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January 13 Friday Bicycle touring France from beside a river near Propriano Corsica to a beach camp spot near Bonifacio Corsica The gate which we squeezed through to our riverside camping is narrower now. We think someone has stopped and closed it, but closer inspection reveals it has swung shut on its own accord from blast of wind. We push our fully loaded touring bikes to the top of the riverbank, trying to avoid scraping against the charred olive trunks and vegetation with our panniers. The olive trees are burnt black, but continue to grow. Maybe that's where black olives come from? I take a picture to preserve the scene. A massive fire has swept along both sides of the river valley up into a side hill. Green grass has started to sprout in various blackened earth patches. We ride our bicycles back toward Propriano, following the river downstream. We pass an old stone arch from a former bridge that must have washed away in a torrid flood. We turn our fully loaded touring bicycles onto a little-used road to Sartene, winding up and up, enjoying the splendor of farmland below set out in a patchwork quilt to the sea. This is the most flat land I've seen so far on Corse. Herds of sheep, goats, and cows graze on the small green expanses. We pass older folks working in their yards and greet them with a cheery wave and a hearty bonjour! They quickly extend an arm and return the greeting with a toothy smile. Near the top of the hill, entering the back side of Sartene, we stop to fill our water jugs with pure spring water that is gushing merrily from a spigot in the granite. A sign forbids the washing of cars or clothes. In Sartene we buy foodstuffs and bread. A woman on her way to work pulls her car over to talk with us. If we are around, she says to visit her and points out the building where she works on the second floor and tells us she's the bossy lady. She lives on the road to St Lucia. We cycle out of town, scanning for a scenic spot to eat out of the wind. The thick scrubby green scenery hangs tenaciously to the thin rocky soil on mountainsides above the road, the azure blue sky above that; and below, the road to the sparkling cobalt and turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. Up, down, and around we climb on our fully loaded touring bicycles, drinking in the beauty of this rugged isle. Soon we arrive at a summit. A municipal camping sign beckons us down a narrow rutted dirt and sand path to the shore three kilometres below. We ride our touring bicycles down the path, our front panniers dragging in the ruts. The wind is gusting in powerful blasts. We duck behind a rocky outcropping to eat a chocolate bar and pudding. This area is a protected sand dune. High above the beach area is a massive boulder. Perched atop this face-like rock is the rubble remains of a lookout caste, resembling a crown hat sitting on a big bald head at a jaunty angle. I take a picture. A trail is supposed to go to "Rocher du Lion." We search for it, but give up. I think it would have made a swell camping spot but Sharon figures we would have been blown off the mountainside. Perhaps she is right. Heading along the twisty ledge of a road on our fully loaded touring bicycles towards Bonificio we look across to the castle rock at a viewpoint and realize the significance of its name. From this perspective the rock becomes an enormous lion figure stretched out in repose looking off into the seaward distance. It does indeed look like a Rock Lion. As we descend toward the sea we find a one-lane dirt road leading down to the water's edge. We choose a cozy spot off to the side of the road for our small bicycle touring tent. Amongst the rocks and scrubby shrubs our free spot is barely larger than our tent. It does offer good protection from the wind. A van is parked below, hidden in the trees. Other than that only cow prints pock the sandy soil. Last night by the river it was freezing cold. I wiped ice off the tent walls this morning. We had put our sleeping bags as only a single layer and froze. Tonight we decide to get into one bag and zip it to our waists. Our combined shoulders are too wide to zip it further. We laid the other sleeping bag over top of us. Our lower half is comfy and toasty; our shoulders are cold. |
