Corsica – September 2011

[FJR-UK]

Prologue

Beach holidays are not normally our thing. Fifteen minutes in the sun and I'm bored and brushing the sand off. I'd rather be exploring the delights of a big city. This year, we thought we'd do something a bit different and set our sights on Corsica.


The Calanches, Corsica

Research for this three-week trip began in May. Booking of hotel rooms and ferries in July. But unlike last year's trip to Spain where every last detail was planned, I left the return leg of this trip unplanned and open to whim. We had an idea we'd like to explore the Provence area of France, but it would all depend upon the weather and how we were feeling.

In the end, the trip was fantastic. What we couldn't plan for, was the heat wave we experienced in Corsica. Day trips on the bike were cancelled in favour of, guess what? Swimming in the sea. I spent more time in the water on this holiday than at any time before. And Corsican beaches can be wonderful.

I'll post this trip as quickly as possible, but I've got 1,200 happy snaps to wade through. And, the weatherman has promised London an Indian summer this week, so I may be spending more time outdoors than sat in front of this computer. Please bear with me.

Right, on the road to Corsica….

[FJR-UK]

Day One. London to Chalons-en-Champagne. 2 September 2011. 293 miles.

I meant to do a last check of tyre pressures when packing the bike, but hadn't planned on it being pitch black at 0600. Still, the bike was running sweet as we headed to Folkestone in the cool morning, the big orange sun rising out of the motorway in front of us.

There were plenty of bikes on this 0820 crossing, taking up three cars of the train. We were in the last car with some sport bikes, a big BMW tourer and a very friendly solo rider on a Moto Guzzi California.


Getting ready for the £41, 35-minute channel crossing. (You'll see why I mention the fare at the end of this report.)


Joanna chats with Mr. California

We headed north off the train to Dunkerque, then east to Lille in an endeavour to avoid the toll roads. Joanna begged me to stay off the autoroute as much as possible on this trip, as she finds sightseeing at 90 mph difficult. Still, there is not much to see off the highways in northern France, either, besides farmland or warehouses.

The ride to San Quentin was too familiar to be interesting, but at least it was quick and dry – always a good omen. We had lunch in the main square, parking the bike a few feet from our table, which is always a delight for me when touring in France. Park your bike anywhere you damn well please!

Ham and cheese omelette and beer finished, we set off for Chalons-en-Champagne, by-passing Laon and Reims on the way. The single-lane highways and heavy goods and farm vehicles kept the motorcycling interesting, but I don't think it made for happy sightseeing from the pillion seat.

Chalons was picked simply because we'd never been there before, and it was on the way to Lyon. I didn't expect much from the town, so it was easy for it to exceed my expectations. The hotel (http://www.hotel-dangleterre.fr/uk/index.php) was chosen based on Google map reviews and turned out to be one of the best of our trip. Almost a shame we were only there for one night.

The friendly hotel staff guided me to free parking at the rear of the hotel. Then, we unpacked in a hurry and hit the streets to stretch our legs after a long ride, stripping off our leathers in exchange for short sleeves, shorts and flip-flops. The town was pretty nice. We walked down to the river Marne and took in the sights before returning to Place de la Republic for our first coupe du Champagne.

The restaurant choice was in the same square. The Ardennes. Lovely first meal of various fish and prawns grilled on skewers. And more Champagne. (You have to capitalise Champagne where you're in Champagne country.)

http://www.linternaute.com/restaurant/restaurant/4125/les-ardennes.shtml

It was still quite warm late in the evening, and we were grateful for the quiet, air-conditioned luxury of our hotel room. A little tipsy, we hit the (exceedingly comfortable) sack. We were on holiday.


Notre Dame cathedral from the Marne, Chalons-en-Champagne


Chalons-en-Champagne


I was tickled by this music school doorway arch


The Gorgeous Blonde I Travel With enjoys her first glass of Champagne in Champagne country

[FJR-UK]

Day Two. Chalons-en-Champagne to Lyon. 3 September 2011. 274 miles.

I peered out the window this Saturday morning to see blue skies had turned white. A change was coming. Keeping with our tradition of only eating breakfast in hotels on departure mornings, we went to the hotel breakfast room to find out if a €16 per head breakfast could possibly be worth the money. No, has to be the answer, but it came pretty close. (Even if the very tasty rabbit pate had a bit of fur in it!) Possibly the best hotel breakfast I have ever enjoyed.

The Hotel d'Angleterre has a reputation for gastronomy, but we didn't want to spend our entire stay in Chalons in the hotel, so ate out the previous night. Anyway, it got us off to a cheerful start.

Well, at least until we got out into the car park, finding our bike neatly blocked in by other guests and delivery vans. I probably should have manoeuvred the bike into an exit position BEFORE loading all our gear, but managed to heft the thing out of its parking slot without dropping it. I (not for the last time) was grateful for all the work I have been putting in at the gym! Also (not for the last time) I wished the FJR was about 50 kilos lighter. Or more...

So, we were on our way, south to Vitry-le-François and St Dizier. Then, the road started to get more interesting – more rolling hills, winding roads and beautiful landscape. The N67 and D619 to Chaumont, Langres and finally Dijon were very pleasant and not too busy.


The only bike shot I could be bothered to take. Joanna takes a break just outside Dijon

Riding into Centre Ville Dijon was a nightmare. They are building a tram system and we managed to find the main building site, also known as the main road into town. Avoid driving in Dijon for the next two years, is my advice.

We hit Dijon at lunchtime. Lunchtime on a Saturday was busy. I parked opposite the table in a restaurant I fancied sitting at. We got our gear off and the bike locked up only to find "reserved" signs on every table. Same for the next restaurant. We found a brasserie with seats available and sat down to a big salad with meat strapped across the top and a cool draft beer.


A bad comp to show the setting of our lunchtime meal


TGBITW wonders if he rides a Harley. I think Ducati


Shop detail, Dijon

Dijon's a nice town and we should spend more time there. Sometime. We keep hitting it as we're on the road so somewhere else. We did spend a night in the Hotel Chapeau Rouge a couple years ago and that was a treat. We will return, but after they get their tram system finished!

Lyon beckoned and I wanted to get there in a hurry, so we hit the A31/A6 and coughed up the £5.30. On the approach to town, it started spitting rain for the first time on our trip. I pulled off the road and offered Jo the chance to put her rain suit on, but she decided it wasn't going to rain. What she meant was, it was too hot to bother. As luck would have it, the rain held off.

I will say over and over to anyone who will listen what a marvel Google Street View is. I saw the exit to Lyon Old Town, I saw the landmarks around the bridge I needed to cross the river, I saw the right and two lefts I needed to make to drive up to the door of the Grand Hotel des Terreaux – and all of this two weeks before arrival. Beautiful! We we got checked in, then while Jo unpacked, I went to park the bike in the closest underground car park.

