Stage 1
Week 1 - Stage 1, Monday, 7th May
Bastia to Nonza (92 kms)
Total Ascent - 4,617 metres
Total Descent - 4,730 metres
Monday morning dawned without a cloud in the sky. The temperature already hinted at a warm day ahead. After a shower and a hearty breakfast, it was time to hit the saddle. But before my journey could be begin, there was one last box to tick on my list; a fishing permit. So, I headed back down into Bastia and, after asking a couple of locals for directions, found myself staring at the 'Closed' sign outside a fishing tackle shop. A passer-by must have noticed my distress because he directed me to another shop, a few streets away, which also sold fishing permits. Luckily, this time, the shop was open. (It turned out the two shops were owned by the same person.) After a quick dash to a photographer and €60 lighter, I emerge from the shop, 'Carte de Peche 2007' in hand. Salt was then rubbed into the financial wound by the shop owner, who told me matter-of-fact, "There are very few trout in the rivers because of the dynamite and electricity...poachers."
By the time I got back to Madame Vignon's house it was past eleven. Almost half the day gone and not a single kilometre on the clock! I must get going. One final check of everything, fill-up my water bottle and Camelback, a quick slap of sun block (er hum...and Sudocrem®) and I'm off! The first couple of hundred metres are a steep climb to the main road; I glance down to check my brakes aren't locked-on...nope. Perhaps Madame Vignon is holding on to the rear pannier because she can't bear to see me leave?...nope. The reality of carrying an extra 30 Kilos suddenly hits me. Oh well, onward and upwards! Thankfully, without medical assistance, I reach the Boulevard Benôit Danési and wind my way back down to the port then pick up the D80 and head North towards Macinnagio. However, before I set-off a taxi driver stops and asks me directions to...somewhere I (obviously) knew not where! I apologised in broken French and shrugged my shoulders.
So this is it - my true journey begins. My dream begins - to fly-fish and cycle my way around as much of this stunning island as possible. The road hugs the east coast and once clear of Bastia the traffic reduced dramatically. Ah! What a glorious day; a light breeze, 25°and 'cotton wool' clouds. About an hour after leaving Bastia, I find myself at the top of a gentle climb just North of Porticciolo. I pull off the road to look back across the bay and savour the moment. Just then I receive a text message from my old friend, Simon, who lives in Singapore, wishing me good luck and safe travels. I thank Simon for his kind thoughts and continue on my way. Part of me would love to be sharing this experience with Simon and Paul, another great cycling buddy, but a larger part of me has always wanted to do this solo. I think as a group we would be more like outsiders looking in. Being alone, I feel more 'at one' with the island.
It is truly a perfect day to be cycling; no wind, no traffic and no real plan to speak of...just to keep peddling and soak-up the scenery! So onward, North, along the coast to Santa Severa. Here is the option to cut across country, by hanging a left on to the D180 you can cut straight through to Pino on the west coast via Piazza. A distance of only about 15 kms. Slightly different to the route I decide to take, but hey...ignorance is bliss and cycling in Corsica is exactly that - bliss! Onward and upward along the North East coast road. At Marine de Meria there is another opportunity to cut across to the West coast via the D35 to Baragogna. Less than 4 kms. further North and I arrive at the harbour in Macinaggio. There are any number of restaurants and bars facing the harbour, the one I choose - La Galiere - is situated at the far end of the town on the corner where the D80 heads inland. I grab a table in the shade, order a big pasta meal, sit back and take in the sights and smells. Just then 3 cyclists pull-up looking like they could use a long, cool drink. They sit down at a table across from me, so I say, "Hello" and start, what is to be, the first of many similar conversations during the next three weeks. "Where you from?" "How far have you cycled today?" "How big were the hills?" "Where are you heading?" I discover the guys are from England and on the last stage of a 10-day tour. They had left St. Florent at 9:00am and made their way North along the West coast road. The plan was to meet-up with their luggage, which was being taken by car, in Bastia later that day. They said the morning's ride had been quite tough - pretty much up and down all the way. I said, "In that case the ride into Bastia, from here, will be dead flat by comparison". So they celebrated that good news by ordering another round of beers!
