A tale of wild beauty, rabid nationalism and betrayal

Sunday 17^th June, 2001

We flew from Paris which was much more satisfactory than being transported too suddenly from the grey conurbations of Gatwick, here to the majestic landscape of Cap Corse.

We were mildly frustrated at Orly Airport where we witnessed the French method of queuing at the check-in desks. This involved several passengers, mainly ladies of a certain age, standing between the two lines of passengers, hedging their bets as to which line was moving faster than the other. Everyone looked tense and bad-tempered, the equivalent of road rage simmering below the surface.

Our route took us across France via Geneva and then over the Mediterranean. The water was covered in endlessly breaking and foaming waves, a bobbly tweed fabric stretched on the table of infinity.

We had been given clear instructions as to how to find ‘La Tour Pisane’.   We drove along the airport road and then turned North to Bastia, the approach marred by factories and cheap high-rise housing until the old town came into view, a huddle of old stone houses crowned by a church with tower and cupola above the sea.

The coast road twisted above steep rocky bays past old villages and tantalising glimpses of tiny chapels, the domes patterned with fish scale tiles. At Marine de Sisco we took the D32 westwards into the mountains, through thick woods where the sun cast its beams on the forest floor. Overhanging trees created tunnels of greenery over the road. The slopes   were covered in wild vegetation and afforded more glimpses of ancient buildings and villages.

As our instructions indicated, we would see the tower as we came into the village of Sisco – and there it was, set below the roadside – square and dollhouse-like, overlooking a terraced valley.

I pushed on the front door at the top of some stone steps. It yielded and we ventured in, like characters in a fairy tale who enter a spell-bound castle. We called out and the proprieter   responded from upstairs and appeared down the steep staircase from the upper floor. Monsieur Lionelli, about 40 years old, had an air of confidence and approachability. We found ourselves in a beamed reception room with lemon coloured plaster walls, a carrolage floor, old, carefully chosen furniture and some nice paintings on the walls. At the far end was a simple kitchen with sink, fridge and cupboards. There were windows on two walls which looked out on the mountain slopes dipping like giant green saucers to the sea on one side with the island of Elba a mirage in the distance and on the other an ancient village in a green hollow.

A view ripe for sketching, I thought. Monsieur proudly pointed out the 18^th century wooden table, the old bureau and upstairs the bedrooms with their polished sideboards and old beams. And the roof with its stunning 360 degree panorama.

We had thought that arriving on Sunday was a good idea. It certainly had been as we sat in the taxi in Paris driving towards Orly airport along quiet roads. But now that we were here – how to find food in the sleepy villages we had passed? And we were tired. Monsieur had suggested restaurants at Marine de Sisco. First we took a walk around the village, pausing at a grand mausoleum with a statue of a Madonna, its pedestal decorated with metal wreaths that had weathered powdery green and rusty. We remarked that the dates of the people interred there indicated that they had lived to a ripe old age. This we attributed to the clear mountain air and the traditional diet of oil and garlic.

We climbed wearily into the car to find a restaurant on the coast and had reached the village of Moline half way down when we noticed an epicerie with a small bar attached.   The bar was open for business.   A few paunchy men in shorts and espadrils were leaning on the fake wooden counter. We tried the door of the shop. Miraculously it opened. A lady with frizzy black hair and a gold tipped smile gestured us in, apologetically because the shelves were half empty. I explained that we needed food and as an after-thought threw in the word ‘spaghetti’. She pointed to a few packets on the shelf opposite the till.

It was with relief that we could return home with enough to make a simple meal (including a bottle of local wine). We ate a passable meal of spaghetti with butter and cheese and a tomato and onion salad. Monsieur’s wife had left a few items in the fridge for us. A woman’s touch, I thought. And then to bed. On reflection, it was the queuing at the Orly check-in desk that had done us in. We had a restless night, nonetheless with the wind battering at the window and the strangeness of it all.

Monday, 18^th June 6.30 pm

I have staggered to the roof of the tower to catch the sun sinking behind the mountain. I have a dilemma, whether to sketch the ancient village in the dip behind me, or the grand 19^th century villa (built by a local entrepreneur who made his fortune overseas and returned to construct this monument to his success), or the ochre buildings of ‘upper Sisco’ as I call it, or the island of Elba lying in the sea like a sleeping dog – or to catch up with the day’s events – or just to sip my glass of pastis and contemplate my surroundings. It actually doesn’t matter, which is rather nice.

