When Terri and I were ruled out
of the GR20, Terri for her sore leg and me for my sciatica and sore hip, the
question arose of what to do next. We
decided to rent a car for four days to explore the countryside and the beaches
of Corsica.
The day after my birthday,
September 14th, we hobbled down to Corte station to pick up our
vehicle from the local Europcar dealer.
We should have known to walk away after the first thirty seconds of
dealing with the manager, a comic-book stereotype of an excitable over-the-top Italian
(although he was a Corsican). “C’est pas
possible! J’ai pas recu une
reservation!” We insisted and showed him
our internet reservation, and he grudgingly allowed that he might be able to
find a car for us. It turned out to be a
new black Audi A1 with turbo diesel injection, and we fell in love with it over
the next 96 hours.
Pasquale Paoli, Corsica's national hero |
We loaded it up with our
backpacks, bought food supplies and hit the road by 1:00, headed southeast
towards the coast. Traffic was light and
we flow along until we reached Aleria, the old Roman capital of the island. The ruins aren’t much to look at, but the
small museum showed lots of Etruscan, Greek and Roman pottery and other finds
that fleshed out centuries of occupation.
After an agreeable hour and a
half, we continued south towards Porto Vecchio.
The east coast road is straight but runs through a long series of towns,
resulting in more traffic and slow progress.
We turned off eventually to meander around a pretty coastal headland
north of Porto Vecchio, through sprawling developments of upmarket holiday
homes similar to those found all over the Mediterranean coastline. We bought a bit more food in a huge Casino
supermarket, glad to escape the hugely inflated prices in the GR20 refuges,
then turned down a campground that wanted 30 euros for one night’s
tenting. We ended up in a neighbouring
place that charged 17 euros, still relatively expensive but less
outrageous. We had a big fry up of lamb
chops, potatoes, onions and mushrooms, plagued by persistent hornets, before
sleeping soundly.
The next day dawned bright and
sunny and we decided that we needed a dip in the ocean. After a leisurely lie-in and breakfast, we
drove out along the peninsula to Palombaggia beach and settled in for a bit of
swimming and lazing, which was exactly what the doctor in Corte had
ordered. The shoreline was pretty,
backed by red rocks and with water of the postcard perfect shade of
aquamarine. Swimming felt better on my
tortured left hip than walking or sitting in a car. We didn’t manage to drag ourselves away from
the beach until 2:00, whereupon, after another grocery run we headed inland a
few kilometres to an obscure prehistoric site called Talla.
Corsica abounds in prehistoric
ruins, and I wanted to take advantage of our wheels to see a few of them. Talla proved to be very atmospheric, atop a
granite outcrop reached through an ancient overgrown stand of trees, and we
contentedly munched our way through a roast chicken, looked out at the high
peaks inland and poked around the ruins of a megalithic fortress-dwelling. I
loved having it to ourselves, a rare pleasure in overcrowded Europe.
Our next stop was the
southernmost town on Corsica, beautiful Bonifacio. We drove in, around the inner harbour with
its bobbing megayachts, and uphill into the old town. We parked the car and walked into the narrow
streets of the Genoan town, revelling in the views over the white limestone
cliffs extending east of town, set afire by the setting sun. Bonifacio was pretty and felt a bit like
Santorini, perched high above the azure Mediterranean. Also, like Santorini, it is a victim of its
own fame, with overcrowded streets and overpriced restaurants lining the old
streets. We had a fun wander around,
checking out the old church, and then fled to a campground outside town, having
failed to find a good spot to watch the sunset over the sea. We had a dinner of roast chicken, salad and
pate washed down by a fine Cotes du Rhone red wine. I had to admit that two days of driving
seemed to have been worse for my hip and back than two weeks of trekking had
been, and my hip seemed to be tied into a tight knot of muscles that were only
getting tighter.
