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Unofficial Policy
Disembarking in Ajaccio, Napoleon's birthplace, we found the early morning air remarkably cool. "It's not difficult to understand why ancient civilizations worshipped the sun," I griped, and rubbed my hands together briskly. "Maybe Sardinia will be warmer," Sharon said hopefully. Our plan was to cycle along the west coast of Corsica to its southern tip where we would catch a ferry across to Sardinia. We lingered inside the maritime terminal waiting for the sun to ascend the harbour's blue mountains. When the glowing orb succeeded in taking a bite from the chilly air, we pedalled out of Ajaccio along the placid waterfront -- and immediately noted the darker-complexioned Corsicans were different from their mainland cousins. Unlike the vocally reserved continental Frenchmen, Corsicans, in what sounded like a romantic fusion of French and Italian, yelled out lively choruses of encouragement. With shouts of "Touristas!" still ringing in our ears we passed two smartly uniformed police officers standing on the road edge. But they weren't pulling cars over. They were waving to motorists! "Maybe they're elected and they're out campaigning," Sharon joked. I wasn't sure, but judging from their broad smiles it appeared they were enjoying their fresh air experience. I wondered if people waved back (besides Sharon and me). Out of Ajaccio, the road narrowed and traffic waned to a trickle. As we climbed, tree-sized cacti that had populated the island's lower levels gave way to a lush countryside full of laricio pine, chestnut, birch, and beech. I marvelled at the impenetrable growth of stunted maquis (thick and tangled evergreen growths consisting mainly of low-growing broom, gorse, heather, and thorns) that somehow managed to thrive on the almost bare rock. Above, snow-capped ridges rose glaringly -- as if daring us -- while far below, the dark cobalt sea crashed in foamy puddles. We continued upwards, clinging to a tortuous rippling ribbon of black asphalt. Without warning, the road plummeted back to sea level, and we sped downward in plunging titillation. The grins on our faces were no doubt causing wind resistance, but since we were having such fun, we didn't care. Our jubilation was short-lived, however. As if punishing us for our glee, the road ahead reared maniacally like a snorting stallion on hind legs. I groaned and dropped to my lowest gear. Laborious, slowly gained meters had been dashed in mere seconds of downhill thrill. The undulating terrain and sea view reminded me of the coast of Oregon (except it wasn't raining). After much sweat and toil, I passed a scenic overlook, high above the Mediterranean. Then, not even recovered from hyperventilating, I swooshed back to sea level. At over eighty kilometers an hour, golden sand flashed past my searing eyeballs. Then, with masochistic delight, the route shot skyward again. In too short a distance, I was grinding away at eight kilometers per hour. "Surely this monstrosity has been engineered by some out-of-work roller coaster builder," I lamented. The route looked as if headed for the wild blue yonder. Battling uphill, my legs felt possessed of more rubber than my bike tires. A car chugged past belching noxious fumes. The passenger pointed to his head as if to say: "You're nuts!" Jelly-legged and delirious, sweat stinging my eyes, I was not impressed with his assessment. Ah, well. You didn't have to be crazy to cycle such a mountainous isle ... but it helped. After conquering an impossibly steep section, perspiration streaming off my brow like my own private rainstorm (I'm always amazed at how hot the weather became when uphill loomed), I stopped at a pull-off and leaned my bike against a hearty shrub. From the commanding (and well-deserved) view, I admired sea, sky and surf. Birds twittered through the sunny air as if congratulating me on my lung-expanding achievement. I unbungeed a plastic bottle of cola from my rear rack and swigged down the contents. At home, I regarded pop as a garbage sugar-liquid, but on the road it attained the status of Turbo Drink. Sharon was still nowhere in sight. We often cycled uphill at our own pace, biorhythm dependent. I decided to explore while waiting. Through the brush to my right a steep trail fell to the sea; I decided to leave that one for the goats. To my left, three paths ran into the scrub. On the leftmost path I stumbled across a goat skull and hide where a hundred tireless flies buzzed in necrotic entertainment. I backed away from the smelly carcass and tried the center trail. In twenty paces I discovered a cast-off television set. Someone had apparently taken the portable concept to heart. Beyond the forsaken tv, I spied an abandoned house, roofless, but still with upright stone walls. Not wanting to venture too far afield, I returned to the pull-off and waited for Sharon. She eventually appeared, red-faced and puffing, complaining she was out of shape after three weeks of horizontal lazing on the Riviera. "Don't worry," I assured her, "at this rate it won't take long to get back in full fighting form." "Or die of a heart attack," she gasped. I left her wheezing, and proceeded through the scrub to the dilapidated building. The wind had picked up and I wanted to confirm if its stone walls might offer us protection for the night. I entered the disintegrating domicile. Shards of roof tiles lay like dandruff, intermixed with the hairy grass floor. Foot and-a-half thick granite slabs towered ominously above me to the height of a second story. Green plant-fingers clawed at cracks, fighting guerrilla-like to establish a toehold and reclaim the structure for Mother Nature. An interior doorway beckoned, its massive lintel top hat cracked from the tons of rock upon it. The fracture seemed to grin, as if daring me to cross beneath it. I did so, uneasily, and the tall rock walls inexplicably leaned dizzyingly inward. Unnerved, feeling like a midget amongst towering giants, I exited. There was no way I was spending a night within its tomb-like confines. To one side of the building, a flat grassy area hidden from the neighbour's house across the valley, was more to my liking. Concealment was important: Corsica's official policy was a strict no free camping. We had heard tales of one free-camping visitor -- shot by an unappreciative landowner. I had no desire to become a tourist statistic. However, travelling by bicycle, we were often nowhere near an official campground at the end of our day. As well, we were on Corsica during their off-season, and many of the usual tourist facilities were closed. I retrieved Sharon and we maneuvered our bikes through the shrubby labyrinth; finger-like brambles reached out and snagged our panniers. At the house, I leaned my heavily loaded bike against the door frame, half expecting the entire structure to tumble down. It didn't, but still, far from the stone wall, on a rock ledge overlooking the valley to the sea, I spread out our bright orange ground sheet (so much for being inconspicuous) and prepared to watch the sunset. Suddenly, soundlessly, a black dog appeared. It looked at us and cocked its head, sniffing the air. Trotting to a nearby boulder, it sniffed again. Content we didn't represent a threat, it put its nose down and silently jogged off in the direction of the goat carcass. I was apprehensive that the dog's owner would show up any minute and request we leave. But my worry was for naught: we weren't disturbed again. The ledge proved a faultless vantage point from which to view the unfolding twilight drama. Clouds on the horizon shifted position, appearing as if they themselves were vying for the best viewing angle. The light show went on and on, alternating fainter and brighter. Then, just before the sun kissed the day a final good night, a surreal scene presented itself: dark clouds portrayed land, white clouds swirled between, impersonating water, and glowing orange clouds delineated the sky. Pure magic. We loved the solitude of Corsica. It had been many weeks since we slipped the crowds and ubiquitous Peugeots. Satisfied, we snuggled deep in our sleeping bags, and fell towards slumber, listening to the surf, the rustle of leaves, and the faint hoot of a distant owl. |
Diane, HubBub Custom Bicycles
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