Corsica : a tour in May 1999
1. Bastia to Porto.
2. Porto to Zonza.
3. Zonza to Corte.
4. Corte to Bastia.
Part 3. Zonza to Corte
Monday 24 May 1999
We were woken at 7 am by the church bells, followed a moment later by the Zonza dogs' rendition of the dawn chorus. We told Monsieur le Patron that, if it was okay by him, we would stay another night. That was fine, he said, provided that we ate at his restaurant tonight. Given the size of our room and the fact that there seem to have been no shops open anywhere in the mountain villages over Pentecȏte (the Whitsun holiday), and given the excellence of his cuisine, we readily agreed to do so.
We drove out of Zonza toward Levie, and soon found a beautiful spot to pull off the road for a picnic breakfast on some large granite boulders in a little clearing, giving a wonderful view back over the hillside with Zonza nestling below the grey granite needles of Bavelle, its ragged range of teeth clear against a blue sky indicative of the heat of the day to come. It must be one of the most beautiful places anyone could find to eat breakfast - pineapple juice, yogurt and baguette with bananas.
Our intention today was to follow a round route through the mountains, taking in Cucuruzzu, Ste Lucie de Tallano, Aullène and Quenza, and thus back to Zonza. Our first stop was at the prehistoric site of the Castello de Cucuruzzu, up a badly damaged, twisting, narrow track. The site was delightful, a Bronze Age fortress village abandoned around 300 BCE set amid the maquis and the chestnut trees, constructed amid the chaos of tumbled granite rocks and massive boulders. The setting is magnificent, with views to the Bavelle and Mont Incudini, snow still lingering in the crevices of the latter.
Views in and around the prehistoric site of Cucuruzzu
The weather was really hot, and the sun searingly bright, so it was good that much of the route took us through moist, cool woodland, still damp from yesterday's storm, with the foliage of the oak and chestnut trees to keep off the sun's glare. Pink cyclamen grew between the rocks and beneath the trees. The Torrean culture made the most of the natural lie of the rocks, infilling between them to make grazing pens or huts for dwelling places. They had dark underground storage chambers where surplus food was stored in jars against times of hardship or attack. Being in the mountains however, this was less of a risk than had they been near the coast where attacks from Sardinia of Italy were more common. By the time we had seen round Cucuruzzu and the neighbouring site of Capula, it was about 2 pm, so we went back to the little shady area we had left the car and picnicked beneath the trees. Then we continued our journey, stopping frequently to admire the breathtakingly beautiful scenery and the little mountain villages clinging tenaciously to the hillsides and hilltops. My sense of direction was confused, as I was totally nonplussed to recognise a very short stretch of the route we had travelled a couple of days ago from Sartène when we went to Colomba's village of Fozzano. We turned off almost immediately onto another route however and entered the little hilltop village of Ste Lucie di Tallano, parking by the fountain.
It is another beautiful granite village with enormous buildings. There is an oil mill there, used for crushing the olives of the local cooperative. There is also a wholesalers where we saw boxes of oil packaged and stacked much the same way as wine. A big poster proclaimed "l'huile nouvelle est arrivée", much as if it were Beaujolais. In the central square is the memorial to the villagers lost in the wars. Every surname on the monument is Italian; in fact there is scarcely a French family name to be found in this part of Corsica, indeed all over the island it is Italian in everything but government and its official language of French.
In the village fountain was a little boy of about seven or eight. He looked a real little bruiser and was kicking water at anyone who came within splashing distance. Other children were of course trying to splash him by creeping up from behind. An elderly lady scolded him from across the square, and ordered him out of the fountain. No sooner was her back turned than he was back in the fountain again. He was reasonably well-behaved as adults came to fill their bottles and jugs, so we took a couple of our water bottles and mugs and filled them with the cool water, taking long refreshing drinks. The temptation to splash Ian overcame young Antoine. As we left the fountain Ian poured a beaker of water over Antoine's head. Total astonishment. I think he was used to grown-ups shouting at him, but not treating him as he treated others. He looked at me, pressed his finger to his temple and asked "Il est fou, hein?" I assured him the actually yes, he was mad, so he'd better be careful of splashing people in the future as there were lots of people like Ian in England and they may be taking their holiday in Corsica.
