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Rocher du Lion
Under a cerulean sky, I whisked past scrub brush clinging tenaciously to bare rock. Far below, Mediterranean cobalt and turquoise waters intermixed. The wind gusted in powerful blasts. Up, down, and round I rode, drinking in the loveliness of the rugged isle. "Slow down and live," repeated over and over in my head like some mystic mantra. I squeezed my brake levers and stopped to have a better look. Appreciating the view, I promised myself I would make an effort to slow down. It was time for lunch. At the summit of Cap de Roccapina, a municipal camp sign beckoned us down to the beach. "Maybe there'll be more protection from the wind down there," Sharon surmised. I agreed, and we bumped down the rutted three kilometer track to the beach. It turned out to be just as windy. But now we had the added attraction of being sandblasted by a significant portion of airborne beach. We ducked behind a rocky outcrop to escape the stinging particles and refueled our bodies on chocolate bars and pudding - hoping the sugar-rush would provide us with enough strength to ride our overloaded bicycles back up to the main road. I glanced at a massive rock towering high above the beach. It was named Rocher du Lion, but I couldn't figure out why. To me, instead of resembling a rock lion, it appeared more like a cross between Jughead and Jean Chrétien: A bald head with two slanty eyes stared up in amusement at a jauntily angled Jughead hat made from castle rubble. A wry Jean Chrétien-like grin completed the visage. I renamed the rock - more appropriately I thought - "Rocher du Jughead Chrétien." Our map indicated a trail leading to the castle ruin. Not seeing any indication of a municipal campground that the sign at the top had so untruthfully promised, I turned my attention to the lofty site atop "Rocher du Jughead Chrétien." "Wouldn't that make a superb camp spot?" I asked eagerly, pointing to the castle remains. "Not!" Sharon replied in a shocked tone. "We'd be blown off into the sea!" She was undoubtedly right. It was rather breezy. I was silly for having suggested it. But that didn't stop me from looking for the path. After searching for a half-hour and still not finding any sign of the trail, I gave up. We struggled back up to the main road through sandy ruts so deep our front panniers dragged the ground, then continued along the winding ledge towards Bonifacio. In a few kilometers we stopped at a viewpoint, and gaped across to "Rocher du Jughead Chrétien." From this new perspective, I understood the name Rocher du Lion. It resembled a lion in repose, gazing out to sea; the castle remnants perched like a befitting crown on its regal head. Farther down the road, we came across a single-lane dirt track leading to the sea. I imagined it quite secluded; only cow prints pocked the sandy soil. Partway down, amongst the rocks and stunted maquis, we pitched our tent in a space barely larger than our tiny abode. It required some fancy maneuvering to get in or out the door. "At least we're well protected from the wind," Sharon observed, critiquing our confined, but sheltered, quarters. The nights had been so cold we hadn't been sleeping well. So, in our quest for nighttime warmth, we reverted to the preposterous two-in-one-bag technique. We squeezed into one sleeping bag, and zipped it to our waists (our combined shoulders being too wide to zip it farther) and laid the second sleeping bag over us. The result was a toasty lower half. But we gave each other the quintessential cold shoulder. |
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