Getting in was easy, and there was a dedicated motorcycle bay. They had gates that were short enough for a touring bike to get around, but too long for a car to dodge. Very cool. I presumed, naturally, that there would also be a lower parking rate for bikes, as we take up much less space.


Dedicated underground parking bay for motorcycles. Two days: €21.70. Lesson learned

We got on with our sightseeing, wearing short sleeves, but shoes and packing an umbrella just in case. First sight was the Place de Terreaux around the corner from the hotel, which was busy with people doing the same thing as we were. Lyon is not supposed to be a town that caters to tourists (warns the Rough Guide) but there were sure plenty of tourists there. And English generally came back at me after I ventured some phrase-book French.


Place de Terreaux, Lyon, was a nice place

We crossed the river to the old town, checking out the restaurants on Rue du Boeuf (Beef Street) with the rest of the tourists that weren't supposed to be there.


In Vieux Lyon with Saint Nizier church in the background


Rue du Boeuf. Are you served by puppets?


Vieux Lyon. Wonder what used to be attached to this wall?


Vieux Lyon across the Saône River

I had the Brasserie Georges high on my list of restaurants to try, so we walked a couple bridges down the river and made for the Place Carnot. The Gorgeous Blonde I Travel With got worried we were lost. This is certainly not the most attractive part of town. Various public transport terminals create a sea of concrete and steel and homeless types were hanging about in number.

We persevered and found the Brasserie Georges to be quite a marvellous place. An accordion-based jazz group was doing a sound check, so we had a drink while we studied the menu. TGBITW had developed a taste for champagne now, but I tried a glass of Cotes du Rhone. Fatigue suggested that this was the restaurant for us, so we got a table and settled in.


The Brasserie Georges, Metro Perrache, Lyon

Andouillette is a brasserie staple and this the part of the country that specialises in them. I had to have the AAAAA-grade tripe sausage in mustard sauce. I have had some pretty rough andouillettes in the past, reeking of urine, but this one was almost too refined. Anyway, I have one on each trip to France and that was now checked off my list. Jo begs me not to eat them, as she is convinced they make me ill. (Well, maybe once…)

A Le Puy lentil salad and a carafe of Cotes du Rhone filled the bill. Nice. A beer on the way home at the bar on the corner near the hotel and we were finished for the night.

[FJR-UK]

Day Three. Lyon. 4 September 2011.

Except for Chalons, we stayed two nights in every town, three in Nice. This was to keep our sightseeing a bit more relaxed. I made route plans for day excursions, just in case we felt like we needed a bike ride. It's nice traveling with the panniers free to hold our boots and jackets and change into something more comfortable for walking around.

Which reminds me, I must get some sort of cable lock that I can loop through the sleeves of our jackets when the bike is fully packed. A couple times on this trip, we left the jackets draped over the top box, praying to find them still there when we returned. (It was THAT hot.) Fortunately, they were.

Anyway, today was a free day in Lyon. A day of culture. But first, breakfast on this hazy Sunday morning.

I read in the Rough Guide that there was a market along the river that was a good place to have breakfast, and so it proved. The market was out of this world. Pork products of every kind, rotisseried chicken on the go, vegetables I'd never seen the like of.


Market stall, Lyon


Market stall, Lyon


It says tomato on the sign, so...

We ate in a cafe opposite that featured a country and western theme. I'd swear the barman was American (in his tailored, check shirt and perfect hair) but he spoke French like a native.

Breakfast finished, we headed for the Fine Arts Museum in Place Terreaux. Walking through the lanes, we stumbled upon this place:


Le Bistrot de Lyon. We would return for lunch

The Musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon is a fabulous place. Lovely square in the middle, nice bar and restaurant, grand building and some pretty fine works of art. And, they let you take pictures (no flash). I'm a bit of a philistine, unfortunately. I can waltz through an art gallery pretty quick, just stopping for things that catch my eye. Here are a couple that stopped me:


Rodin. What can you say?


Did I mention I was a philistine? I can't recall the artist's name… (edit: The Lovers (detail), Gustave Courbet)


I think this poor kid knows what's on the way


Sweet, or what?


Une noce chez le photographe, 1879. This one really made me laugh out loud. Do you have an uncle like this? This is a detail of a photographer's studio and the artist (Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret) has really captured a moment in time, just like the new science of photography would do. Do a search for the title and you can see the whole painting. Very Norman Rockwell.

And a couple of the gallery:


Musée des Beaux-Art de Lyon


Musée des Beaux-Art de Lyon

Well, we really worked up an appetite in the museum, so we retraced our steps to Le Bistrot de Lyon. This place was a treat. Beautiful to look at and real old-style brasserie. When I got up to go to the gents, I found out the place was huge, a rabbit warren of small rooms, all gorgeous like a museum.

I had the first of many plates of charcuterie on this trip. The gherkins and pearl onions were the best I had. The selection of cold cuts very nice, indeed. Then, squid bodies stuffed with salt cod and potato chased with nice Altesse du Bugey (it says here on my bill). Perfect.


I forgot about the camera in my pocket and one of my squids was gone before I took this shot. Delicious

To walk it off, we headed up to the Notre Dame cathedral that sits on a hill overlooking Lyon. We got halfway up the hill when the heavens opened. The rain that had been threatening for two days finally hit with a vengeance. The bounce was up to your knees and we quickly realised that the compact umbrella we were carrying was of no use at all.

We were standing in front of the four-star Hotel Villa Florentine (Relais & Chateaux) and sought sanctuary inside. This was the view of Lyon from their terrace:


Lyon as seen from the Hotel Villa Florentine, 1500

This was the view of the Hotel Villa Florentine from my seat:


Coffee and a beer, €11.50. A bargain considering…

We nursed our drinks for 90 minutes before the rain let up enough to risk the umbrella again. I must say the staff of the hotel were very nice to us and to all of the folks who sought refuge. They bid us a cheery bonjour and we set off to finish our trek to Notre Dame.


Detail. Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourvière, Lyon


Interior. Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourvière, Lyon

The cathedral was relatively pretty new. The best part was the walk back down the hill through the garden, rather than up the road we had come. We were knackered. We ended up back at our hotel for a long nap, just rousing ourselves for dinner. It was still raining. We found a place nearby, Brasserie Leon de Lyon, a Spanish-influenced place, and held ourselves to one course. We were already finding that the portions in central France were on the hefty side and after just three days of a fancy lunch and dinner, we were struggling.

I did however, soldier on: the filet of veal was wonderful, the Brouilly just the thing to put me to sleep. Which is where we gratefully ended the night.


Filet of veal, Leon de Lyon. One slice would have been enough for me

[FJR-UK]

Day Four. Lyon to Nice. 5 September 2011.
The Longest Day

It was too cold in the air-conditioned room of the Grand Hotel des Terreaux, so we opened a window over the street and listened to the rain all night. It was grey and damp in the morning, but at least the rain had stopped. Having packed the night before, we just threw on our bike clothes and went to see if the hotel's €12 breakfast could rival that of the Hotel d'Angleterre. Close, but no cigar.