I summarized the next day in my
diary as “three swims and Filitosa”. We
started with a relaxed morning of reading, muesli and a highly successful
experiment in using my Outback Oven equipment to bake brownies on my MSR
stove. We gobbled down some of the
results, then drove off for a swim in a small cove (Cala Lunga) east of our
campground that was pleasant, although not spectacular, with the distraction of
trying to keep a hyperactive stray dog from eating or urinating on our stuff.
By 12:30 we were in the car, headed west
along the south coast. As we turned
inland at Roccapina, we stopped to admire the view and spotted an idyllic
little beach below. It was a long, bumpy
detour along a narrow track, but the swim was worth it. Roccapina beach was easily the nicest beach
we found in Corsica, a shallow white sand bay much beloved by yachties. The water was calm, a perfect temperature and
a truly exquisite shade of turquoise. It
was almost impossible to get Terri out of the water and back in the car to look
at a bunch of prehistoric rocks!
Lovely aquamarine Roccapina |
We reached Filitosa, Corsica’s
most well-known prehistoric site, around 4:30 after a winding and scenic drive
past the town of Sartene.
I was reading
Dorothy Carrington’s brilliant travel account of Corsica, Granite Island, and
she tells the story of the discovery of the ancient ruins on the property of
the friends with whom she spent a long vacation. The countryside has changed immensely since
those days in the late 1940s when local travel was by donkey cart, but the site
itself has an atmosphere of absolute timelessness. I loved Filitosa’s setting, its famous statue
menhirs and the huge megalithic structures.
For such a famous spot, there weren’t so many tourists around, and the
late afternoon light on the enigmatic stone faces caught their subtle features
perfectly. We backtracked slightly
towards the Gulf of Valinco to find a campsite near the ocean. We had a sunset swim on a somewhat rough
dissipative beach that made getting in and out a bit tricky, then cooked up
pasta and ate more brownies before falling asleep happily in a Filitosa-like
granite outcrop in an almost-deserted campground.
Filitosa statue-menhir |
Filitosa artwork |
The next day, September 17th, was our last full day with the car, and we were determined to make the most of our mobility by exploring the hill country and mountains of the south, crossing the GR20 so that we could see a bit of what we had missed. It was cloudy when we awoke, so we decided to skip a morning swim in favour of a bit of a sleep-in. Terri used a trekking pole to massage my hip and periformis muscles, which were still not really feeling much better after a few days off from trekking. We gobbled down some muesli and hit the road by 9:50, backtracked further to the slightly forbidding town of Sartene and then up into the mountains to the village of Caldane, where a local hot spring provided a relaxing, therapeutic start to the day. It was marketed as a “Roman bath”, but it was only developed in the late 1800s, so the marketing wasn’t too accurate historically.
We were pretty relaxed as we
climbed into the car to drive further uphill to the wonderful prehistoric sites
of Cuccuruzza and Cupale. These are more
megalithic settlements, rather like Filitosa, but the real appeal is that to
reach them involves hiking a couple of kilometres through a beautiful hardwood
forest littered with granite outcrops, some of them used as prehistoric rock
shelters. The structure of the
Cuccuruzza citadel is even more impressive in its construction than Filitosa,
although sadly it has none of the carved statuary that makes Filitosa so
memorable. The windows and internal
rooms are still clearly visible in the massively thick walls, and the tower
rises up above it in typical Sardinian nuraghi
style (the Torrean culture in Corsica has obvious roots across the water in
Sardinian Nuraghic culture). Cupale lay
further along our idyllic forest trail and was a medieval citadel built by the
Italian lord Bonifacio who reconquered Corsica for the Pope back in the 9th
century.
We made our way back to the car
and drove a bit further to the heretic’s village of Carbini, where a barren
hill behind the town features a small interpretive trail that tells the sad
history of the 14th century sect of the Giovanalli that arose in the
village and died in a bloodbath atop the hill after the Papacy called down the
wrath of crusading knights on the heterodox villagers; the entire village was
butchered on the hill, a gruesome event that was commemorated by a stark cross
on the summit. The story reminded me a
bit of the fate of the Cathars in the Languedoc a century before, although this
was apparently more about a wider crackdown by the Church after the Black Death
on Franciscan friars who were too keen on poverty and renouncing worldly
wealth. The view from the cross over the
surrounding mountains and villages was beautiful and showed how little of this
area of Corsica is under cultivation today.
