watching the fishermen pulling fish from the harbour as fast
as they could bait and cast their
lines. They all had mobile phones which
they use no doubt to tell their wives how many fish to expect to cook for supper.
Having finished the bottle, we lay on our stomachs
soaking off the Corsican label for my diary in the water lapping the harbour
wall, then walked around the harbour and the town up to the citadel in the
gathering dusk. The citadel is a ruin, overrun
with weeds - actually very beautiful, a mass of big yellow daisies, red
poppies, mauve mallow and white stitchwort. Amongst all of these are shapely
pineapple palms and succulent cacti niched in the tumbled walls.
Saint Florent, harbour, soaking off the wine label
Seeing a phone box, we rang Ian's mother, our daughter Kate and our friend Geneviève in Caen to tell them how beautiful Corsica is and how mellow we felt after a bottle of Corsican wine from plastic yogurt pots on a bench by the harbour. It really was nice, and a fraction of what it would have
cost to eat supper in a restaurant even without wine. Back at our hotel Ian went to sleep leaving me
to catch up on our diary.
Wednesday, 19 May, 1999.
I was too tired to write up about Tuesday last night. We are now in Calvi so I'm writing sitting in
bed while Ian takes his morning shower. This
room is okay, having en suite shower. loo etc.
Like all the others it is marble tiled for coolness like those in Italy. The outlook here is vile. It's in a side street and overlooks a yard
were rubbish is stored and our view is onto the tatty side wall and staff staircase
of the adjoining property. Last night we
left the window open as it was so hot, only to discover on our return that it stank
of stale food, as the extractor fan for the adjoining property's restaurant kitchen
blew directly into our room. We are on
the ground floor and have a TV and even a fridge and a cooker. The standard price seems to be 200 francs per
night. The hotel is called Bel Ombra.
Yesterday we ate breakfast on the terrace of our Hotel d'Europe
in the hot sunshine with a view on to the port. Nearby was a terrain de petanque where already a group of
local men were busy playing.
Having got some money from a cash machine and stocked up on
local food from the supermarket, which included replacing our local Corsican
wine with one produced at Patrimono, a neighbouring village to Saint Florent, we drove
through the tiny town and along pretty narrow rural lane to the little Cathédrale
de Nebbio, built in the 11th century in a simple romanesque style, sitting by the valley
surrounded by olive trees and cypresses. There was little habitation
around.
Saint Florent, Cathédrale de Nebbio
Opposite was a little house with
its patio shaded by a tangling vine sprawling across a frame constructed above
it. There were roses in the garden and
wild flowers in the hedgerow. Next to
the cathedral was an orchard of fruit trees.
The countryside was deserted, and surrounding the valley were the steep
rolling distant hills of what for all the world was a Tuscan landscape. We parked in the shade beneath one of the
olive trees and stood in the already hot morning sunshine with birds singing,
looking around at the peaceful scene. Corsica is
indeed very strange. The only thing
about it that is French is the official language. Otherwise it is in all respects an Italian
isle. The surnames on the war memorials
in the churches, on the graveyards, on the official notices pinned up on the
village centres are all Italian though they may have French forenames. The people tend to look Italian, being small
and dark, and when taking talking to each other in village shops or bars or in
groups around village fountains they are almost certainly speaking Corse, which
sounds to our ears rather Italian than French.
The side door of the cathedral was open. Inside it was simple, decoration being
painted onto the plaster. A couple of artists
were busy with restoration work of which it was in great need. Already a start had been made at repainting the walls white around the central
frame over the altar where the oil painting of the Virgin and Child was to be
placed. We watched as they balanced
precariously on ladders and steps on the altar, trying to fit the painting back
into its frame.
The most bizarre thing we have yet seen is the illuminated
reliquary of St Florent. Here they have
the entire body, the face of white leathery skull still covered in skin. The body has been dressed in rich robes,
the arm bones and shin bones showing through the gold lace covering them. He even wears red velvet shoes and lies on
his side in 18th century clothing in bright silks. He had his sword and helmet and was a sort of
very baroque flamboyant soldier figure. In reality however he was a Roman
soldier martyred in the third century. How genuine could the reliquary be?
We returned through the town and continued up to the
hillside town of Oletta from where we have beautiful
views down onto the reservoir of Padula and the Gulf of St. Florent.