The dining room was full of English-speaking tourists and we were reminded (not for the first time) that the place seemed to be very popular with the gay crowd. Joanna's leather trousers were turning a few heads. The three close-cropped gentlemen at the next table seemed particularly interested in my ponytail.

I'd recommend the Grand Hotel des Terreaux, but park on the street. And, not just because of the cost. As I left the hotel, I noticed a guest with luggage standing in the hotel loading zone, waiting.

I have a compass on my tank bag, but when I walked two blocks north from the hotel and one block east to reclaim my bike from the underground parking garage, I left it in the room. Big mistake. But wait … first I had to pay for the bike.

Stick the ticket in the machine, see the price (gasp) insert credit card, stamped ticket and credit card are returned. So far, so good. Fire up bike, grateful that it's nice and dry and still where I left it, ride it to the exit gate. Insert ticket in machine at gate. Ticket goes in, comes out. Wait. Nothing. Reinsert ticket. Wait. Nothing. (And, you can't slip by the gates in the motorcycle bay.)

I parked the bike out of the way and walked back to the ticket office where there was, fortunately, a clerk. Now, after 25 years of holidays in France, my French extends a bit beyond the usual phrase book stuff, but not much. I did my best to explain I had paid (showing my credit card and ticket) but the gate (gesture) wouldn't open. The clerk eventually communicated to me that when I got to the gate, I should push a button to let him know I was there (gesturing at a CCTV monitor) and he would raise the gate for me. Easy when you know how.

Back at the gate, inserting the ticket and pushing every button in sight achieve no exit. Finally, an electronic voice! Push all the buttons. "Je ne comprends pas! Je ne comprends pas!" And finally the gate was up and I was out.

But where was I?

I had absolutely no idea what direction I was pointed or which side of the square I had come out. The buildings afforded no view of the skyline, there was no sun as a point of reference. Besides, I was on a one way street. The one way street let to road works and rush hour traffic. Which way?

I just headed off in a straight line, figuring I'd hit a reference point somewhere. I was on a tiny sliver of island, after all. Fifteen minutes later, I was back exactly where I started, not knowing how I got there!

After another fifteen minutes of aimless travel, I finally hit the river. Guessing I was on the west side of the island, I headed south and found a landmark. At the hotel, TGBITW was wondering what had taken me so long. Loading the bike, I noticed the same hotel guest sitting on his luggage. I knew exactly what he was waiting for.

Lyon at rush hour is as bad as any city I've experience, and I live in London. Negotiating traffic while trying to read road signs is life threatening, but we managed to make it out of town without a wrong turn or a close call. Soon we were heading east on the D1006, running parallel to the A43. A rush of blood to the head involving an Audi A8 driver and myself caused me to miss the D1085 turnoff to Grenoble, which added a good 20 minutes to my journey today, but afforded me the opportunity to stop and put my waterproofs on. It was cold this morning.

Finally, we got past Grenoble and the day's ride started to get interesting. I meant to take the N85 to Gap and Sisteron, but following the signs out of Grenoble for Sisteron, I found myself on the D1075. Oh well, I can be flexible. I don't know which route is more beautiful, but this was pretty nice. And the road started to get fun. And I started giving it some. And a little more.

I passed two cars and entered a right hander. I had overcooked it and swung wide across the line and into the path of the largest tour bus I have ever seen. I cut it back, goosed it and swung into the left-hander that followed. It didn't even feel like a close call (the bike had handled beautifully), but I knew I had seriously endangered TGBITW. I slowed down. Way down.

Normally, I get a slap across the back of the helmet when something happens she doesn't like. I think she was in too much shock to even bother this time. I also thought about the mirrored wills I insisted we make before taking this trip. My son has no idea how close he came to coming into some unexpected cash! Rest assured dear reader, I was a very cautious boy for the rest of the trip!

It was time for lunch. We stopped at the Hotel Ferrat, 38930 Clelles, and finally stripped off our waterproofs. I sat down to a huge plate containing half a pig and some pasta and collected myself. No alcohol at this lunch stop.

I do apologise for the total lack of photographs of this, the most stunningly beautiful day of our trip. I just can't bring myself to a stop once I get rolling. The roads were fantastic. The mountains dramatic. But we were getting saddle sore.

At a junction (Chateau-Arnoux-Saint-Auban) we had a decision to make: the shorter, mountainous Route Napoleon to the east and south, or the longer (but quicker) Autoroute to the south and east. We chose N85/N202/D6202 and finally took a break just north of Nice.


Looking back up the D6202 north of Nice

I had studied the map. Drop straight down to the sea, turn left along the Promenade des Anglais. Following signs for Côte D'Azur (which I assumed was the beach) I got confused when my choices seemed to be limited to Terminal 1 or Terminal 2. I now know that Côte D'Azur is the name of the airport. The little plane on the sign should have alerted me. Several roundabouts and one wrong turn later, we were finally cruising along the beautiful Mediterranean Sea along with the scooter gang, bikey boys and convertibles that constitute Nice traffic.

At 1800, we rode up to the Hotel Suisse on the seafront.


The Hotel Suisse, Nice


The Hotel Suisse, Nice. My parking spot for the next three days

At 1830, we were in the old town enjoying our first drink of the day.


Vieux Nice. First beer of the day


Watching me enjoy my first beer of the day


The view from our hotel room

We were surprised by how many of our friends had been to Nice, and all of them said we'd love it. So, as we walked through the old town, we were a bit nonplussed. Nice was dirty and tatty. There were more poodles and assorted lap dogs than you could shake a stick at and you had careful where you stepped.

In retrospect, we were probably just tired. By the end of our visit, we too loved Nice.

We went looking for an evening meal in the heart of tourist Nice: the Cours Saleya, a half-mile long, wide pedestrian boulevard containing nothing but bars and restaurants. I spotted a seafood place with a nice display of shellfish. Plateau de fruits de mer! It cost twice what it should have, but that's what I wanted. What a disappointment. The prawns, oysters and lobster tail were okay, but the crab was inedible and the langoustines overcooked from frozen.

We went back to the hotel and consoled ourselves with the view. Things would look brighter in the morning.

[FJR-UK]

Day Five. Nice. 6 September 2011.

I had a peek out the window to see another perfect day


Another perfect day

Then, I had a look at my bike to see that it was 1) still there and 2) unticketed. Why pay for parking when you can just stick the thing next to the front door of the hotel?


Free parking

We went for a morning stroll to the old fortifications and park on the hill above our hotel. Walking down the other side, we came to the harbour. This is where we would be leaving on the ferry to Calvi, Corsica, on Thursday morning at 0815. The ferry company insisted you arrive no less than 90 minutes before departure. This dictated a 0545 wake up call and the Hotel Suisse was chosen largely because of its proximity to the harbour.