Our day had started slowly. As I woke I felt as if I were drifting and that all my sensations were working in slow motion. But gradually I came alive with the transfusion of coffee, biscotte and bitter orange confiture.

Eventually we drove down to Marine de Sisco, down our mountain road and turned north along the coast. Patrice was right (our Parisian friend) when he told us that the sea was incredibly blue. And so it was – I might refer to it again. It is difficult not to.

On this precipitous road where an error of judgement could have sent us plunging over sharp cliffs into the azure ocean of oblivion, we came across an iron effigy of Christ, one side weathered and rusted, its hand raised to the sea. We turned a corner to find a flat bay below us with a margin of sandy beach and waves lapping quietly, a contrast to the steep and craggy coves we had just passed where waves crashed onto rocky obstacles. This was called Marine de Pietracorbara. We stopped and with just a little encouragement I persuaded Ralph that we should sit on the beach and swim (I did the former, Ralph did the latter). As Ralph swam and then beachcombed, I watched the sparse population on the beach – a hefty bronzed middle-aged couple with their towels, lotions, hats and reading materials, a couple with a baby in a big hat and all the paraphernalia of babydom, and a couple of girls one of whom sat reading in the attitude of a Seurat character from ‘La Grande Jatte’.

We drifted towards a beachside café and hotel and sat under the trees opposite a small estuary where boats were moored. On the opposite bank a few higgledy piggledy houses edged their gardens to the water. A young woman was hanging a set of orange serviettes on a washing line. Tibetan monasteries and prayer mats sprang to mind – a strange cross cultural connection, I suppose.

Another few kilometres took us to Marine de Luri, a picturesque bay with a shady harbour café where we lunched on sardines, fried rougets and a cool rose wine. We carried on, taking the road into the mountains past the hill town of Luri and stopped at the Church of St. Lucia with a romantic view of the Tour de Seneca perched high above on a solitary peak.

We both started to sketch the church with its backdrop of umbrella pines (which I always call Uccello trees as they remind me of his painting of hunters in the woods). The couple we had seen on the beach arrived and set off to climb the steep path to the tower itself. Just as we were about to photograph the church and had cameras at the ready, a car drew up and parked in the shade right in front. We asked the people to move their car. They were very nice about it.

The story of the Tower of Seneca, according to the guide book, is that it was built in the 15^th century by the da Mare family on the spot where Seneca is said to have lived in exile – he had offended Emperor Claudius who accused him of seducing the Emperor’s niece. It is said that he came down from his rock intent on ravaging the Corsican women. They beat him off with nettles – hence the profusion of these plants around the base of his tower.

As we dipped to the Western side we noticed a different atmosphere, more exotic and with a gentler beauty with bourganvillea, palm trees and houses painted the soft creamy yellows of the Mediterranean, a more mellow feel to the sunshine even. At Pinu we walked down an unmade track to a sheltered square with a flat fronted church with curved lintels and a tall tower. Behind we could see the roof of the Mairie with a French flag furled on its mast, a dramatic position with the deep blue of the sea as its backdrop.

We drove south as far as Minervio and then back-tracked to Luri where we shopped in a biggish supermarket before returning to Sisco. Now at last we had the main provisions that would see us through the week and made a nice supper of fried pork with parsley and garlic and vegetables.

Tuesday, 19^th June

We had designated the morning for getting up to date with things. Ralph sat writing on his laptop and I ascended to the roof to draw: first, the old village in the hollow and second, ‘upper Sisco’ which hugs the mountain slope and has interesting cubist perspectives. The houses are like children’s building blocks.

After about an hour my attention was distracted by a shrill woman’s voice in French – and Ralph’s hesitant French interposing. I looked down the steep staircase to the floor below to see a lady of a certain age with hennaed hair and an engaging smile, wearing camouflage shorts with a nervous lap dog in tow. She thought the builders were still working here and was interested to see the work in progress, not realising that the work had been finished and that we were the first tenants. She lives in the large square mansion lower down the valley. Her house, in fact, was the next thing I was going to draw. She also has a house at the edge of the old part of the village that still needs restoring. She pointed it out to us. It is tall and thin with a balcony overlooking the sea. She was fascinated by the antique furniture and is resolved to buy some for her own house. She invited us to drink an aperitif with her one evening and said she could show us round the derelict chateau on the other side of the road.