We drove further uphill towards
the Col de Bavella, where a series of pointy granite fingers, the Aiguilles de
Bavella, raked the sky. We parked the
car and walked a few hundred metres along the GR20, passing a few trekkers on
the penultimate leg of the GR20 and wishing wistfully that we were doing the
same. We drove downhill, through a
wonderful rocky valley full of swimming holes, until we stopped for the night
at a riverside campsite right next to a perfect swimming hole. We had a clear starlit evening to enjoy a
dinner of lamb chops. As we cleaned up
from dinner, a fox appeared and stole some of the bones.
The next morning we knew that we
had to bring back our car by 11 am, so we got up, made eggs, had a quick dip in
the river (surprisingly un-chilly water) and then loaded our gear into the car
and headed back to Corte, arriving by 10:30.
We tanked up the car and headed back to Europcar, where the day’s drama
commenced. The manager wasn’t happy with
the fact that the car was dusty, and as he complained about it, he decided that
the dust streaks down the side of the car constituted scratches in the paint
(leaves had brushed against the car’s door while driving down to Roccapina
beach) and that as such that would cost us the 850-euro deductible. Given that even if the car were repainted, it
wouldn’t cost that much, we weren’t willing to agree to any such thing, and
then we listened to lots of chest-puffing and shouting. Terri proved to be a dab hand at dealing with
blowhard bullies, and we agreed that if we could arrange the removal of the subtle
paint scratches ourselves by the end of the day, we would call it quits.
We first ran the car through the
car wash down the street. If we had done
this first, the manager wouldn’t have noticed anything to begin with, but now
that he saw the prospect of making some easy cash, he found three vestigial
scratches that still showed up in the right light. He raced off to lunch grumbling and
threatening loudly, and I went off to find a garage that could repolish the car
professionally. They were closed for
lunch (Corsicans take their siestas seriously), but I was confident that they
could do the job. Terri and I went to
the Casino supermarket to buy some lunch and while we were there, we found
scratch remover for sale there. We spent
half an hour polishing away, and removed most traces ourselves, but it wasn’t
going to pass inspection by Mr. Anger Management. Once lunch was over, we drove the car up to
the garage and the mechanic had a look at it.
He almost laughed at the idea that the car needed any work, but he knew
Mr. Europcar by reputation, so he agreed to see what he could do with a
high-speed polisher and some wax. He
gave us a lift back into town, where we sat in a café using wi-fi until it was
time to collect the car and face the music again. When we got to the garage, the car looked
better than it must have done when it was new.
There was no trace of any scratches or irregularity in the gleaming
black surface. At 90 euros, this was a
much cheaper deal than signing over our deposit.
We drove back to Europcar and the
manager was forced to admit that the door had never looked better. A cunning gleam came into his eye, however,
as he now declared that we were late in bringing the car back and owed him another
day of rental. He clearly saw the
prospect of making some easy cash slipping away from him, and was desperate to
get some profit out of the deal. Given
that he had suggested that we go get it fixed ourselves, this was a bit rich,
and Terri banished me from the discussion as she marched grim-faced back into
the office with Mr. Europcar. Fifteen
minutes later she was back and we were free of any financial responsibilities,
as her flinty negotiating style wore down the manager’s bluster and noise.
Finally liberated, we were off on
the 6:30 train to Ajaccio which left only half an hour late, crammed full of
university students headed home for the weekend. We arrived in the island’s capital just as
the train station closed for the night, and spent a long while wandering the
streets with our full packs searching for a cheap hotel. The cheapest we found was 140 euros a night,
so we decided to hike out to the nearest campground, Les Mimosas, about 5
kilometres from the port. It was a long,
tired trudge for my aching back and hip, and for Terri’s sore leg, but paying
15 euros made it worthwhile. It was a
well-run, if crowded, campground set in one of the eucalyptus plantations
established in the 1930s and 1940s to drain the soil in an attempt to eradicate
malaria, once a serious health threat on the island.