TGBITW in the park above our hotel. It's already 75°F at 10 am


The harbour we would sail from to Calvi, Corsica

We had a bargain continental breakfast in a harbourside cafe, then walked along the shore to the east, eventually coming to Coco Beach. The little pockets of sand (well, small boulders actually) were busy with bathers and sun worshipers.


1030 and already hot enough for a swim

We settled into another cafe to make a plan for the day and study our map of the town.


Is 1051 too early for your first beer of the day? Nah…

A church, still on the harbour, displayed the femur of St. Veran.


Can you say, "relic"?

We decided that we'd visit the modern art museum (MAMAC), which was nearby, have lunch, then hike across town to the fine arts museum. And this is what we found:

MAMAC was in construction zone and seemed a bit unloved. But, there were some exhibits worth seeing and the rooftop garden, which offered 360° panoramic views over Nice was worth the trip alone.


Niki de Saint Phalle and Alexander Calder at the entrance to MAMAC


Niki de Saint Phalle was one of my favourites in the museum

Georges Seurat's Bathers at Asnières in the National Gallery, London, is one of my favourite paintings. His pointillise style is neatly pastiched in this "painting":


Taking the piss?


Nice from the roof of the MAMAC


Your correspondent stands with TGBITW in the MAMAC's rooftop garden

We grabbed lunch in a popular cafe on the walk from MAMAC to the fine arts museum. The tables outside were full, so we sat inside. I had the plat du jour – a pork filet in mustard sauce. The older woman waiting on us must have been the owner. She dropped half a hard boiled egg from Jo's salad on the floor and her apologies were almost comical. She came to the table sometime later with two eggs in a bowl. It was a really friendly neighbourhood joint.

We passed through Place Masséna and (one of us) had to pass through the Gallerie Lafayette while the buskers on the street were of interest to both of us.


Place Masséna, Nice

The fine arts museum was a bit of a disappointment, or maybe (as yesterday) we were just getting tired. And the "No Photography" sign meant I couldn't take my detail shots. We left fairly quickly for a nap and to get ready for dinner back on the harbour at l'Âne Rouge (would you call your restaurant The Red Ass?) which was recommended in the Rough Guide.


We had to stop along the way for some refreshment

We were lucky to get a table in the restaurant, it was packed. We had a lovely time, the food was good and, for a change, there was not too much of it:


The lobster starter, l'Âne Rouge

The sommelier nodded at my wine selection and then offered me something "better". It turned out to be a wine from Corsica, which was encouraging.

We took one last look at the sea, then hit the sack.


Nice at night

[FJR-UK]

Day Six. Nice. 7 September 2011.

A quick look out our room window revealed another perfect day. This one even hotter than the last.


Another perfect day. The bathers were already out at 0845

We headed for Cours Saleya for breakfast and found a cafe in the middle of the market stalls. All the customers within hearing distance spoke English, as did our waiter when he offered me a full English breakfast. Yes, please! The ham was not the proper stuff, but was a delicious Provence substitute.


Spotted in the Cours Saleya market

The largest breakfast of the trip so far set me up nicely for our walk to the Matisse Museum and the Marc Chagall Museum. It was a long, uphill walk and it was getting hot. I was knackered by 1100 when we finally reached the Matisse Museum.

No photos were allowed, but I've got so many Matisse photos from other museums, it didn't really matter to me. The Chagall Museum was of more interest. I found out I rather like Chagall. Very whimsical, colourful work for the most part. Although, the first room was full of his religious paintings. I preferred his wedding paintings.


Marc Chagall. Detail


Marc Chagall. Detail


Marc Chagall. Detail

We had had enough culture for one day and beat a path back to the old town, finding a restaurant which served me a nice plate of pasta and a cold beer. A wander through the old town took us to the Cathedrale Sainte-Reparate de Nice.


Cathedrale Sainte-Reparate de Nice


Cathedrale Sainte-Reparate de Nice. Interior detail


V-Max in the old town, Nice


Apartment block, Nice

Finally, a walk along the beach. I found that I could resist no longer: I had to go for a swim. As far as I'm concerned, swimming is something you do to save your life. It is not recreation. But this was the hottest day yet. I found out what a challenge swimming in the sea in Nice can be.


The biggest "sand" I have ever seen

We arrived at a suitable spot on the beach and made a place for ourselves a respectable distance from the other beach bums. I stepped out of my flip-flops and quickly realised what a pain this pebble beach was on your feet. The approach to the water was a pretty steep slope and the pebbles, nay, small boulders, would give way under your feet which 1) hurt and 2) made balancing a bit precarious.

It was the same in the water. It was much easier to just dive in and swim than to try to walk into the one foot surf. I was unable to touch the bottom a mere fifteen feet from the shore. So, I floated a bit. Paddled a bit. And, really enjoyed the break from the heat, until I got tired. This took maybe five minutes.

Now, I had to get out. This was tricky beyond belief! The trick (I learned the hard way) was to wait for a "breaker" that was big enough to carry you to the water's edge, then scamper with all your might up the mini-boulder incline, which gave way under every footfall, and ignoring the pain while you did so. It took several attempts before I worked out the correct escape plan. And, I managed to get out of the water without resorting to crawling on all fours. (You think I'm kidding, right?)

The next hour was spent drying off (I really must cut this hair off one of these days) and watching other tourists try to solve the same puzzle I just had. One guy did resort to crawling out on all fours.

A nap, then a very fancy dinner (and one of our best) at Don Camillo Creations near the hotel capped off a pretty wonderful day. We got packed and hit the sack early. Tomorrow was an 0545 start and our cruise to Corsica.

[FJR-UK]

Day Seven. Nice to Calvi. 8 September 2011. 3 miles.

My phone alarm is surprisingly effective, especially when you're laying there in the dark waiting for it to go off. At 0545 I was out of bed with a start. (Who chose that damn alarm tone, anyway? Oh, I did.) I took a last look at the scene from our window: the Nice seafront under street lights.

We'd paid the night before and we were too early for breakfast, so there was nothing to do but dress and load the bike. As I put on my clean riding t-shirt and jeans, I was reminded of our hotel laundry bill. When we arrived, we were sweating like pigs. I convinced Jo that we should let the hotel do a wash for us and not waste our time in a laundromat. We filled the hotel bag with jeans and t-shirts, a couple dress shirts – not much, no underwear. At reception, the clerk made me total up the cost, rather than just doing the checklist of items. I suppose this was so there would be no argument later. €56. Oops. Well, we're on holiday, dammit!

Anyway, as I moved the FJR away from the hotel wall and into a loading position, I noticed the black-suited chap moving his TDM and I realised I had been taking his parking spot for the last three days. Sorry, mate.

I fired up the bike, invited TGBITW onboard, negotiated the curb and purred the half mile to the ferry terminal. The engine oil wasn't even warm.

A sticker was slapped on my windscreen and we were invited to move to the front of the queue. We were the only bike? A French couple our age eventually showed up on a Moto Guzzi.


Twilight in the shipping yard

We killed time by munching on some figs we'd saved from the market yesterday, then we were boarding.


