"Cycling To Corsica" Corsica Travelogue by travelinxs

I freewheeled down the ramps of the cross-channel ferry and onto French soil on a miserable morning in August.

It was still dark and raining as I peddled my mountain bike laden with panniers through the streets of Roscoff.

A spontaneous decision to up-and-go had left me ill equipped to undertake the journey that lay ahead. I had neglected to bring any eating utensils, basic toiletries and my borrowed tent (thanks dosser!) was old and full of holes. Added to this was a problem with my gears. My ‘go anywhere’ twenty-one speed bike developed a problem the day I left England, with one of the gear shifts breaking, reducing me to only seven gears.

Sleeping out on the beach

But what caused my immediate concern was my general direction. I had no map. Using my own instinctive sense of direction, I managed to set off west instead of south, costing me almost a one hundred-mile diversion.

Having become despondent after being made redundant, I felt I needed to do something other than sitting about feeling sorry for myself. In the knowledge that my parents were due to be on their boat in Corsica in three weeks when my sisters were due to fly out to meet them, I challenged myself to cycle there and find them first. To make it a little more interesting, I also neglected to tell anyone!

Crossing Brittany I felt I was still in Devon, with green rolling hills and narrow twisting lanes. After my first night spent curled up in a bus shelter, my second proved more luxurious, camped in a remote field surrounded by dense woodland.

Meals were a challenge in themselves. Pasta and tomato soup was a firm favourite cooked on my army stove, though it was extremely frustrating eating such meals with only a knife to hand.

On the 'piste'

On reaching the Loire Valley, the sun had become a more reliable companion and the whole idea of a cycling holiday had become more attractive.

Having been sneaked up upon by two men, presumably opportunists after my gear, whilst camping on a beach one night, I had succumbed to the temptation of campsites. You have to afford yourself certain luxuries to enjoy travelling and campsites and an endless succession of coffee breaks along the route were mine.

Following the coastline south, the tourist resorts finally give way to large expanses of forest adjacent to often-deserted beaches, stretching from one horizon to the other.

For much of the journey, as I approached the Spanish boarder, it was possible to ride on the ‘piste’; simply a track designed especially for cyclists through the trees.

Sunset over Marseille beach

It was on this stretch I took my first day off at Le Truk Vert, to relax and recover my strength. Before leaving England I had never undertaken a journey by bike exceeding forty miles. Now I had been covering around ninety miles a day for over a week, and off my bike I hobbled painfully, looking far from healthy.

Further south I continued, before reaching Bayonne near the Spanish boarder where I turned east and crossed flat, arable countryside to the Mediterranean coast and Marseille, to take the ferry across to Corsica.

The mountains of Corsica

The island of Corsica is either a mountain biker’s dream or nightmare, depending on how you feel about crossing mountains. Many of the cliffs rise straight from the sea for two thousand feet, creating two sets of mountains that run from north to south.

I set off early one morning in search of my parents, crossing one, then the other of the ranges, visiting ports and protected bays looking for their boat. Tackling the mountain passes in seventh gear added to the challenge, though with determination and a stubborn pride I never found it necessary to dismount and push.

Calvi

Finally I discovered the boat riding at anchor in the bay of Calvi; an historic town with a walled citadel, famous for being the spot where Nelson had lost his eye whilst taking the port.

Not having any way of attracting their attention, I paddled out across the bay in a hired bright-pink plastic canoe. My parents’ initial reaction at seeing my face beaming up from the ridiculous craft, when they had no idea that I had even left home were terrified shrieks, followed by more cordial welcomes aboard.

'Spirit Of Lundy'

My sisters flew in two days later and with the bike stowed below decks, I was forced to exchange my cycling for windsurfing, snorkelling in the crystal-clear sea and lounging in the sun on deck as we cruised the west coast of the island for two weeks.

Taking it easy!

In Ajaccia Bay I found I had managed to come to terms with this new method of travelling, but nonetheless I reassembled my bike and took the ferry back to Marseille.

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