We drove out to Erbalunga, reputedly the artistic centre of Cap Corse. Huddled around a rocky harbour the houses have as their focal point a ruined 15^th century Genoese watchtower. It was in its shadow that we had a refreshing swim off smooth sloping rocks. Erbalunga was an independent village state ruled by the da Gentile family. Its wealth derived from the exporting of wine and olive oil from the 11^th century onwards. But in the 16^th century the family was torn apart by long-running conflicts and the French put paid to the family’s power when they destroyed the port and the watchtower. How the mighty are fallen!

We had lunch in the elegant town square and set off to re-visit the iron statue. Then another dip in the sea at Marine de Pietrcorbara, and home to the tower to linger away the late afternoon.

I unloaded the washing machine and laid out my white night dress on the ground floor terrace, weighting it down with stones from a pile at the back. I must say, at this juncture, that our existence is not silent. Apart from the birds, the church bell strikes the hours and there is a small flock of oatmeal sheep in the terraced meadow below, each with a bell that sends out mellifluous sounds as they forage. There is also a strange call at night. I told Ralph it was a night jar, just because it sounded romantic.

At quarter to six I said to Ralph: ‘ We should go and see ‘the lady’. In a sense we felt as if we had been sent a calling card that required social obligations (as in Jane Austen). So we walked down the hill (not certain how to approach the house, even though we knew, as the crow flies, where it was). Ralph with his instinctive sense of direction gestured towards a track with shallow stone steps. It was a mellow feeling to stroll in the early evening, past oaks and chestnut trees, the air smelling of subtle resins and wild flowers. And so we ventured on, past a neatly renovated barn to the big house itself to a terrace sheltered by two gnarled oak trees. We knocked at the solid wooden door, to no avail, and so continued along the side of the house until we came upon a window open at waist level with the vista of a large kitchen, an old stove in the corner, a table with an oil cloth, a diminutive girl washing up at a stone sink and a tiny, very old lady hovering in the foreground. We called: ‘Bonjour, Madame!’ and she seemed to float towards the open window. She had no teeth but plenty of coarse iron grey hair cut in a pudding basin style. She was shrunken, not like a sunburnt nut but like an apricot that has been soaked in water. She had a certain vivacity that was appealing. As we tried to explain why we had come – our madame appeared wearing an orange kimono and carrying a load of washing in her arms. She ushered us to an old millstone that served as a table (and a very beautiful one at that) under one of the oak trees. The view was across the valley, between the mountain clefts, the same as from our tower but lower down. Ralph helped Madame to carry some white plastic chairs stacked at the side of the house and after a short interval she returned carrying a tray with glasses and bottles of pastis, grenadine, whisky and wine. During the course of the conversation Ralph, in his gesticulations, shattered his glass onto the floor, causing a frisson, and then a sigh of resignation between madame and her mother. The mother said to me several times, to reassure us, that it wasn’t the loss of the glass that she worried about but the danger of broken glass. The little girl, it turned out, was the daughter of a friend who they were looking after. She petted the lap dog almost ferociously, cradling it as if it were a baby. She had dainty birdlike features and sharply defined eyebrows. She was probably seven years old but would look the same again when she was seventy seven! We never discovered her name but were told that the dog was called Romeo.

We took our leave after half an hour and climbed up to the roof of the tower to watch the sun sink behind the mountain.

Our supper was tasty – we ate as night fell beyond the window and the night sounds took over.

Wednesday, 20th June
Expedition to Corte

The reason for our expedition to Corte was that Ralph had read in the guidebook that the town became the centre of Corsican nationalism against the power of the Genoese in the 18^th century. Insurrection was possible because Corte was isolated by its position on a remote wedge-shaped crag in the mountains of Central Corsica. The hero of the day was Pascal Paoli, ‘U Babbu di u Patria’ (father of the nation) and it was with him in mind that we drove south of Bastia into the hills. It wasn’t long before we saw the granite mountains that serve as a backdrop to the town and, I am sure, an influence on the grim charm of the place. Houses are stacked up the escarpments and steep cobbled streets lead to the ‘Haut Ville’.

There are two squares, one lined with elegant 19^th century houses, the other Place Paoli with a statue of its namesake. In the guidebook this statue is described as ‘a cumbersome statue of a rather self-satisfied looking Pascal Paoli’.