As we continued our tortuous route, we encountered groups of brown pigs and lonely solitary cattle among the ferns of the roadside. At Aullène both pigs and cattle were wandering at will among the houses of the village. Here the nicest thing was the overgrown cemetery at the top of the village with beautiful wild flowers in profusion amid the gravestone so that a granite cross would protrude from a sea of purple vetch. There were wonderful views all round, while bees hummed and all was very peaceful.
At Quenza we stopped for a walk up the main street. Like all the other villages it had a couple of bars where people sat on the street outside for hours chatting, with nothing else to do. Wisteria and roses covered crumbling walls and collapsing balconies, there was a church, a fountain, a war memorial, a post office and a mairie, and that was it.
So we continued back to Zonza where the sun was low in the sky but still hot and bright. After a wash we went down to the terrace of the hotel and ordered a couple of Corsican beers, which are both good and strong - six per cent. The patron lent us his newspaper Corse matin and we read about plagues of jellyfish around the coast and that an attempt had been made on the life of a Corsican politician. Over the past year there has been a great deal of political unrest in Corsica of which we are only dimly aware. Many of the French signs have either been crossed out or written over in the Corsican language or been shot at and defaced. There are slogans with the name Bonnett as graffiti on the walls in the towns. I gather that the préfet Claude Erignac was murdered here in February last year and Bernard Bonnett was moved in by the French government to succeed him andclean up corruption in the island. He has recently been arrested himself for bribing the Corsican police, for corruption and organizing the arson of a number of restaurants. He is himself now in prison, and the island seems to be divided between those who support him because they think him capable of curing corrpution, and those who say that he is equally corrupt himself. We learned quite a lot reading the aper before supper including articles on the "Tour de Force" cycle race and the Dadadang drumming group in Ajaccio. The patron has promised to let us have the paper tomorrow when he has finished with it.
We went in to supper and Ian had trout while I had veal. Both were delicious, accompanied by vegetable soufflet and salad, the main dish preceded by crudités and followed by cheeses, îles flottantes and cheese gâteau. We then phoned our son Neil, where all was well, so we had an earlier night, exhausted by the heat of the day.
Pigs by the roadside
Tuesday 25 May 1999
We were again woken at 7 am by the howling dogs of Zonza. It seems that every mointain village has its quota of barking and howling dogs. Either they all sing in unison, or they lie flat out in the road, seeking any spot of shade they can find from the fternoon heat. They are all scruffy and docile and generally totally ignore us, even if we are in the car trying to edge past. We packed and left the hotel by 8.30 am. The bill was 800 francs for two nights, including meals, wine and beer.
We made our way up to the Col de Bavella, passing or seeing no vehicles all the way. The air was really pleasant, the sun bright and warming up for the rest of the day. At the top of the col were several camping cars with eager young people armed with ropes and rucksacks, preparing to ascent the needles of the Bavella. It looked quite daunting to us, and nothing would have induced us up there. They were very impressive, just raw nature, huge jagged peaks, lichen covered, so a pale green in places, elsewhere a pinkish grey granite, their needles slashing the blue morning sky, their crevasses and slopes filled with pine trees, and the lower reaches of the gorge completely hidden beneath the treetops of pines. Near to, every rock you looked at was like part of a vast garden with all the wild flowers imaginable filling their fissures and cracks. We walked out along the path toward the ascent of Bavella and even climbed gingerly onto the lowest stretch but, not being suitably prepared in any respect, we decided that twisted ankles should be avoided, and contented ourselves with gazing out in either direction from the col, from where we could discern the sea on either side of the island, toward Propriano in the west and Solenzara in the east.
We ate yogurt and biscottes sitting on the rocks and looking at the mountains. Nearby in a parking area was a statue of Notre Dame des Neiges with plaques placed around her in gratitude by people she had safeguarded when they climbed. There were also candles placed there as offerings.