Up here it is cooler but hazy. Like all the towns, the streets are steep and narrow
and unsuited to cars. Dogs slept by the war memorial in the village square while
someone filled their bucket at the fountain. Allotment gardens flourished with early
vegetables growing, a couple of horses made best use they could of a small grassy
paddock rising at a very steep incline in the village. Geraniums and washing flourished wherever
they could get a foothold. People stood in the square chatting but there were no
tourists around.
We drove up to the chequered church of San Michele de
Murato, built around 1280 on the summit of a maquis-covered hill with views
down into valleys on all sides. The
church was not open but well worth a visit, both for its imposing situation and
its design. It is chequered, being
constructed from blocks of green schist and white limestone of very mixed
sizes. The effect is remarkable; around
the lintels and corbels there is relief carving, very clear on the schist but
more weathered on the limestone. At some
stage restoration work has been carried out and the tower raised. This is a pity as it is now out of proportion
and the wrong colour schist has been used, being a far paler stone than the
dark green of the rest of the church.
Murato, San Michele de Murato
The sun had gone, and there was a chilly wind. The air was perfumed with the smell of the
flowers from the surrounding maquis, which it is delightful to look down upon,
covering the hillsides around with its green scrub through which the white
limestone protrudes here and there.
Sheltered from the wind, the purple and yellow flowers are humming with the
sound of invisible bees. As I stood
looking at a patch of rock I was startled to see a lovely little tortoise spread
on the rock, enjoying the warmth of the day. Even without the sun, out of the
wind it was warm. Is this a freak
domesticated tortoise which had escaped or are they indigenous to Corsica? I'm now
looking for them everywhere; they are such lovely creatures. Lizards we are getting used to; they abound
and we hear them all the time, but usually only see their tails disappearing into
a crevice in the dry stone walls. The tortoise
however plodded around very slowly, picking off juicy yellow flower heads as he
went.
We continued into Murato, which proved less picturesque than other
hilltop villages we had passed through, so we returned to the church and took a side road off towards Rapale and Sorio. It proved to be less narrow than indicated on
the Michelin map and we stopped from time to time to admire views across the valleys
to the north. In Sorio we stopped by the
church, attracted by a sign to a "monument historique". A stony path led downhill between overgrown
fields and after about ten minutes we found a simple Romanesque chapel in the
undergrowth. The door was open and inside was quite bare except for a small
baroque altar decorated with frescoes, including presumably the saint to which
it was dedicated. On the way back up the
path we couldn't resist clambering into one of the fields and pulling down the
branches of a cherry tree to reach the fruit.
The stolen fruit tasted delicious!
We continued into the village with its stepped alleyways leading up
between the shuttered houses. An old man
greeted us and said that our walk would have been even better had there been
sun. A group of men were watching a
couple of workers on scaffolding who were painting the facade of the church - restoration
seems to provide the main employment in Corsica, and there was an animated
discussion about the most appropriate colour - a discussion that was a little
late as the workmen were making rapid progress even as we watched.
We continued, and found a place by a
waterfall for a picnic lunch. The road then
came out onto a more open landscape with contorted white rocks breaking through
the scrub and few trees. Its course pursued
a level but winding route above the more densely covered land below. After we joined the main road and turned west
towards Ile Rousse, the landscape became even more spectacular, with white
craggy mountains sparsely covered in scrub. This was the Désert des Agriates, a
very desolate area.
Désert des Agriates, in the background Mont Genova (421 metres)
Désert des Agriates, with Mont Genova
Désert des Agriates, with road along mountainside in background
Désert des Agriates
Once this was crossed,
we picked up a fast coastal road towards the Ile Rousse, a bustling seaside resort
without much picturesque appeal as it had only developed under Paoli in the 18th
century. We were not attracted to stay
there nor in Algajola a little further along, so found ourselves edging
nervously along the narrow streets of Calvi, dodging the waiters crossing the
road with trays of drinks for the diners on the quay. We found a place to park by the citadel and
after a little searching found our hotel.
Calvi
There was no shortage of places to eat, but it was all Corsican fare, which is nice on occasion but monotonous if eaten all the time. In Calvi it is also overpriced, so we bought take-away pizza and, supplied with fruit - bananas, cherries, tomatoes - we sat looking down at the rocks by the open sea below the walls of the citadel, watching the setting sun and supping our local wine from our plastic goblets. Then we explored the streets of the town and wandered along by the harbour, lined with tall palm trees and gaily coloured tables sporting huge umbrellas, where people sat enjoying "loup de mer" or langoustine, sipping chilled white wine.