It would, I think, have been more fitting to come at a different time of the year – for though generally we have seen only a smattering of tourists, here there were several coachloads-worth filling up the small streets and doggedly viewing the forbidding 15^th century citadel at the top of the town. We preferred to enter a dark cave off one of the narrow streets that had been converted into a tasting room for Corsican goodies, sausage, cheese and wine. We sat at a low wooden bench and were served crisp rose wine and platters of local charcuterie and cheese. The patron was taciturn and seemed to be typically Corsican in this respect but he warmed to us when he could see how much we were enjoying ourselves. Corsican music was playing dolefully on a small tape deck to add to our enjoyment. Through the open door we could see holidaymakers in shorts and tank tops pause and peer into the dark hole of our cellar, hesitate and then pass on, presumably to eat at the tourist cafes in the square with their multilingual menus displayed on stands in front of the tables.

Two visitors did venture in, two men from Scandinavia. Their wives tutted and remonstrated with them but in the end walked away to leave their men to enjoy their wine and cheese.

We had glimpsed the sloping grey walls of the citadel as we climbed up to the old town but since the museum next door to it was closed we decided to go back to the car and find a spot on the river along which the Bastia road wound. In spite of several stops we couldn’t find a way down the steep gorges where the river babbled its way to the sea – or we were impeded by fences and ‘propriete privee’ notices.

So we drove back to Bastia and beyond, feeling hot and bothered. We stopped at Miomi for a swim and to eat a slice of almond cake we had bought at Corte. It wasn’t very nice but the swim was refreshing. Back at the tower Ralph rested while I battled with my drawing of the upper village from the roof. I prepared supper – spaghetti with fresh basil and a green salad.   We were   exhausted. And since I had forgotten to bring the scrabble with us, we were in bed by 9.30 – even before the stars had appeared in the sky.

Thursday, 21^st June

Having had such a long sleep we breakfasted early. I ascended the steep stairs to the roof where I carried on with my drawing of Upper Sisco and also began the grand house to the east with its fine seaward view. A mist swirled down the sides of the mountains behind me. I wondered how far it would move during the day. Later from the coast we could still see it hovering in the same place, reluctant to move. And so it was when we returned in the early evening. The temperature was lower up here – 21 degrees – as opposed to 28 degrees on the coast. Refreshing to return to our quiet enclave, to drink a pastis to the sound of the sheep bells below the window.

We set off for a short walk up the road above the village and, turning round a bend, had a fine view of the village church, its steeple just below the mist. We found an old stone bridge and a waterfall cascading under a tunnel of trees into a stream.

On our return we headed down by car to Marine de Sisco where Ralph swam on the pebbly beach. There was an estuary with a few boats bobbing and a small wooden bridge that led to a shady path by the water. Altogether it was a sweet place, though not that ancient. We had lunch at the café there – moules marinieres, salad and a ‘pichet’ of rose wine. We sat under the awning and whiled away an hour or two. We talked to a young Swedish couple who had arrived for a friend’s wedding at Bastia. Ralph told them all about Pascal Paoli and his liberation struggle.

We returned to our favourite beach and lazed in the sun on the sand. On most of the beaches the sea has washed up copious amounts of what Ralph says are bamboo leaves. They look brown in the water but once bleached by the sun turn white and brittle. In some places they create banks along the strand, quite useful for sitting on, I discovered. I suspect, though, that it is actually common or garden seaweed. The beach was   occupied by a few families, mainly Scandinavian. One man, in particular, attracted our attention. We nicknamed him ‘The Captain’. He wore a cap over a grey pigtail tied with an elastic band and was as brown as a nut. He stood facing the sea, his hands on his hips, flexing his shoulder muscles once in a while.

We phoned home from a phone box on the other side of the track that led to the beach and then drank a cup of lemon tea in the café before driving to Erbulunga for a few provisions – in particular some succulent lamb cutlets for tonight.

By the time we returned to the tower the temperature had dropped to a pleasant 21 degrees. The mist on the mountain had drifted tentatively downwards, though still not masking the sun. A heat haze made the faraway sea shimmer pale blue. We did the usual catching up on writing and then prepared supper, gorging on the lamb chops as if we hadn’t eaten for a week.