Views in and around the Col de Bavella
As we started our descent of the far side of the col, the sun was already very hot. We twisted our way down from the level of the pine trees, crushing cone which lay in profusion on the roads down to the level of the chestnut trees and oaks again with flowers, long grasses and ferns by the roadside and the vague scent of honey in the warm morning air. The road became progressively narrower and the surface was filled with bumps and potholes, the metalling breaking up very badly. Occasionally we pulled in tight to allow vehicles to pass. By now, after all our experiences near les Calanches, we were more used to handling such situations. Cars and mad cyclists pedalling their way up were generally no problem, as were the leather-clad black helmeted German and Belgian motorcyclists who have discovered Corsica in a big way. However a lorry necessitated reversing both backwards and upwards before a refuge could be found into which I squeezed as the lorry passed us heading a cavalcade of cars caught up behind. Then the metalling gave out completely and the road became a narrow potholed track where we just weaved between ruts at a snail's pace. Then even this rough scree gave out and we were on the bare soil. At this point we encountered a bulldozer and digger. They had taken a stretch in the middle of nowhere to work on, but it will be better once it is completed. I think they are trying to widen the route. Much work has been done to improve these routes but they remain, in general, the worst we have ever travelled on. This road is the only route through from Zonza to the east coast, so it's not as if it's never used. We slowly progressed round the sharp hidden bends, stopping when we could to look up at the scenery, perhaps even more impressive from below than it had been from the top. Suddenly we seemed to be in Germany! It was so strange, every single vehicle we passed or met was German. They had all come to the eastern end of valley of the little river the road was following, and had parked beneath the trees to enjoy sunbathing on the rocks by the water. It cannot be chance; there were literally hundreds of German vehicles. We have seen many German holidaymakers all over Corsica, but nothing like this. How does everyone hear about this one particular place and why do they all go there together?
As we arrived at the lower reaches of the river Solenzara, leaving the mountain range behind, we drove beside the clear bubbling stream as it tumbled amongst the white granite boulders. On the far side a couple of shepherds had brought their flock of mountain goats down to the water to drink. It made a wonderful picture of rural life alongside, but distinctly separate from, the tourists enjoying the countryside and, hopefully in some measure, also supporting the local economy.
Solenzara, goatherds
Solenzara
Once we eventually came out at the sea on the eastern side and turned up the main road northward, there were hundreds more German cars, all too big for the narrow Corsican roads, pouring down from Bastia to Ghisonaccia, where we noticed that all the signs were written in both French and German. When we reached Ghisonaccia, which means "nasty Ghison" because it used to lie in the malaria-ridden plains until it was bombed with DDT in the 1950s or thereabouts, we parked in a side road and found a cash point as we were low on money. The town seemed to have nothing to recommend it. Its modern flats were very ugly, and there was much waste ground full of weeds and walls covered with graffiti, mainly for or against a politician named Bonnett, and dusty areas where cars are parked and children play. However it has a superb bakery! We purchased bread, apple tart and figelli, a sort of Corsican pasty with local charcuterie and bacon inside. We took our spoils and drove down to the sea, where we picnicked on a surprisingly empty beach. Ian was interested to note that there was topless sunbathing going on around us; I contented myself with paddling in the crystal-clear sea where very slight waves lapped gently around my ankles - very different from the Devon beaches, where you get knocked backward and forward by the force of the waves and the undercurrent.
Then we drove on to Aléria to view the archaeological site. It was once the Roman capital of Corsica, built on the site of an earlier Greek city, and abandoned after the fall of the Roman Empire. It boasted hot baths and an important harbour for the Roman fleet. There was also an accompanying museum for artifacts found either on the site or in nearby tombs, including beautiful Greek vases, plates and ornaments, superbly painted and beautifully shaped. The site dates from the sixth century BC to the fourth century AD.
The sun was at its hottest, it seemed, as we walked from the old fort across the fields to the site. Fortunately there was a row of mulberry trees bearing sweet fast-ripening fruit, to give some shade along the way, but all around there were long, blond grasses with seedheads, and wild oats all interspersed with beautiful flowering weeds. It was the same at the site itself. It had been allowed to get so overgrown that much is now hidden from view, the grasses being higher than the walls. Enough was visible however to give an impression, and Ian was able to interpret it for me. It was a wonderful afternoon amongst the ruins, the snow still showing on the mountains behind, and the hot sandy beaches and the blue sea in front. The whole atmosphere was so Italian; we had to keep reminding ourselves we were in France.
