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Bonifacio
For the first time in a long while we slept the whole night through without shivering ourselves awake. Perhaps we had hit upon a workable solution? The only disturbance had been a mouse intent on sampling our only remaining food - a small bag of rice. At breakfast, not having any food (other than that sorry bag of rice), we held an impromptu vote and decided: why not? We boiled it up and discovered the "rice" was not rice at all, but rather some type of wheat product. (Grocery shopping in foreign countries often held little surprises - incorrectly deciphering labels made for some unexpected mealtime treats.) So, rather than rice for breakfast, we had a peculiar tasting porridge instead. Laced with spoonfuls of strawberry jam, it was almost palatable. Our larder totally depleted, we were forced to abandon our sylvan resort. I felt cheated - just when I was making progress towards a slower pace I was required to leave. I ambled to the shore and bid the well-worn rocks a final farewell, knowing that the memory of this place would live in me forever. We pushed our aluminum steeds to the main narrow coastal highway and followed its winding route along the sea edge to Corsica's southernmost point: the old port town of Bonifacio. At noon we reached our destination, and easily found the ferry dock hidden in a deep cleft between the mainland and jutting peninsula. Decoding sailing times wasn't as easy, however. Being lunch time the ticket office was closed, of course, but I managed to latch onto a ferry pamphlet. (And, unlike our Nice ferry fiasco, I intended to read it! Sharon had rather forcefully reiterated she had no desire to sleep on another ferry dock in her whole entire life.) I struggled with our Italian-English dictionary and finally determined that the one-hour ferry crossing to Sardinia occurred twice a day - first at 10 in the morning, and then again at 4 in the afternoon. Ten minutes past noon, we left the ferry terminal and followed the lower port road in search of a grocery store. We found one, and incredibly, it was still open! We hurried inside before they closed for their mandatory three-hour lunch break. After scouring the aisles for a few moments, the store lights winked off. We got the message and rushed our few purchases to the checkout counter. The cashier was nowhere in sight, having already left to put her coat on. Eventually, she drifted back and slowly rang our goods through. After we paid, she nonchalantly pressed a hidden under-the-counter button and a side exit door slid open. We found ourselves deposited onto a one-way street opposite thirteen languidly bobbing sailboats. Being the depth of low season, there wasn't much activity. In fact, the place was deserted. We could have fired a cannon down main street and not hit a thing - save perhaps a mangy cat. Retrieving our bikes from the front of the store, we leaned them against shady harbour-side palm trees before sauntering into the weak sunshine and plopping our weary selves down on the only seats around - cement-filled tires - effectively placing us at eye level with three local alley cats. Their winking green eyes ineffectively concealed their jealousy as they yawned but watched in rapt fascination as we scarfed down Swiss cheese and tuna fish sandwiches. Between bites (and shooing cats), I read the ferry brochure. Apparently, the afternoon sailing was discretionary - it could be cancelled if there wasn't enough demand. Only the morning ferry - deemed "minimum-service" - was guaranteed to run during low season. Not wishing to cool our heels at the dock until four o'clock only to learn the crossing had been scuttled, we decided to place our bets on the following morning's ferry. As well, we reasoned, taking the afternoon crossing meant we would arrive in Sardinia, an island under Italy's jurisdiction, with little daylight and no Italian money. We struck out of Bonifacio in search of a camp spot, wending our way along a claustrophobic lane that had me wondering if my helmet was capable of withstanding falling rocks. Escaping the nine-foot high stone walls, we passed a golf course, then turned towards a beach. To our dismay, the eastern portion of the island was far more developed than the western part had been. We backtracked twice (optimistically termed "exploring") looking for a vacant hiding spot. At a small beach we hit a dead-end and, luckily, found a grassy area to pitch our tent. Pleasantly, and thrown in at no extra charge, was a fine view of the Strait of Bonifacio. A near-full moon made a handsome appearance over Sardinia. As the creamy light illuminated Sardinia's bulk, Sharon dourly pointed out it didn't appear all that flat over there either. My knees were not happy. |
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