Moto Guzzi luggage

Being the first on board gave us a bit of an advantage when it came to breakfast. We got a table to sit at for starters. Then the queue for a continental breakfast. I made the mistake of neglecting to keep my receipt from the cashier to give to the guy making the coffee. Back I peddled to the cashier in search of a receipt. Much Italian chatter between the cashier and the coffee maker ensued until the cashier finally found a crumpled up receipt I could use to collect my due café lattes. We were in Italy.

We tucked into breakfast, such as it was. My croissant was stale. But I needed food in my belly before I could take the handful of pills that keep my diabetic, heart-diseased corpse upright.

Breakfast done, I went in search of our seats. You have to reserve some sort of accommodation for the crossing, and the cheapest option was the pullman seats. Eventually, I found them. Occupied. There was a sea of empty seats, but the two that had my number on them had breakfast eaters in them. I produced my tickets and by the time I returned with Joanna, the seats were vacant. I brushed the leftover croissant from the table, we dumped all our stuff, then headed for the rail.

We set sail for Corsica dead on time.


Leaving the harbour at Nice


I missed the shot of the harbour pilot leaping from the ferry to his pilot boat

Eventually, sight of land was no longer possible and we headed back to our seats. I reclined mine and tried to get some sleep. Not possible. But, I rested for a couple hours as best I could, then further explored the vessel we were on.

It was a real cattle wagon. Amenities were minimal, most of them closed. When the lunch cafeteria did finally open, we got a plate of frites/chips/French fries that defied any description and hoped we could keep our hunger at bay until after we got settled in our hotel.

We forgot all about that when land was sighted. I was too late to the party to get a position on the rail for a decent shot, but was reminded of the first sighting of the island in King Kong, a mysterious volcanic island rising out of the mist.


Corsica


The old town rising above the harbour at Calvi

We returned to the bike, untied the single rope looped over the bike (the sea was like a mill pond) and waited our opportunity to vacate the shuttle craft. At the open stern of the ship, it was mayhem. Bikes, cars, coaches, mobile homes, articulated lorries all competing for the same few feet of steel ramp with minimal guidance from the landing crew.

But, having just experienced the London riots at close quarters, I was not intimidated.

We were off the boat, up the hill, left, left and parked in front of our hotel for the next two nights, Hotel Le Rocher. The engine oil wasn't even warm.

The very nice elderly and very smartly dressed receptionist asked if I spoke French. So, in English she explained how I could drive to their sister hotel "just on the right" and park for free. Fortunately, she also handed me a brochure with the hotel's name it it, Hotel L'Abbaye.

I got Jo situated in our large, dark room with a terrace overlooking the street and went to park the bike. "Just on the right" ended up involving two loops around the town before I spotted the hotel sign, increasing my total mileage for the day by 300%.


Hotel L'Abbaye car park (courtesy Google Street View)

I post a shot I have not taken because it tells a story that is indicative of our stay on Corsica. I parked in the dirt lot on the left, where the 4WD vehicle is. Some time later, Jo and I returned with a lock for the front wheel. A liveried gentleman from the hotel came across the street to speak to me. "Uh, oh", I thought. He knew I had been sent by the woman from the other hotel, but he was concerned about security for the bike. He asked me to move the bike across the street into the hotel grounds, where he had me park behind a gate next to another employee's Ducati. Wonderful.

So, we had a walk around the town. It didn't take long. Calvi is a pretty small place. We had a drink on the harbour, then walked up into the old town on the hill. It was late afternoon and most places were closed.


The 800-year-old old town church


Tea and lemon tart for Jo, a local Calvi beer (named after Christopher Columbus) for me


The harbour seen from the old town

We found Christopher Columbus' (claimed) birthplace. Spain, Portugal and Genoa also claim to be his birthplace. But, Calvi says he's one of theirs, calling himself Genovese after a move there at an early age. Whatever.

A nap to recover from the heat of the day, then dinner near the hotel. Well, everything was near the hotel. I had charcuterie, not for the first time, but I had been looking forward to the Corsican version. I read that Corsican pigs feed on the sweet horse chestnuts and it gives a distinct flavour to their meat. Tasted pretty damn fine to me. And, as usual, the starter was plenty. The main course was superfluous. In fact, I can't even remember what it was.


Dining outdoors in Calvi

Calvi is pretty. Not because they've tarted the place up, but because of its natural setting. We were looking forward to exploring more tomorrow.

[FJR-UK]

Day Eight. Calvi. 9 September 2011. 0 miles.

We awoke to another perfect day. I opened the door to our terrace and got a taste of the heat that was to come. At 0830, it was already too hot.

At breakfast around the corner, we watched the local street dogs running into and across traffic without mishap, then went in search of a beach towel. €10 later, we had a black and white version with an image of the Corsican pirate's head that appears virtually everywhere. (See yesterday's first shot.)


Discarded route map

Above is the route map I made out months before our trip to Corsica, just to prove that I am a motorbiker at heart. This was the daytrip that was to take us up into the mountains for our first look at the Corsican interior. But, it was nudging 95°F at 1100 and the heat completely sapped our interest in anything that did not involve keeping cool.

We headed down to the beach. Easier said than done. You had to cross to the other side of the harbour, cross some railroad tracks, cross another harbour that catered to sailboaters and jetskiers, THEN you hit the town beach. It was busy. It was also beautiful.

It looked like a three or four mile fine sand crescent. We walked past the bulk of the sunbathers, past four or five beach bar/restaurants (complete with their rented sun loungers) before arriving at a patch we would call our own. Hanging our bags on a convenient fence, laying out our new Corsican beach towel and slathering on fluid ounces of maximum sun block, we wasted no further time getting into the sea.

It was lovely. Warm, clear and (compared to the beach in Nice) completely user friendly. You could wade out 50 yards before the water got deep, and the swimming area was marked off to keep the jetskiers at bay.


Town beach, Calvi

This is the last photo you get of the beach, and none of the topless sunbathers. I had no wish to get my new Canon S95 covered in sand. We swam and sunbathed for an hour. Then, I walked to the nearest beach bar, where I was happy to pay €5 for a litre of cold water. We drank as much as we could before it got warm (about two minutes) then continued with our swimming/sunbathing routine. It was lunchtime and, having blinded all the other sunbathers with our brilliant white London bodies, we decided we'd had enough baking and headed back to town.

Lunch was in a brasserie I'd spotted the day before. They still had on their pork filet special, which was a little tough if I'm honest, but washed down with a nice, cold beer.

We walked back up into the old town, looking for sights we hadn't seen the day before, then back to the room for a nap. Dinner was in a place Joanna liked the look of. A hotel restaurant. Unfortunately, we were not seated under the open air palm trees, but in the tourist ghetto on the side. Still the wild boar stew was interesting, if too plentiful.

Joanna was surprised on her visit to the loo to find the house dog laid out on the marble floor of the toilet, keeping cool.