Aléria
Aléria
Then on up the route to Corte, where we are now staying. We thought we had found a nice peaceful hotel in a side street but it's now midnight and music is blaring full-pelt from a club on the main street and it's far too hot to shut the windows. There are also some Belgian bikers talking on the veranda next door, so I doubt we'll get much sleep.
Corte is a university town and there a lot of young people around, so I suppose it would be livelier and noisier than other towns. This is good, and there is a nice atmosphere on the streets.
26 May, 1999
This is a noisy town and no, it's not good! The music was blaring into the early hours and at 5.30 the town dust cart revved and roared beneath our open window. The hotel is situated on the rue de Calme! Can we get them under the French trade description act, especially when the hotel next door is called the Hotel de Paix?
But it is an interesting town, set at 600 meters in the centre of the surrounding mountains. Every direction you look is green and beautiful. The town has a population of around 5,500 but is still the third largest in Corsica. Everyone is crowded onto the hilltop, the citadel at the top and the railway at the bottom. There is now modern development spreading across the lower area. It is obviously cheaper and easier to build new than restore the town that already exists as it is very picturesque but in a very tragic state of disrepair. I only hope the people's homes are comfortable inside the decayed and crumbing ruins because from outside many just don't look habitable, with gaping holes where windows should be, cracked and crumbling walls, fallen plaster, grey shutters that have long since lost any semblance of paintwork, rusty ironwork and weeds growing in the street, gutters and cracks in the walls. It's as bad as Hungary, but without the graffiti, except for the occasional scrawl, particularly on the post office for some reason, about the politician Bonnett. Because of the climate however it does not seem to strike as being so tragic as in eastern Europe, but both here, and in the majority of the villages, the housing is awful. Here the children have nowhere to play. They all live in these old, crumbling apartment buildings, and play in the narrow cobbled streets outside with cars parked on any patch of pavement there may be, while others hoot their way through. All around is unbelievable beauty, but it cannot be reached by people crammed into this picturesque but also very ugly town.
The main street, Corso Paoli, is a buzz of activity, with little shops, bars, restaurants etc. Students and those without other employment occupy the seats of the bars on the pavement at all hours, smoking and drinking coffee or creme de menthe, which seems a very popular drink here. Tourists, mostly German, Belgian or Italian stroll the streets with their guidebooks or sit picnicking where they can, usually on steps, of which there are many leading up to the citadel. We did not notice many English or American visitors here.
Last night we climbed to the belvedere, from where we had a superb panoramic view of the surrounding hills and down over the town. It is a high crag of rock, with steps cut into the side. We walked back along the narrow pebbled alleyways, down steep uneven granite steps, stopping off at the Eglise de l'Annonciation, where Corte's very own saint, Théophile has his wax life-sized effigy dressed as a monk lying in an illuminated tomb in the far corner. No other lights were on, and it seemed rather spooky with nobody else around. We found a cheap restaurant and sat on the terrace built on the steep steps up to the citadel, where we enjoyed a pleasant meal with a half bottle of Corsican rosé - not worth it; red is much nicer. We watched the local people out in the cool of the evening walking their dogs - why do people in the towns always keep dogs? We also watched children playing against the gathering dusk over the surrounding mountains. The temperature was very pleasant. Finally, a walk down to the station to check train times and check on the car which we had left on a parking area and back to our hotel for a shower before bed. There is nothing wrong with the hotel, just the external noise attendant upon most town-centre hotels.
Corte
26 May, 1999 (Later the same day).
It is now midnight, and this entry must be brief as I'm really tired. We are still staying at the Hôtel de la Poste in Corte. Today was our great little train journey. Checking that the car was still happily sitting on the main square parking lot, we called off for a coffee and croissant at a very nice smelling bakery on our way down to the railway station. We bought a couple of return tickets to Ajaccio and joined the many Germans on the platform with the same idea. The journey has to be the most impressive and beautiful we have ever been on. Its single track with passing points at certain stations where enough room can be found. The route rises steadily, twisting back on itself. For much of the way it runs near the road but is able to pass through a number of tunnels, one four kilometers long, The Track is narrow gauge to enable it to cope with such sharp curves and it is strange to look back and see the end of the train curving out of a tunnel behind us. The scenery was superb, particularly for me as I could sit back and enjoy, rather than coping with the interminable bends and narrow roads. We stopped at little hamlets where the only thing moving on the platforms was usually the station cat, and that was often no more than its tail to be seen as it basked in the sunshine. The journey took a couple of hours, quicker once the long steep ascent was finished and we gathered speed as we came down on the Ajaccio side, the wheels screaming on the bends, chestnut trees brushing the window as the little line passed through the abundant woodland. At other times we trundled across lofty viaducts where a tiny turquoise river far below gurgled its way amongst the white boulders and far above the bare crags and lingering snow made a complete contrast with the heavy wooded lower level.