Loathe to go to bed before ten o’clock and too tired to do anything creative, we invented a word game which Ralph has christened GLUE. We cut up small squares of paper and took nine each. Then we made a word, writing a letter on each square. We had to guess each other’s word and see how many other words we could make ourselves. In no time at all, it seemed, it was ten o’clock and time for bed.

As we sit in cafes or laze on the beaches, Ralph sometimes reads interesting items to me from the guidebook. One such item caught my attention – the effect of cattle subsidies on the rise of bush fires in Corsica. The item was headlined BUSH FIRES AND THE BOVINE CONNECTION. Each year between 25,000 and 50,000 acres in Corsica are devastated by fire. In the late 1970s the European Union, to reduce its milk lakes and butter mountains, introduced grants to dairy farmers willing to convert to beef and veal. Although they had never produced much milk in the first place, the Corsicans ‘developed a sudden passion for cattle husbandry’. Within 20 years the number of cattle tripled, bringing lucrative subsidies from Brussels. Few of the beneficiaries actually owned any land because proof of ownership of cattle was enough to get the subsidy. The cattle roamed freely across community areas and the cattle owners routinely burnt the pasture so that fresh shoots would appear. But they did not do so with the careful control of traditional pastoralists and the fires often got out of hand.

At first the blame for the fires was put on lone pyromaniacs or cigarette smoking tourists but it was the fire service that came up with proof that it was the fault of the cattle owners. The ‘pompiers ’ kept detailed records of all fires reported and cross-referenced the findings with livestock ownership statistics. They predicted to within 80% of certainty when, where and in what weather conditions fires were most likely to occur.

In September 1994 Brussels realised what was happening and suspended EU aid to the island. Bushfires fell to one tenth of the previous summer levels. There are still problems to be solved – resistance from the cattle owners, and also from the builders who restore damaged houses and foresters who replant the trees – and, of course, the firefighters who welcome the overtime. ‘Combine the financial disincentive with the customary Corsican mistrust of outside interference and the future for the maquis looks black indeed.’

All of this suddenly rang a bell with me. On Monday on the beach at Pietracorbara there had been a posse of firemen with their fire engine, but no fire in sight. Maybe here was the connection in some way. Interesting, eh? Thank God for the new breed of guidebooks that tell you such interesting things. (This one is The Rough Guide to Corsica. I recommend the series to all travellers).

Friday, 22nd June

Again we had an early start – and again I clambered up to the roof to fill in the shadows of my drawing of Sisco and to try to make something of the big house sketch. I had wedged it into itself and given it a skewered perspective. As Ralph pointed out, the house actually sits squarely parallel to the horizon. Not so in my drawing. It was a case of making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. However it turns out, I won’t rip it out. It will serve as a reminder of where I go wrong.

Mid-morning we were off on our last big mission, to explore the northern tip of Cap Corse as far as Macinaggio which is as far as you can go by car, though the guidebook says   that the coastal walks to the very end are spectacular. Beyond Meria the landscape became rugged with jagged rocks jutting from bleak hillsides and much evidence of fire damage. Trees with blackened trunks struggled to keep the sap rising to nourish miniscule leaves on wasted branches. A lonely tower stood on a promontory and rocks that had been cut to allow the road through were reddish and powdery.

Macinaggio has its historic associations. It was developed by the Genoese in the 17^th century as a centre for the export of wine and olive oil. Pascal Paoli landed here from exile in 1790 from England. He kissed the ground and uttered the words: ‘O ma patrie, je t’ai quitte esclave, je te retrouve libre.’ Napoleon stopped here on his way to Bastia as he fled the Paolists .

Although there are some old buildings overlooking the marina, the town has evidently become a mooring place for the jet set and its yachts. Market stalls selling cheap African wares lined the main street and the most interesting shop sold yachting equipment and navigational aids for those who sail in and out of the harbour.

Ralph swam on a small seaweed strewn beach   - mainly to try out his new snorkel which didn’t appear to be fitting together properly, though it did later.