A last circuit of the harbour, then to bed.


Calvi Harbour, twilight

[jfurf]

Vieux Nice! Haha. I spent quite a bit of time there 10 years ago as a student. Nice to know it's still ratty.  

Supposedly 20 or 30 years ago it was much, much more run down. I actually dated a girl whose entire family was from there (but no longer lived in that quartier). The way she described it reminded me somewhat of like Brooklyn or South Philadelphia (very tight-knit, everyone knows everyone, and the mafia controls everything  ).

As for Corse... is there still lots of separatist graffiti everywhere? At the time I was there, the locals were getting a bit too rowdy for the French government and it was pretty tense. I think it has quieted down a lot in recent years though. Easily one of the greatest places I've ever visited in my entire life, though. I remember really loving Bonifacio and have an incredible picture sitting up on a bluff over the sea.

[ConPilot1]

Jesus dude your photography skills are off the charts. Amazing photos.

You're living my dream out right there.

Thank you thank you thank you. Keep going + posting.

Fantastic.  

[FJR-UK]

jfurf: Yeah, I noticed the graffiti, defaced signs, bullet holes, etc. But, we never experienced anything untoward. Well, maybe except for a little story to follow in Bastia? We missed Bonifacio, unfortunately. It was on one of my daytrip lists that got scrapped due to swimming.

ConPilot1: Thank you thank you thank you. Here's more to read:

[FJR-UK]

Day Nine. Calvi to Ajaccio. 10 September 2011. 99 miles.
Jerry's Beautiful FJR Is Not New Anymore

We awoke to another perfect day.

We had a €12 breakfast in the Hotel Le Roche. It was very gentile and very nice. TGBITW is always happy when she gets a choice of fresh fruit for breakfast. I walked up to the Hotel L'Abbaye to reclaim my bike and we were soon on our way – dropping "straight" south to Ajaccio, the capital of Corsica and the birthplace of Napoleon. (Napoleon was born in 1769, a year after Corsica ceased to be Italian and became French.)

This would be our first real introduction to Corsican roads. You learn very quickly what to expect:

Corsicans drive quick. Unless you're on the main N-routes, the roads are pretty narrow. Every vehicle drives with the front left on the centre line. This means that on a left-hander, at least six to twelve inches of their vehicle is in "your" lane. This means that if you're leaning into a left-hander, you've got about a three foot wide lane of tarmac on the right that you'd better stick to. After my experience south of Grenoble, I was definitely playing it safe on Corsica.

I elected to follow the shoreline out of Calvi on the secondary D81B. It was typical of the secondary roads: uneven and patched paving with a six inch drop off at the edge where you would find 1) loose gravel 2) a stone wall 3) a mountain or 4) a cliff. I wasn't doing a whole lot of sightseeing, frankly. The road was fairly busy on this Saturday morning and, invariably, I was meeting oncoming traffic in corners, not straights. I was definitely paying attention.

I managed to get out of the way of two cars full of crazy kids that came screaming around a corner at me. It was not blind, I was able to see them coming. The first car was fully in my lane, but managed to pull it back before I came by as close to the edge as I dared. The second car had a girl standing up through the sunroof, arms waving in the air. This was 1030. If I was going to do any sightseeing, I was going to have to stop to do it.


The mountains ranges are dramatic, because they rise up so suddenly and so close to you

We stopped again a half hour later, just before the D81B rejoins the D81 for a, um, breather.


The D81B, Olmo


A tertiary road – not today, thanks. Lots of butterflies and lizards


D81. Getting closer to the sea

Girolata is a fishing village that is inaccessible by road. You have to walk in or, as most people do, come in by boat. You can see the village from the Col de Palmarella, which has a sightseeing turnout. A loose gravel sightseeing turnout. A very uneven, loose gravel sightseeing turnout. And, I managed to park in the most uneven bit of this busy little spot.


As the sign says…


Smiling before the fall. Girolata is circled, in case you miss this unmissable tourist attraction

Okay, okay. Let's get to it: some guy in an SUV with multiple scratches on the bumpers and running boards was desperate to back out of this scenic viewpoint and I thought my left pannier might be in his path. It a hurry, I mounted my bike, which was leaned over more than usual onto its sidestand. I gave it a push to stand it upright, kicked up the sidestand and my left foot shot out from under me in the loose gravel. I lost the weight of the bike and (with dozens of sightseers admiring my skill) dropped it.

Have I said the FJR is too heavy for me? Well, when it's fully loaded with a full, double-helmet top box, panniers and over-stuffed tank bag, it's impossible. A dozen bikers stood by while a very nice Swiss bicycle rider came to my aid. You could tell by his reaction as we lifted the damn thing upright that he thought it was pretty heavy, too.

To this date, I still haven't been able to bring myself to catalogue the scratches, but mirror and left pannier at least. My baby's not new anymore.

Thank you's offered, we made our escape and I stopped a half hour later to lick my wounds and have a cold bottle of water. If only I'd… oh, never mind.


All these hikers are making the Girolata trek, is my guess

Lunchtime coincided with our arrival at Porto. We headed straight down to the harbour, where we parked along with many other bikers, including the Moto Guzzi couple from our ferry. Lunch was fine, but the best was yet to come.


Lunch in Porto

The Calanches is a protected site southwest of Porto. Soft stone and weather erosion has formed some amazing rock formations and many have been given names, like Dog's Head or Moor's Head. The Bishop. The Bear. The Tortoise. Anyway, it was pretty remarkable.


What a cute little turned up nose!


What do you mean you can't see a cartoon character's face in this rock?


There's gotta be a face in there somewhere…

Frankly, I didn't get the best shots, because I was quickly becoming extremely picky about where I parked my bike. Parking in Ajaccio was much safer.

We rolled in to the island's capital city about 1600. I was less sure about where our (pre-paid) hotel was in this city, but as we inched up the Cours Napoleon through downtown Ajaccio, I spotted a sign for the Hotel Napoleon (I mean, where else are you going to stay in the man's birthplace?) and we were soon checked in.

I declined the offer of €10/night parking and stuck the bike on the street 75 yards from the hotel. Damaged goods now, anyway. Who'd want to steal it? We got on with our sightseeing.


Free parking, Ajaccio


Ajaccio town beach, 6:30 pm

Rested and dressed for dinner, we had one of the best of the trip in a Rough Guide-recommended place called Da Mamma. Our host apologised for not being able to offer us a seat on the terrace without a reservation, we'd have to sit inside. Well, the place was fabulous! A beautiful old, high-ceiling building – not a bad table in the place. And packed. I made a point of going into every restaurant/bar to see the interior. Al fresco dining is overrated as far as I'm concerned. It's more about people watching than eating.

Anyway, the carpaccio was first class. I think I had wild boar after and a nice Corsican red. I don't have the bill to help my memory, because the waiter said we'd have a 30-minute wait for the credit card machine and I paid cash.