Calvi
Wednesday 19 May (continued)
We are now on the terrace of a little restaurant overlooking the clear blue bay of Galeria, a tiny holiday resort with just a couple of campsites and hotels along the low cliffs. Behind, the crags of the mountains rise in bald jagged peaks with pink red-tiled holiday villas nestling among the scrub of the lower slopes.
The sea is a brilliant deep blue, and little boats are returning from fishing trips or bringing back holiday visitors from diving trips. Everywhere there is a slight smell of fish cooking as the beachside restaurants prepare their lunch menus. The sun is now high in the sky and very hot and bright. The beach below us looks pebbly, but it is in fact dried vegetation. What it is or where it comes from we have not worked out, it resembles coconut matting. Perhaps it is the husks of dried up cactus leaves.
We have now clambered across the dead vegetation to the water's edge, where I have just paddled in the clear water that has still not warmed up for the summer. There is nobody on the beach and the breeze stops it from feeling too uncomfortably warm - it also blows the dried leaves and husks around, which is none too pleasant.
From the harbour we hear the cries of the boatmen preparing to go out to sea and, further along the beach around the far edge of the little bay, families are, like us, sitting on the beach looking across the blue water to the maquis covered mountains,with the narrow coastal road to Calvi scratched along the side beneath the pink limestone crags.
This morning in Calvi, we left our belongings in the car, still parked below the citadel and strolled along beside the windy port. We watched a local fisherman raising his caisson, where he was keeping dozens of live lobsters until they were of a suitable size for eating. A customer stood on the quay shouting instructions as he extracted three or four of a suitable size, using a net and decanting them into a bucket, where their tendrils waved and their blue eyes looked around seeking a way of escape. The lady rejected several as being too small: "J'ai des invités, et ils aiment bien manger." The lesson is that, if you're a lobster, go on a low-fat diet and live to see another day. They don't look very appetising, so I've no great desire to learn how to eat them. Nobody sat at any of the little tables along the harbour, and the umbrellas were not yet up. It wasn't warm enough to take breakfast there so, replenishing our money and stores, we climbed to he citadel where we sat sheltered from the wind in a sunshine now almost uncomfortably hot, watching the sailing boats in the bay, whilst eating croissants and pains au chocolat from our plastic yogurt-pot wine glasses!
We then looked looked again around the citadel, explored briefly last night. It is built right on the cliff top above the town with huge, tall walls rising from the granite upon which the town is built, though the hinterland is limestone. There are steep cobbled streets with steps and twists everywhere, revealing hidden corners. The cobbles don't make for easy walking. There is much restoration work going on, with ends of electricity cables sticking out of the walls all over the citadel. It is actually lived in with lines of washing hanging from the windows, and tiny wild cats scurrying away as we approached. We visited the large and very wide church of St Jean le Baptiste, again quite bare within, with whitewashed walls, a couple of side altars, and a few poor quality oil paintings. The atmosphere was very nice and restful however and the style very typical Italian Romanesque. The statue of the Virgin Mary was life-sized and clothed in blue silk with gold trimmings. Not very nice really - rather bizarre.
We climbed down, stopping to take a photo over the harbour and visit the oratory of St Antoine - empty but very pleasant. Down past the statue of Christopher Columbus, claimed on some dubious pretext by the Corsicans to have originated, not from Genoa as claimed by the history books, but from Calvi. Hence there are hotels and streets named after Colombo here - it is certainly a local name, Colomba is a short novel by Prosper Mérimée.
Calvi
Back at the car, we drove out of Calvi, stopping to top up with petrol. In fact, since arriving we have only used eleven litres doing the entire Cap Corse and onward, mainly in second and third gear. I've not found the milometer on the car, so don't actually know how many kilometers we've done. The fuel cost was 70 francs - very good value for all we've been able to do. Then along the inland route, past the airport runway and up into the mountainous hinterland. There was hardly a vehicle anywhere as we drove up the twisting route over the pass of Boccadimarsolinu. The road surface was fine, but tight for passing oncoming vehicles and the tarmac ended abruptly at the edge. I was very nervous of my side wheels going over the edge, damaging the underside of the car. Eventually we reached the little hamlet of Galéria where we have actually enjoyed relaxing on the beach for an hour - who could not enjoy such peace and beauty, bathed in warm sunshine. However there is nothing here and nobody to talk to. I'd hate to stay here for a holiday. Such occasional experiences always convince me that I have a low boredom threshold.