Rather than eat at one of several harbour cafes there we continued on our mission to take the most northerly inland road to the Eastern side of the Cap. In the event it was a wise decision. The road climbed steeply and soon there were spectacular views of the sea far below. The colours were vivid turquoise at the shoreline and deep ultramarine beyond. We passed the ancient hamlets of Rogliano, scattered along a mountain range, a venerable mixture of weathered citadels, towers, monasteries and huddled houses cheek by jowl. Swarms of tiny yellow butterflies infested the verges. Here the untouched maquis flourished on the slopes, bright greens, reds and yellows. This was the native Corsican flora at its finest, thankfully untouched by the burning that had decimated so much. As we rounded a bend we caught up with an immaculate pale blue and chrome Chrysler with shining wing-like fenders. It looked incongruous on the tortuous mountain road. Its driver was the epitome of re-invented sixties hippy, a long plaited pigtail, a black bandana on his brow and a cut down t-shirt. A red haired lady of a certain age sat in the passenger seat and a big black dog lolled in the back seat. The driver drove with care. At places the car was only just able to negotiate the narrow bends. A couple of vans tailed us impatiently. They are always the worst for pushing us to go faster. At several points the Chrysler caused delicate manoeuvres to be performed by the cars coming the other way down narrow streets. Finally we arrived at the top road for Centauri-Port. There were stunning views of turquoise bays as we descended. At the entrance to the harbour the whale of a car   managed to negotiate a final narrow street before stopping at the tiny marina with its pretty cluster of brightly painted houses, flower-filled balconies and waterside restaurants with coloured awnings. As the guidebook so neatly puts it: ‘…the grey stone wall   (of the harbour) is highlighted by green serpentine roofs.’

We chose to park on the road at the other side of the town opposite a sheltered cove with shiny rocks and pebbles sloping into the water. James Boswell visited here in 1765, ‘recommended to him for its peaceful detachment from the dangerous turmoil of the rest of Corsica.’

We chose to eat at a restaurant called ‘A Cantina’ up a few stone steps and commanding a good view of the marina. It looked a cool inviting place with its mint green table settings under a striped awning. It was presided over by a pleasant suntanned man who was the chief waiter and a lady in a cotton dirndl skirt and yellow ‘start-rite’ sandals. She had a precise, eager   way of talking, a French equivalent of Joyce Grenfell. There were a few other couples, notably a deeply tanned pair, the man’s face red from the sun, the woman with platinum blonde hair and a low cut top – a woman of a certain age striving to look younger. They chatted to a paunchy couple on the next table.   We ate delicious moules farcis and then shared a fish that came on a pewter platter – called ‘denti’ on account of its rows of razor sharp teeth which the lady obligingly washed and wrapped in foil and put in a match box for us as a momento. She had been interested in the amulets around Ralph’s neck and presumably hoped that he would add the fish teeth. The fish was delicious, delicate white flesh caught that very morning by a local fisherman.

Between courses I attempted to draw the far side of the marina with its clusters of cottages and awnings. Perversely, I had chosen as my subject a complicated jumble of perspectives that soon flawed me.

So Ralph started drawing a tall house opposite with steep steps running up the side for me to put in my diary. This attracted murmurs of admiration from the staff and as we sipped coffee with a liqueur on the house the waiter returned with his dog in tow. Its name was Winnie. He asked if Ralph would draw it. Why do they always ask for their dogs to be drawn? The waiter lifted it onto a chair and Ralph began to draw. It was a nice portrait, a little difficult because the dog didn’t keep very still. The waiter, it transpired, came from Brittany and lived in Paris in the Bastille area.

Not wanting to give the original harbour drawing away, I asked if they had a photocopying machine. No, but there was one at the small supermarket up a small street opposite. I suggested to the waiter that he take the original there but he said it was still closed for lunch. So we lingered on quite happily to shelter from the heat of the day in this pleasant enclave.

Eventually, the waiter pointed to a lady in a dark overall walking along the narrow street opposite. She it was who had the photocopy machine. ‘Elle s’appelle Madame Agostini. C’est la meme famillle.’ , indicating our restaurant.

And so it was that we found ourselves in the small supermarket. Madame stood by the till and looked at us suspiciously, though I explained in pretty precise French that the Monsieur (indicating the restaurant) would like some photocopies of the drawing I was holding. She tut-tutted and muttered something like: ‘ What does he want this for? ‘. She shook her head and frowned and raised her shoulders in a gesture of bewildered displeasure. Two young men who had just made some purchases grinned at us. The taller of the two paraphrased what I had just said. Madame shrugged her shoulders again and opened up the small photcopier behind her. As she prepared the first sheet of paper, she asked, disdaining to look me in the eye: ‘ And how much are you charging him?’