The Hotel Napoleon was not our favourite. It was nicer after I adjusted the air-conditioning to something less than freezing, but the view was naff and we had our first mosquito of the trip.

I could live with the bites, if the little bastards would just be quiet about it. I got out an electric mosquito repellant plug-in module I have been carrying around with us on trips for the past 20 years. It's like a tiny hot plate and you put citronella(?) tablets on it, that still seem to be effective after all these years!

Eventually, we (and the mosquito) got to sleep.

[FJR-UK]

Day Ten. Ajaccio. 11 September 2011.
Free Pedicures

We awoke to another perfect day.

It didn't take much discussion to decide that this would be a swimming day. We packed suits, lotions and our Corsican Pirate towel and went to find breakfast somewhere along the seafront. We ended up on the café terrace with the world's worst service.

I knew this, because we had stopped for a drink there the previous evening. I asked for a draft Pietra, Corsican beer. The waitress said they had no draft beer, only bottles. As I was looking past her at the sign that advertised "Pietra Pression", I agreed to a bottle. As I waited for my beer, the other waiter delivered two draft Pietras to the next table.

This is what happens when service is included in the bill.

So, would anything be better at breakfast? It's taken me since 1983, when I first came to live in Europe, to relax and take my time in a restaurant. But still, after all these years, one thing that really needles me is having to wait and wait to pay my bill. Places like this, I like to have an assortment of cash, so I can leave exact money and walk off. As I was expecting about €9 in change on this occasion, I had to wait. And wait.

A different waiter finally came to give me my change and said (in English) "Sorry". I didn't leave a tip, but…

We carried on to the beach, passing the Man, himself:


Napoleon Bonaparte, born Ajaccio, 1769

Streets, bars, restaurants, hotels are named after the man, but he is not really held in high regard by many in Corsica. As far as they are concerned, Napoleon was a trumped up little shite, who sold himself out to the French and did sod all for Corsica.

Further along the seafront, we came to a flea market. TGBITW had finished her Patti Smith biography and needed something else to read. So, we searched for an English paperback in Corsica. She found a murder mystery and I (and many other men) spotted this lady and her dog.


Love the shoes, darling

We finally got to the beach. This is the only picture you get, 'cause I really didn't want to get sand in my camera.


Seafront, Ajaccio

The swimming was marvellous. The beach was almost as nice as the one in Calvi. We enjoyed watching a lady, who arrived with her manic lap dog. It was about 12 inches long and constantly 12 inches in the air. It kept running circles around the beach towels of other sunbathers. Some of the magic wore off when the dog suddenly squatted to make (thankfully) only number one.

But, the BEST part of the day happened in the water. It was a perfect temperature to just stand in up to your neck and rest. I thought I'd stepped on something sharp and had a look. The water was that clear, you could see the bottom. It happened again when I was holding still. Another close look revealed five or six two-inch long fish swimming around my ankles. I stood on my toes and held still. They started feeding on the dead skin on my heels!

I allowed this for a few minutes, marvelling in their persistence. Then, there was a sharper tug at my calf and I looked down to find a five-inch-long fish taking an interest. A second tug at a leg hair convinced me it was time for more sunbathing.

We were getting hungry, so a walk to the harbour was called for. We passed this official building, which had a very nice garden.


Municipal building, Ajaccio

And then watched as this floating hotel glided into harbour.


The Italian cruise liner, Costa Deliziosa and catamaran, Ajaccio Harbour

There was a street market just breaking up on the Boulevard du Roi Jérôme, which called for al fresco dining opposite in the Café du Marché. This life of leisure can be quite tiring, so we went back to the hotel for a nap.

An evening stroll presented us with:


The bike of choice on this little island was this type: naked, light, nimble. They were everywhere

A break from Pietra proved that a Serena was just as good.


The Corsican Pirate, once again


Full moon, Ajaccio, 11 September

And finally, dinner at Il Passaggero.


Meat and two veg, Corsican-style. The local red was superb

[Ralf]

Great pictures, thanks!

[FJR-UK]

Day Eleven. Ajaccio to Zonza. 12 September 2011. 80(?) miles.

We awoke to another perfect day.

Breakfast was interesting. We went to the Grand Café Le Napoleon (where else?), sitting outside almost opposite where my bike was parked. We were learning to ask for "a complete small lunch" (petit déjeuner complet) to get our coffee, orange juice, stick of French bread with butter and jam, and a croissant. But, sometimes you only got the bread and not a croissant. So, I made sure I said to the waiter, "croissant". "Of course", he replied.

He turned on his heel and, tray held high, marched across the busy high street this Monday morning rush hour, risking life and limb to go to the bakery across the street and returned with our bread products. THAT'S service! I've said before that I've discovered service is included in every restaurant bill in France, but I left the guy a couple euros to put towards his future hospital bills.

I had Jo help me fetch my bike to bring it back to the hotel for loading. I had to back it up a slight incline into busy traffic and worried she might have to stop traffic for me. (TGBITW can still stop traffic at the age of 70.) As it turned out, a double-parked delivery truck made things easy for me and we were soon loading the bike on a narrow one way street in front of the hotel.

In no time, I found I was blocking traffic. The first woman was patiently waiting for me, the third guy finally gave me an impatient toot. I left one pannier on the pavement and did a circuit around the block. I managed to get everything aboard before the next build up. We were on our way to Zonza.

Zonza was up in the mountains and the next two days would be totally different to what we had experienced so far, or so I thought. But first, on the way out of town, I stopped at a filling station to check my tyre pressure. I pulled up to the pump that said air. After studying the instructions and looking at the nozzle for a few minutes, uncomprehendingly, the station attendant finally walked over.

This air was for cleaning your car. The air I wanted was over there (he pointed to an area where workmen were tearing up the tarmac in front of the "other" air. We moved on to the next station. After digging out my pressure gauge that I always carry in my top box, I found that the front was perfect and I actually had to let OUT a pound of pressure from the rear, I guess due to the fact that cold London air had expanded in the tyre.

Time wasted, but otherwise reassured, we hit the N-road to Propriano and Sarténe, two towns that were on yesterday's scheduled daytrip that we couldn't be bothered to take. I expanded today's route to include these two interesting sounding places.

Ah, plans. As we approached Petreto-Bicchisano, where we should have turned left to Zonza, I saw a sign for Filitosa and remembered that Joanna had expressed a wish to go to this prehistoric site. So, I banged a right instead and by noontime, we were checking out prehistory.


Filitosa. A prehistoric village that featured carved menhirs

The site had quiet, piped in music that stayed with you all along the path. It was fairly evocative and I was expecting to see nymphs dancing in the shadows or some pagan rituals to be going on.

The main feature, aside from the carved stones, were the large natural rock formations that provided shelter for humans in 7,000 BC. A museum displayed some flint arrowheads. I learned that flint does not occur on Corsica, indicating that early man was travelling and trading.


I didn't have any trouble seeing the face in this rock. (I thought the lake in the background had a rather impossible shape. A few days later, we passed another similar "lake". It's a solar energy farm.)


