Day 2 - Lakes Melu and Capitellu and the Restonica gorge

This was the last day I had to explore the environs of Corte before heading on my extended hike to the west coast via the mare e mare Nord - out of several alternatives, I figures I could not visit Corte without also seeing the reputedly spectacular Restonica gorge. My guide warned me that although breathtaking, during summer the accessibility of the gorge by car means it can get crowded with tourists unwilling to walk - traffic jams even develop, spanning the narrow road which weaves the 15km through the length of the gorge from Corte to the bergeries de Grotelle. But during early spring the trip up the gorge to the high mountain lakes, Melu and Capitellu, promised to be very worthwhile. I was mesmerised by some photos I had seen of the lakes, seemingly sunk like craters in the high mountains and shrowded in mist. They looked rather mysterious and alluring, and should be very atmospheric if there are few other tourists about.

The gorge runs South East from Corte, starting about 5km outside the town. A very narrow road, lacking crash barriers on either side, slaloms its way through the gorge, following the bends of the Restonica river below. The road crosses and re-crosses the river, smoothly gaining altitude, until reaching the bergeries de Grotelle 15km outside of Corte at a height of 1370m, almost 1000m higher than the bridge at Corte (409 m). The bergeries are quite extensive, and here there's a large carpark and a charming cafe. From the bergeries a well-marked and well-used path makes the stiff climb up the Lac de Melu; a less travelled way then climb up to a shelf to the west, which conceals the smaller Lac de Capitellu. In the early stages of planning my trip I had the somewhat harebrained scheme of walking from Corte to the bergeries, climbing to the lake, having lunch, and then walking all the way back. One glance at the map told me that this was not a realistic idea - although perhaps possible if you started early enough in the morning and walked along the road, it would be more of a 40km march than a hike and you would have no time to admire the (spectacular) scenery, or indeed have lunch. I quickly determined that the best plan was to make the ascent to the bergeries by taxi; climb up to see the lakes; and then have a long, leisurely ramble downhill back to town.


Booking a taxi with Francois was easy from the Hotel de la Paix (once I got my French vocab straight), and I'm sure the Cafe de France or any of the other bars would call for one if you asked. I was a little nervous about this after my inability to find a single taxi in Oristano, a fairly big city in Sardinia, but things work a little differently in Corsica: because the island gets so many visitors wanting to walk, and many of these need to get to out of the way trailheads, every little village has a professional taxi driver who will be more than willing to drive you anywhere (for a price), even out of season. Rates are rather steep, however - even compared to the UK - so if you're on a budget it's best to keep taxi rides for essentials or emergencies.

I woke up before 6am and shuffled out into the town to buy some supplies - I'd survived on biscuits, fruit, nuts and chocolate the day before, and really needed something more substantial. The little bakery about half way along the main street opens very early and has a wonderful selection of baguettes, breads, pizza slices and other baked goodies. I got some delicious slices of pizza and supplemented these with crisps and fruit. After a quick coffee and croissant in the cafe de France (and a trip back to the hotel room because I'd, um, forgotten my map) it was time to get the taxi. Francois was very friendly, and I chatted with him in French as best I could as we started to weave up through the gorge. Near the town there are numerous restaurants and spas, all of which were closed out of season. I asked Francois whether it was busy in the summer, and he made the internationally recognisable gesture of tell me about it. The road was very windy, and often crossed rather precipitous crags over bridges with no crash barriers on either side. Animals clopped over the road in front of us, and had to be beeped to get out the way. "Une vache", Francois observed, and I had to stop myself saying "Fetchez la vache!", which probably would have led to some confusion. I told him I was going to Calacuccia on the following day, and with my bad French and because I was carrying my full pack (more "training" for my long hike), he seemed concerned that I was going to strike out for the Nuolo that day, presumably going over the mountains via the lac de Nino. The high peaks on either side of the gorge, including the Rotondo massive to our right, were heavily laden with snow, and it was clear such an adventure would be very dangerous without serious equipment. I assured him I was only going to see the lakes and then walk to the town, and he agreed this was a good plan. I appreciated his concern: I really would have been in danger had I intended to go directly over the mountains.

We arrived at the bergeries, parked up, and he wished me a good walk. The drive took around 25 minutes, and cost me €45, which was a little more than I expected but is roughly going rate. I shouldered my pack and started up the wide, well marked track to the South.