We finally emerged onto the plain behind Ajaccio with the blue sea of the gulf beyond. Across the bay we tried to identify where we had spent two nights in Bottacina - was it really only a week ago? We had sat watching the train as it ran near the airport then, but it was impossible to identify Bottacina from the train, although there was a scattering of pink hamlets up in the green hills.
Ajaccio, train station
At Ajaccio the sun was beautiful, with enough breeze to make it perfect, quite a contrast to last week with its rain. We bought strawberries and nectarines, and sat beneath palm trees and fruiting mulberry trees to eat them, not far from the harbour. Then we strolled along the sea wall, the fishing harbour and pleasure port teeming with silvery fish on the one side and then open Mediterranean Sea on the other. We continued round to the sea front for a gentle stroll along the parade, shaded by enormous palm trees with the soft, white sand and brilliant clear sea dotted with yachts to our left, and on our right the shops and hotels of the town. St Tropez eat your heart out!
We eventually turned up the Boulevard Madame Mère (Napoléon's Mum Street) to the Grotte de Napoléon. High up the street in a square surrounded by flowering acacias and hibiscus and flanked by a mass of granite boulders, presumably forming the "grotte", was a lofty statue of Napoléon at the top of a flight of steps, eagles at either side and with the dates of his birth and death (1769-1821). Returning down the street to the town centre, we collapsed on the shady terrace of the Café de Paris with a sandwich and a superb Corsican beer that included chestnuts in its brewing process. We must remember to look for a Café d'Ajaccio next time we are in Paris. We made our way slowly back to the station for the return trip. The train was full and very hot. There were again many German families. We saw a monument in Ajaccio, announcing that Corsica was the first département of France to be liberated from German occupation right back in 1943. Well, some 55 years later, it has been re-invaded by Germany, but this time under far happier circumstances, and in the nicest possible way - families enjoying their holidays.
The return journey was also great fun. An elderly French couple was sitting with us and the husband kept rushing to windows on either side to take photos. Talking to the wife, she told us that they went all over Europe, specially to travel on little trains and that was how they first met. They have never grown out of being kiddie trainspotters. Back in Corte, we again checked the car, then washed and changed and went for a walk around the town. We found a nice little restaurant and the waiter seemed highly amused by us ordering in French and chatting with him. We discovered that the food on the cheap menu wasn't available, so would we mind having rump steak instead? Then, instead of French fries and salad, we had both on the plate and a portion of cauliflower au gratin as an extra. As well as ice cream, we were given the option of strawberries or chocolate pancakes - we chose the last. The bill was still for the cheapest menu they did, and we staggered back to our hotel, groaning from overeating.
Ajaccio, harbour
Ajaccio, Monument commemoratif de Napoléon Ier
Thursday 27 May 1999
We are still in Corte - this is our third night here. Last night was much quieter, so we decided to risk staying another night as there was nothing the matter with the hotel room, simply the external noise.
This morning we explored the Gorges de la Restonica, a superb drive along a narrow broken track, passing through chestnut woods which gave way to pines as we went higher up the gorge. All around are the most superb views of the mountains, some lichen-covered and pale green, some bare granite with shrubs and stunted chestnuts maintaining a hold wherever they can, and some with snow still packing the fissures of their northern face. Below, a permanent sound of water as the bright aquamarine river wound its way through the tumbled chaos of granite boulders, glimpsed from time to time through the chestnut trees just coming into leaf. In shady patches beautiful cyclamen were scattered. There were wild lilies, pink wild roses, delicate white blossoms on dark green shrubs. It was all unbelievably beautiful and magnificent. We ate our breakfast sitting amidst the flowers sitting on a little rocky promontory overlooking the woodland in the valley, the tops of the fir trees way below and the river visible as it bubbled between the rocks. All round the mountains rose above us. It was a magical sight in the hot morning sun.