Terri swimming under the Genoan bridge, Ota |
Sunset apsara, Porto |
Porto is improbably pretty, a
small port tucked into a gulf bordered on one side by the Calanches which we
had just driven through, and on the other by a big marine sanctuary,
Scandola. Inbetween, underneath a
Genoese watchtower, a small, tidy tourist town sits, gazing west towards the
setting sun, its harbour sheltered by a manmade beach. Over the next three days, we explored the
beautiful inland river and swimming holes near Ota, bathing below a steep-sided
old Genoese footbridge; took a boat tour out to gaze at the wonderful
rockscapes, caves and tiny coves of Scandola and the Calanches; and watched
some of the most perfect sunsets imaginable while sitting on the beach. The beach itself, exposed to the open
Mediterranean, was too rough for swimming two of the three days we were there,
but it still made the perfect backdrop for sunset viewing. It was a great place for the two of us to
rest our tired and aching bodies after the damage we had done to them.
Marine reserve, Scandola |
Finally, on September 23rd,
Terri and I hopped on a bus back to Ajaccio, driven by the affable Uthman, and
said goodbye as Terri caught the bus to the airport and her date with the Swiss
citizenship ceremony.
I stayed on in
Ajaccio, trying to get my sciatica repaired (more pills prescribed, this time
stronger painkillers and anti-inflammatories), my cell phone repaired (it
wouldn’t charge anymore; the solution was to buy an external battery charger)
and my fix of culture at the Fesch Museum (a completely underwhelming gallery
of European art which tries to make up in quantity what it lacks in
quality). I stayed another night at Les
Mimosas campground, then caught a bus to Bonifacio, having decided to explore
Sardinia in the days that I had remaining before my flight to Switzerland.
Scandola scenery |
Corridor tomb near Anzachena |
"Giant's tomb", Codda Ecchju |
When I had returned my bicycle in
town, I realized that I had been lucky to catch a bus earlier. The bus company’s drivers were on strike, and
there were only a handful of buses running, none of which were headed to Olbia,
where I had planned to spend the night.
I jumped on the only bus I could find and headed 6 kilometres out of
town to the tourist town of Caniggione, gateway to the beach resorts of the
rich and (in)famous on the Costa Smerelda.
I pitched Terri’s tent in the local campground and ended up spending
three nights there, as much through inertia as anything. I didn’t do much for the two full days I was
there, wandering into town to the local beaches (pretty, but not spectacular),
eating, having sundowner beers in a bar near the marina and working on my
Italian by reading the newspapers.
Finally, on September 28th
I roused myself and headed to the southwest of Sardinia in search of more
history. I hiked rapidly towards
Anzachena to catch a bus to Olbia, only to see the bus drive right past the
stop despite my frantic waving. I
decided to stick out my thumb and soon caught a lift with a young automotive
engineer on his way to an English lesson, part of his plan to emigrate to the
UK in search of work. In Olbia I caught
a train to Oristano and spent the trip talking to a marine geologist from
Sardinia on his way to consult with colleagues.
In Oristano I went to the local tourist office and to the archaeological
museum (one of the few things open over the sacred lunch break), where I saw a
number of interesting finds from Thallos, a nearby Phoenician and Carthaginian
ruin that I wanted to visit. A local bus
carried me out to Torregrande and a huge campground, where I rented a truly
miserable bicycle (this time for only 5 euros) and headed to the nearby village
of Cabras to see another archaeological museum.
After a number of small rooms of Nuragic and Carthaginian finds, the main
event was a room full of the “Giants of Cabras”, a series of life-sized statues
of warriors and boxers from three thousand years ago. Only one of the six was reasonably intact,
but it was impressive to come eye to eye with these stylized statues of so long
ago. There are more of these giant
statues in other museums, particularly Cagliari, but it would be great to see
them all together in one place like a Neolithic Terracotta Army.