Like what John Lennon said

This was possibly the hottest day so far. When we parked up the road near this popular place, we decided there was no way we could carry/wear our leather jackets. In fact, I was no longer riding with my leather, either. It was draped over the top box and Jo was leaning on it. I was getting your classic redneck tan. I know, I know: ATGATT. I was sacrificing safety for comfort. It was HOT.

Anyway, we left everything on the bike for the two hours we were walking about and stopping for lunch. I did remove my passports and cash from the tank bag we left on the bike – I'm not completely stupid… It was all there when we returned. We saddled up and headed for Zonza. The Filitosa trip left us with no desire to slog through Propriano and Sarténe.

The road was pretty good and the scenery certainly beautiful. There was much less traffic, but more gravel and sand on the road, meaning sightseeing was confined to the straights.

Oh yeah, top tip for riding in Corsica: if you plan on doing a circuit of the island, do it counter-clockwise. This keeps the mountain on the left side of the road and the rock falls as far away from you as possible. Even so, I managed to hit a rock in one curve as I rode from bright sun to shadow and didn't see it. The bike stepped six inches to the left, but otherwise no worries.

We arrive at Levie. This looks like a nice little town and we thought maybe we should have stayed here, rather than Zonza.


Levie

The Mouflon D'Or arrived on the right, just where I'd seen it on Google. We were booked to stay in another hotel in the centre of town. A week before departure, the manager e-mailed to say he'd made a booking error and placed us in his cousin's place just out of town. Sure, okay.

It was like a posh motel that had self-catering rooms around a pool/bar/restaurant and large grounds. You were meant to book for a week, not two days. But, the cousin took us in. €60/night. A steal. I would have been happy to do our whole holiday here:


Hotel Le Mouflon D'Or, Zonza


The swimming pool was heated, the bar service excellent


Our place. Free parking

I had a beer and a swim, then we explored Zonza. Not a whole lot to see, but a busy little resort town.


The neo-Gothic, 19th Century church Santa Maria Assunta featured this young lady


TGBITW on the church wall in the evening sun


Does this wall make my hair look grey?

We went to look up Denis Bertini at his Hotel le Tourisme and thank him for placing us with his cousin. We found him wiping down tables in his restaurant, which was closed. I was reminded that all our previous conversations had been conducted via Google Translate, but I did catch that he was recommending the Auberge de Sanglier for dinner, so we went over and booked for the next night.


It boggles my mind that you can just Google up a look at our restaurant in a Corsican mountain village (photo courtesy Google Street View)

The hotel/restaurant L'Aiglon, just across the street, was equally good and the owner had a chat with all the diners including us. It was the first English we'd heard on Corsica not from a hotel receptionist. I'd recommend Zonza to anyone. Oh, yeah: it was much cooler up here, too!

[notarian]

Outstanding trip and report FJR! Rode through Zonza two years ago, needed petrol and was surprised the nearest station was in Levie. The 4 mile side trip to Levie was delightful with horse and cattle ranches and passed by Le Mouflon D'or.





Next up will be Col de Bavella and really looking forward to what you and TBGITW thought of it. With the addition of all new tarmac on the whole of the north ramp, Col de Bavella is my most favourite stretch of road in the world (so far) = stunning road, stunning scenery.

Being mid-week, I hope you two missed the Sat/Sun holidayers and had the road to yourselves.

[FJR-UK]

Ha! You beat me to it, Notarian! I will be nominating the D268, Col de Bavella road as one of the all-time-great, must-do motorcycling roads. It is brand new from the peak all the way down the mountain. It actually has PAVED sightseeing turnouts! And the views are stunning, like a mini-Dolomites.

But there's no need to tell you.

Cheers!

Ralf: Thanks for the compliment.  

[sammyseaman]

Jesus dude your photography skills are off the charts. Amazing photos.

You're living my dream out right there.

Thank you thank you thank you. Keep going + posting.

Fantastic.  

I'm with the goat fondler here ^^^^ . Outstanding report  

[FJR-UK]

Day Twelve. Zonza. 13 September 2011.
We Take a Hike

We awoke to another perfect day.

This was a highly anticipated day on our trip, as originally planned. We were going to take a daytrip to Bonifacio and Porto Vecchio, two of the most charming towns on the island. However, we were discovering that the most enjoyable days of our holiday were ones where no motorcycle was involved. (Can I say that and not get banned from this site?)


The good side

I had a look at the still beautiful side of the FJR, then we walked into town to see if the tourist office had any maps for walking in the countryside. They did. After a very nice breakfast in front of the local market, we had a look at the walk choices. The best one for us started opposite the Mouflon D'Or, so back we hiked.


Aiguilles de Bavella Mountains, the Bavella Needles

I took may photos of this mountain range during our walks into town. We'd be getting much closer tomorrow. Today, we were taking a circular walk in the direction of Levie, then north to Quenza and back to Zonza. A 4 1/2 hour walk, said the guide. (Who times these walks, anyway, Olympic athletes?)

We set off at 1115. It was probably the best day of our holiday.


Sweet horse chestnuts. The squirrels don't like the sharp husks, so they end up dropping for the pigs

We started down the hill and realised this was not going to be the easiest of walks. The path was loose rocks and sand, easy to slip on, so we had to watch our step. TGBITW ended on her arse a couple of times. Fortunately, she bounces pretty good.

We passed a young German couple, who stood aside to let us by on the narrow path. She had a toddler in hand, he had an infant strapped to his chest. Surely, they were not doing the whole walk? We passed maybe four or five other parties on the route, mostly we had the place to ourselves. It was a beautiful day and cooler in the shade of the trees.


Joanna gets prehistoric. The trail was marked with orange. "Another orange mark", I said one time. "Aardvark," is what she heard


Lichen


This tree proves the earth is spinning. Makes you dizzy just looking at it


By now, I was seeing faces everywhere. Spooky…


Our picnic site


Signs of civilisation as we neared Quenza


I think I had your brother for lunch!


Aardvark

We were exhausted when we got back to the Mouflon D'Or at 1700. But, I realised that all the fitness training I had been doing since my last angioplasty had really paid off. I felt great! It was the yoga queen that was dragging her heels.

I had a swim, dried my hair in the sun, then we dressed for dinner.

We were glad we had reserved a table at the Auberge de Sanglier. We got the last table on the terrace, with a stunning view of the village intersection. I started with charcuterie. They brought me a mountain of meat. I couldn't possibly eat it all. I sent much of it back with apologies, wondering how I could possibly eat the main course, which had yet to arrive. In the end, I ate every last morsel of the brocciu-stuffed canneloni, stopping short of licking the plate. It was absolutely delicious!

We changed our sleeping arrangements when we got home. The Mouflon D'Or's fatal flaw was the beds. Awful. No sleep the night before, so we moved upstairs into the loft to try out the double bed. I laid awake most of the night, listening to the horse chestnuts banging on the tin roof.