Restonica
Restonica, Capo al Chiostro (2262 meters)
Restonica, Bergeries de Grotelle
Restonica
We made our way to the head of the valley, parked and went on a one hour scramble aiming for the Lac de Mélo, up a difficult tortuous rocky pass over fallen scree and slippery decomposed granite, hopping from rock to rock across crystal streams and waterfalls cascading down the bare rocks. It was too high for trees but scattered wherever a hold could be found there were what appeared to be mauve mountain crocuses, wonderful against the dark bare rock. At certain points along the route thick-stemmed scrubby heathers grew, but generally it was a barren landscape at this level.
We scrambled and slithered across two small glaciers, stopping only for a quick game of snowballs and to rub the snow over our hot, sticky faces before continuing. Any semblance of a path gave out completely and we scrambled our way upwards following yellow blobs on the rocks from point to point. Ian carried the rucksack as he couldn't bear to be parted from his precious guide books and maps, and with his knees he was worried about how he'd ever get down. Eventually we were reduced to climbing iron rings on the cliff face, at which stage Ian decided he'd had enough. Quite an elderly French lady came slowly down and I asked her if she had made it to the lake. She had, and said that it was fine if you went very carefully, so I decided to go on alone. I'm glad I did, though as I clung to an iron chain dangling from the rocks as the only support up one stretch of bare cliff face, I did wonder whether I was quite mad! Eventually I reached the lake to find that everyone else who had made it that far were Germans and dressed in full climbing gear or carrying alpenstocks. Even at this level 1711 meters (5,614 feet), of which I had climbed about 300 meters (1,000 feet) since leaving the car, there were the little mauve crocuses growing. The lake looked very black and inhospitable. Thick snow covered the mountain slopes on the far side, right down to the water's edge where it was at least one meter thick. Huge blocks of ice bobbed in the lake where it had broken off from the surrounding glaciers. Then came the most difficult bit - getting down. It wasn't as bad as I had feared but was a long, slow progress as I was afraid of slipping. Ian had started back down ahead of me, but I eventually caught up with him. It took about two and a half hours there and back and we really felt a sense of achievement at our relatively advanced age. Fortunately the sun had hazed over at that level, so it was comfortable walking. Lower down, as we reached the car, it was baking hot again. We took our empty water bottles and filled them from the river at the foot of a waterfall. The water was so cold that the bottles had condensation on them. Mountain water doesn't seem to have any taste at all but it's brilliant when you're thirsty.
Restonica, Capo al Chiostro
Two mountaineers in the Restonica
We drove down to Corte again, through the town and on up to Calacuccia, the nearest point we could get to Monte Cinto, at 2,706 meters the highest peak in Corsica, and still covered with snow. The route up was far better than that to the Restonica, but the landscape was very different. There were very few trees here, and no flowers, a very bleak inhospitable landscape, the road twisting around the rock face where it had been blasted out to engineer the route. Up at the top, we found ourselves looking down from the head of a barrage onto a large reservoir. We drove up into Calcuccia where at least a dozen pigs were foraging in the only street and several large weary dogs trotted over to greet us before wandering off again to find a corner to snooze, usually in the gutter.
Here we went to the village shop and bought some apples, tomatoes and a few things for supper. We also bought biscuits made from chestnut flour to take home as presents.
Calacuccia and Monte Cinto (2706 meters)
Driving along the Scala di Sta Regina
Then we drove all the way down again, back into Corte, where we had supper in our room accompanied with the excellent Corsican beer. [...] Afterwards we climbed up the dimly lit cobbled streets to the old town and sat at a table outside a little bar in the warm, dark evening, drinking the health of a baby [recently born to a friend's daughter] in yet more Corsican beer, while we watched the peculiar night-time activities of the many wild cats in the old citadel of Corte. Then back to our room for the last night here.
2. Porto to Zonza.
3. Zonza to Corte.
4. Corte to Bastia.