"Giant's head", Cabras Museum |
The next day I rented the same
sad excuse for a bicycle and rode further afield to the ruins of Thallos. It was a pleasant ride, past a roadside nuraghi and past the rich fishing ground
of the inland lagoon that makes Cabras one of the few towns in Sardinia
renowned for its fish and seafood.
Thallos is situated near the end of a peninsula, with the ancient city
on one shore and some of the nicest beaches in Sardinia on the other. I went up the Aragonian watchtower (as in
Corsica, watchtowers dot the coastline from the days in which pirate raids from
North Africa were a constant danger), then walked through the ruins. They are extensive but not very excavated,
with big areas awaiting future generations of archaeologists. The acropolis was a nuraghic village before
the Phoenicians arrived, and they put their Tophet (a place to venerate
children who were stillborn or who died young) atop the megalithic ruins. There were a number of Phoenician temples, a
number dating to after the Roman conquest (in the First Punic War), and another
very Egyptian-looking temple. Two
Corinthian columns, re-erected by archaeologists, were very photogenic with the
backdrop of the bay and the mountains of southern Sardinia behind. One of my favourite spots was a 9th-century
church rebuilt on a fifth-century Byzantine plan that is still in use.
Byzantine church, Thallos |
After all this culture, it was
time for the beach, and it was one of the nicest swims of the entire trip,
almost as good as Roccapina. It was hard
for me to drag myself out of the water to ride back to Torregrande; along the
way I fell into conversation with an American doctor on an Experience Plus bike
tour, reminding me of my long-ago bicycle-guiding days with Butterfield and
Robinson.
Thallos Beach |
With my campground closing for
the season the next day and my flight back from Corsica only a few days away,
it was time to say arrivederci to Sardinia and head back north. I caught trains and buses north as far as
Santa Teresa Gallura, but just missed the last ferry of the day to
Bonifacio. I met Marius, a young German
who knew a cheap B&B in town, and we headed there together. 20 euros a night got us wonderful rooms, a
decent breakfast and a kindly landlady.
It was just as well that it was a nice place, since overnight a massive
storm kicked up and we were stranded in Santa Teresa for an extra day as all
ferries were cancelled. The winds were
impressive, and the Strait of Bonifacio was a boiling mass of white water all
day.
Finally on October 2nd
the waves and wind calmed down and Marius and I headed over on the earliest
ferry to Bonifacio. Corsica being
Corsica, there were no connecting buses to Porto Vecchio for several hours, so
we sat and chatted and sipped overpriced hot drinks until a bus arrived. On the road north we saw evidence of the
previous day’s storm in flooded roads.
Later I would find out that a number of people had lost their homes in
flash floods, and when the storm reached the mainland of France another 19
people would lose their lives. Marius
and I said goodbye in Porto Vecchio as he headed off for a week of hiking and I
settled into a hotel room. I went to
another doctor (I was running out of painkillers before I ran out of pain in my
hip) and got another prescription. For
the first time, this doctor actually did some simple tests to make sure that it
was sciatica; the previous two doctors had just written a prescription and been
done with me.
Doric columns, Thallos |
And then, finally, I was on my
way back to Geneva and to Leysin after a whirlwind six weeks in the Pyrenees,
Corsica and Sardinia. It didn’t turn out
the way I had planned it, and I was leaving with my body in pain, but I had
enjoyed all three destinations. I think
that I would go back to Corsica again only with my own transport (bicycle or
motorized vehicle), and I would concentrate on cycling the mountain roads in
the northeast and south. I would love to
have seen more of Sardinia, but again having my own wheels would have made a
huge difference. The Pyrenees are what
would appeal to me most, both for hiking and for cycling, and I could see
myself spending more time there in the future.
Back in Leysin, after a week of
packing up, it was time to head to Canada for two weeks and then to South
America for the next chapter of my adventures:
Antarctica!
Jeopardy guy is still owning.
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