Back in England, during the planning stages, I had considered easing myself into this trip with an over-night stop in Macinaggio. However; having enjoyed a very comfortable ride from Bastia, I decide to push-on...up and over the Col de St. Nicolas then over and down the west coast. I wish the cyclists a safe journey then saddle-up and prepare myself for the first real climb. A quick detour via the local tabac, to replenish my water supply (ooh! and a 'Snicker' bar), then I'm off. One hour and a quarter later and I arrive at the Col de St. Nicolas (303 m.).
Twenty minutes later, I reach the Col de la Serra (361m.), and here is my first view of the west coast - absolutely beautiful! This is why I wanted to cycle around Corsica - for this moment: Standing here, leaning on my bike, looking out across a rugged coastline, a back-drop of forest, broken only by tiny villages nestled in the hills as the sun begins to set with only the sound of silence for company. Just put the brain in neutral and...enjoy. The spectacular view pushes me onward. I want to see more. I descend the D80, through the villages of Camera, Baragogna and then up and down and along the stunning coast road. Through the village of Pino - the locals gathering for a game of boules - and on through several more villages, each one clinging like a limpet to the rocky, tree-covered hillside. I round the headland of Punta Bianca and look down on the village of Albo across the bay. 4 km. further on along the coast, the hilltop village of Nonza. The light is fading fast now as I approach Nonza. Locals are making their way to the bars and restaurants as I enter the village.
My legs protest as I dismount and climb a few steep steps to the nearest chambre d'hote, Casa Lisa. They are reminding me of the 30-kilo panniers and 90kms since we left Bastia. Suddenly I feel very tired, my body is talking to me, "OK - we're done for the day, now find me a shower, food and a bed, and not necessarily in that order!." There is no response when I knock on the door of Casa Lisa so I head back to the main square. The owner of the pizzareia notices my dismay and offers to call the owner of the chambre d'hote, but to no avail. While contemplating what to do next, the owner made me a chicken sandwich and then phoned someone else he knew in the vicinity to see whether they had a room for the night. Yes, I was in luck - there was one room left! The owner gave me directions, I thanked him profusely, finished my sandwich and then saddled-up for the last push of my first day's ride. By now it was dark as I headed on along the coast road. I was also beginning to get cold - another sure sign that fatigue was setting in. 4 km later and I arrived at the tiny bay of Negru.
Without me realising, the pizzareia owner had phoned the owners of 'Le Relais du Cap'. As I cycled down to the bay, the 'penny dropped'; I had read about this chambre d'hote in the Lonely Planet
guide while researching the trip. Sylvie and Patrick moved here in 1999 from Burgundy and established a B&B that would be the envy of most in the business. Their home is as good as on the beach with four double bedrooms and one self-contained apartment for up to four people. Sylvie and Patrick were standing on their patio waiting to greet me. A warmer, friendlier welcome one could not receive. I was shown where to store my bike and then shown to my room. A clean and bright room on the first floor, thoughtfully painted in yellow and blue with a superb view - the sea just below my window. Immediately I set about washing my cycling clothes and hanging them out to drip dry. This procedure I would carry out every evening for the next three weeks. Every evening, upon arriving at my overnight stop, the same routine: unpack, wash clothes, hang to dry, shower,, eat and sleep!
Feeling human again, following a long hot shower, I went back downstairs to chat with my hosts. While we were talking the headlights of five motor-bikes appeared on the headland and wound their way down to us. Seven bikers dismounted and joined us on the patio. Suddenly everybody was talking at once, and in French, so yours truly felt a little out of his depth. I love the language but confess to a tenuous grasp of it combined with a very limited vocabulary. Languages, in general, fascinate me. Each and every one is made-up of sounds, just sounds, and yet one person can understand and communicate, while another can be totally ignorant - not having a clue what is being said. Each biker set about extracting food and/or drink from their respective bike's panniers. Within a few minutes, tables were pushed together, chairs gathered and a barbecue lit. I was invited to join the gathering and very soon everyone was talking again. While I kept about two stories behind, catching snippets of their conversations. I discovered the bikers - four guys and three girls - were all from Brittany and spending a week touring around the Island. They thought I was brave, or mad, to be cycling around such a mountainous country. "Le fou Anglais!", I said, to much laughter and nodding of heads. The party continued long into the night, but at around Midnight my body said, "Time for bed." What a great day - my first day on the road. I headed for my bed and soon fell into a deep sleep rocked by the sound of waves breaking on the shore.