‘Rien de tout! C’est un cadeau!’ I riposted vehemently. We could see she was thinking for a moment. She looked at us from the corner of her eyes.

‘Would you like one? – for nothing?’ I asked. At last a glint of satisfaction hovered on her thin lips. ‘Mais, oui,’ she replied and gave the semblance of a half smile. She even consented to have one specially signed to Madame Agostini. And then, with great magnanimity she brushed aside any notion of payment for the copies – a gesture of nonchalant generosity.

We took the remaining two copies back to the restaurant, by which time the waiter had changed into shorts – to go fishing, perhaps, before his evening shift.

It was hot and the streets exuded a silent somnolence. Back at the car we looked at the beach below. It looked inviting. The rocks formed natural pools in the sea and though the seabed was a little treacherous with slippery pebbles, the water was clear and warm, sheltered as it was in its natural harbour. There were two couples on the beach. One couple seemed to have had an argument. The girl sat sullen dipping her feet in the water while her boyfriend lay gloomily on the pebbles. Even when they were sitting together you could tell by their body language that all was not well. A wonderfully refreshing dip, anyway.

We drove south along the coast to return to the other side of the island. All the way the scenery had been spectacular but now it seemed more so, perhaps because of the late afternoon sun and the deepening blues of the sea and the maquis covered slopes more vibrant. Lonely monasteries and hilltop towers looked more magnificent in the lengthening shadows. This must be some of the most beautiful scenery in the world.

Back in the tower we followed our usual routine of settling into the evening, had supper and played our home made game of GLUE, which kept us absorbed until past eleven o’clock.

Saturday, 23^rd June

The mist that, foot by foot, had been creeping across the mountain slopes for the last few days, had extended halfway down the valley between us and the sea, giving the water a ghostlike appearance and blurring the differentiation between sea and horizon. It was warm, none the less. Sunlight filtered through the mist that was quite thin in places so I could sit outside on the lower balcony and write up yesterday’s events.

I had a short diversion when a middle aged French couple in shorts and small knapsacks on their backs, appeared from nowhere. We had a short conversation in the polite way that one has with strangers. They are travelling around the island, exploring the nooks and crannies which is why they ended up on our balcony to gaze at the view. From the outside one could be mistaken for thinking that the tower, in spite of its pristine renovations is uninhabited. The man asked if I were writing a ‘roman’ – a novel. I replied that it was   ‘mon journal de voyage’. They smiled and with a Bonne Journee left me once again to my solitude.

Ralph had been writing his combined Gavin Twinge/Nietzsche expose and by 11 o’clock it was time for us to embark on our last day’s expedition. No great distances – just a few last memories before leaving tomorrow.

First we drove up a track above the village further than our short walk the other day. We found ourselves on the opposite hillside with fine views of Sisco and its neighbouring villages and the broad sweep of greenery to the Marine de Sisco on one side and the Marine de Pietracorbara on the other. It was an opportunity for me to photograph the flora at close hand – delicate wild flowers, including ruby poppies and a flowering shrub that resembled orange blossom. A   delicate minty scent assailed our senses. In a crevice I found wild strawberry plants and one fruit ripe for picking. I photographed it and then we ate it.

Still high up on the hillside we came upon a wire enclosure with a group of low huts in the corner and a cluster of rocks in the middle with a flock of goats gazing with their opaque eyes into the middle distance – venerable billies   and nannies with silken beards and twisted horns with adolescents and baby ones too. Their coats were in shades varying from dark umber to pale honey. We noticed that the medium sized kids had strange wooden bits in their mouths held over their heads by twisted coloured wire. It didn’t seem to worry them. Afterwards I said to Ralph that I reckoned it was to wean them off their mothers’ milk that would be needed for making cheese. It seemed to make sense as a theory.

We had left the car on the road below and along came a small truck, overtook our car and stopped at the top of the hill. Out came two men, one short, swarthy in blue farmer’s trousers, beard, cap and pipe, the other hefty with cropped hair, shirt and shorts. After a perfunctory greeting the man with the pipe unlocked a gate in the wire fence and ushered and cajoled the goats across the road and into the lush verbiage of the slope below where they soon disappeared to forage among the sweet smelling grasses. One would imagine that the cheese must have had a wonderful flavour.