Ian has just finished a little sketch to accompany my text, so I'll finish now and we'll move on to Porto. [Mileage at Galéria: 13282].
It's 10.15 pm, and I'm sitting in bed in our hotel room in Porto, having just had a lovely shower to remove the dust and stickiness of the day. Ian is currently taking his shower.
This hotel is fantastic! We have a comfortable room with our own bath, shower and toilet for 150 francs a night, not much over £15.00! There is air conditioning if we want it - we prefer to keep the window open and hope there are not too many mosquitoes. The hotel is situated on the quiet road down to the little port with a most superb view across the valley to the massive rugged pink granite peaks towering way above, the sunset earlier causing them to glow a rosy orange, their peaks swathed in wispy clouds.
Our car is parked on the road outside, and other hotels and restaurants are scattered along the three-quarter mile long wooded road down to the marina. Downstairs there is a pizzeria with a little wooden veranda, set with supper tables, but at this time in the season it, along with many of the others along the valley, stands empty.
Our route here was unbelievable, both in terms of beauty and my courage in driving here. We left Galéria, and made steady progress along a well-made but twisting route to the top of the pass Col de Palmorella where we suddenly looked down to the sea with mountainous headlands covered in the ubiquitous maquis. It is full of honeysuckle and actually smells of honey. Looking back along the route we had taken, it appeared far more arid with a dry valley stretching below, littered with huge white limestone boulders and crags.
Col de Palmarella (408 meters), view north-east
Col de Palmarella (408 meters), view to Golfe de Girolata
A French couple came and asked us what the route up had been like, because the route from Porto was terrifying. They were from Dunkerque and quite unused to such roads. They were reassured by us telling them it was OK, even for us from England, but I was terrified setting off on the next stretch. The road is a gash cut through the maquis, rock face to our left and a sheer drop at times to the blue sea, way below. It must count as the most beautiful route we have ever travelled, but the road surface is pot-holed and broken. There is either no barrier at all on the seaward side, or only six-inch high boulders marking the edge of the road. Every few yards the road twists at right angles round the rock face. It is single track with no passing places. If you meet a coach there is no alternative but to back up round the bend until you can find anywhere to squeeze in. This happened to me three times and I was torn between the terror of going over the edge or smashing the hire car on the cliff face. Passing other cars was just manageable but it was a nightmare with huge long coaches. What a terrible job for the coach driver, particularly in high season when there will be much more traffic about and it will be much hotter even than today. The day was indeed warm, and it was good to stop when we were able to pull off the road to get out of the car and feel the sea air. At the Col de la Croix we left the car and scrambled up through the maquis to an orientation table on the summit of a headland, with views back along the route we had come and forward toward the Baie de Porto with Les Calanches and Piana on the far side.
Col de la Croix (269 meters), view north to Girolata
Col de la Croix, view south to Calanche
Col de la Croix, view north to Girolata
Beyond this point the road surface improved. We descended steadily and there were no more coaches. However, we had to assume them round every bend, so it was a very slow and exhausting descent to Porto. It's been well worth it.
Plage de Bussaglia
Porto, Capo d'Orto (1294 meters) from hotel window
Having found this lovely hotel, we purchased all we needed at the little supermarket up the road and had a lovely meal in our room, looking out at the evening sun on the crags opposite, before walking down to the harbour to watch a beautiful Mediterranean sunset beside the black silhouette of the remains of the Genoese watchtower, found all around the coast of Corsica, constructed back in the 14th century.
Porto, Genoese watchtower
Porto, sunset
Porto, Genoese watchtower
We climbed up to the tower in the cool of the evening to gaze along the coast and the route we had travelled this afternoon. Then to look where we have to travel tomorrow - more of the same, I fear! At least it keeps such a beautiful place from becoming a tourist Mecca, but there were several coaches parked down by the harbour. As a visitor it is certainly the easiest way to admire the coastline, but so dangerous to everyone else.
Looking back at the marina, all the lights of the little hotels and restaurants were on, reflecting in the harbour where pleasure boats were neatly moored. There were people around, either eating or, like us, strolling around in the comfortable cool of the gathering dusk. A perfect time for such a holiday, but in July or August it will be packed and driving an even greater nightmare.
We have just discovered how the air conditioning works and have reduced the room temperature from 24 degrees to 16 - much more comfortable, even if we still think in Fahrenheit.
1.
Bastia to Porto.
2.
Porto to Zonza.
3.
Zonza to Corte.
4.
Corte to Bastia.