We drove straight down to the sea, stopping at the village at Marine de Sisco to visit the newly opened Cocci supermarket. All week work had been going on to get it ready and it opened yesterday. We bought some local apricots there – deep orange, juicy flesh which we devoured. There had been a long queue at the check-out. The till was having teething problems and not all the items had been priced but I’m sure they will do a roaring trade.

Ralph had his last snorkel from our favourite beach and I flopped on the sand to soak up the Corsican sun for the last time.

Then we ate at the beachside hotel, Le Rendez-Vous, under its shady trees. Delicious fish soup with crusty toast, aoli and grated cheese. Ralph had moules marinieres and fish (chapin) steamed in foil parcels with a lovely rose wine, Domaine de Pietra, from near Centuri-Port. In fact we passed some of the vineyards yesterday.   We phoned Joe, using up our last units on our phone card and drove back to the tower.

Ralph rested – he suddenly went into a trough, and me to write. I suppose one prepares for departures subconsciously by wanting to clear things up and finish things off. Soon it’ll be time to pack and clear up – to face the daily minutiae back home – a sort of (in American jargon) ‘closure’!

Ralph emerged and since the countryside had become more mellow and sunny (the sun had finally burnt away the mists) we took a walk to the upper part of the village, past secluded gardens and stone arched tunnels between the buildings. We had a pleasant encounter with a man who, having ascertained in a very polite way who we were, where we were staying and where we had come from, went to tend his sheep, the very same ones that ring their bells under our windows. Just think of mellow fruitfulness and you might capture the pleasure of our early evening walk, with shadows lengthening and, dare I say it, the sunbeams mellowing.

We took our preprandial drinks up to the roof. The sun was intense. There was a certain delight in surveying the countryside from our eire, sweating profusely and drinking an aromatic glass of pastis (beer in Ralph’s case).

Then we took showers to cool of – ready for our evening meal and our last game of GLUE!

Sunday, 24^th June

I woke in the night and went to look out of the window. The sky was alight with stars. I won’t make a clichéd metaphor about jewels on a velvet cushion – but it did cross my mind.

We woke at six o’clock with a hot sun streaming through the window. It was our travelling day – back to Paris, so no point lingering. By 8.00 we had packed and tidied, taken the rubbish to the bin down the road and we were ready to go. But we had agreedto see the proprieter at 9.30. What was the point of waiting for an hour and a half with our bags ready in the boot of the car? So we left the keys on the doorstep with an appreciative note and two pebbles from the beach on which Ralph had painted Corsican faces.

Then down the winding road to the coast for the last time and South along the coast road, past the iron Christ to Erbalunga where we had resolved to have breakfast. The air felt fresher here than in the mountains. The square had been hosed down and a breeze wafted from the sea. We had coffee and croissant. We were the only visitors to the square, apart from a grey haired man slopping along in flip flops, a newspaper and a baguette under his arm. We took a gentle walk into the narrow streets that led to the remains of the Genoese tower and admired quiet corners, old stone plinths and secluded balconies dripping with geraniums.

Soon after Erbalunga the road evens out into a dual carriageway past Bastia to the airport where we handed back the car and from the departure area bar watched hoards of Mancunians and Brummies waiting for their flights, laden with pushchairs, children and for some reason, a high proportion of babes in arms.

It was as hot back in Paris as it had been in Corsica. The streets had a sleepy Sunday feel in the heat. The flat was as inviting as ever, though a little stuffy until we opened the windows to make a draught. We admired our latest handiwork – the cupboard for putting our suitcases and the newly stained and varnished floor.

Over the last two weeks we have been collecting two franc pieces for the launderette across the road and so descended with our towels in the basket on wheels and put them to wash. A walk along the tree and flower filled Viaduct seemed like a good idea while we waited but we soon found it too hot and repaired to the Corsican bar two doors up from the launderette. We often have lunch here. The jovial barman and his lady were talking with animation to a couple who had just finished their meal. The doors were open to let in a breeze and we ordered a cold Corsican beer. Every so often I would pop round to the launderette to see the progress of our washing. A group of young American backpackers had descended, trying to work out the mechanics of the washing machines. I heard a young guy say he hadn’t changed his pants for a week and a half.

After a cool bath and rest in the flat we sallied forth to eat. The streets were hot and humid. We ate under one of the Viaduct arches, ate quite hungrily, in fact. We realised we had only had breakfast croissant and a sandwich on the plane all day.

We came back at 9.30 for an early night. Tomorrow we would be going home.

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