Some of the bergeries de Grotelle. All are built of uneven stone, but are of pretty sturdy constrution. Most had electricity supplies and water pipes rigged up to small streams, and one even had a satellite dish...

There were a few other walkers on the path - most were French or seemed to be locals, enjoying a Sunday out on the mountains - but it never felt crowded. The path starts gently, passing between large boulders, and soon became snowy - but was never difficult to find.

Looking back down the spectacular Restonica gorge

Looking East to the snowy bowl of mountains that holds the lakes from the orange-flash marked path

After an easy-going kilometer or so, a sign indicates two routes up to the lake: the left was apparently facile and the right sportif (not, um, difficile). Feeling as I was sportif, and wanting to clamber up the chain-guided rocky climb described in the guide book, I took the right path. This turned out to be fortunate, as the usually gentle slope of the facile trail was covered in a thick, treacherous blanket of snow, in fact making it a considerably more difficult ascent than the craggy sportif route.

Looking East to the peak of Punta Muzella (2206m)

The Restonica gorge flooded with daylight as the sun peaks over Monte Rotondo. To the right you can just see the snowy slopes of the "facile" path...

After crossing a rather deep snowfield, where my legs frequently sank up to the knee, the sportif path hits a rather steep rock wall which rises up next to the torrent crashing down from the lake. The first section involves clambering over large granite boulders, and was made all the more perilous by patches of snow clinging to the rock. With the weight of my pack pulling me off balance, the going was difficult. I ascended very slowly, pulling myself with my hands onto the next boulder, and making sure all my hand and footholds were secure - if you fell here you could really do yourself an injury. I couldn't resist working my way to the edge of the rocks to get a better look at the waterfall, under a covering of snow for most of its length...

The waterfall crashing down the rocks from the lac de Melo. I had to lean right out into space to take this shot...

At its base the waterfall punches a hole in the snow and continues to flow underneath. On the way down I very almost ended up going down here myself...

After about 15 minutes of clambering I reached the metal staircase which takes you over the steepest part of the rocks. I passed some fellow walkers resting at the base, remarked that the route was "pas facile", and started to pull myself up. Although this felt much more secure, the metal was freezing cold, and I had to grip it constantly and hard due to the angle of the stairs. As I was warned in the guidebook, the climb is really vertigo-inducing too - one of the children of the walkers waiting below had already scaled the stairs, and was running about on the rocks above like a mountain goat - just looking at him made me feel dizzy. I tried not to look down and cleared the stairs as quickly as I could. Unfortunately I was so preoccupied with not getting myself killed I didn't any photos of the stairway - there are some here, but the whole area looks very different without snow.

Once you clear the stairs, there's another patch of deep and level snow - I rounded the top of a small mound and saw - an eerily flat crator...

The frozen Lac de Melu in April. I was sufficiently surprised to see just an expanse of ice I actually had to check the map to make sure this was the lake.

The one thawed part of the lake, where meltwater runs off to feed the cascade down the rocks. Some of the footprints led right out into the middle of the lake...

I don't know why it didn't occur to me that the Lac de Melu would be frozen. Although I'd been exposed to snow crossing Padule the previous day, the weather had been so sunny (and rather hot in L'ile Rousse) it just never crossed my mind the an entire 400m wide lake could still be frozen over. The temperature at this altitude (1711m) was pretty nippy, though, even though the sun on the bright snow nearly blinded me.

The lakes sit in a huge bowl in the mountains, surrounded on three sides by (what looked under the snowy conditions) to be impassable, almost vertical walls. In the left photo above looks south to the Bocca a Soglia (2200m): the GR20 insanely passes over the "pass" you can just about make out. There were only a few footprints around the lake and the small ranger's hut, and this surprised me, as there were a good dozen groups out on the mountain on that day alone. I figured that snow must still occur frequently enough this high up to obliterate them, and resolved to get off the mountain as quick as I could if I felt the weather beginning to turn.

While I would have liked to have seen the lake in its misty, mysterious glory, visiting it in this strange frozen state was almost as good. Most of the people hiking on the mountain that day seemed to be locals, so I suspect few foreigners ever bother to come up to the lakes so early in the year - although it's safe and beautiful. As I was wondering around the perimeter, wading through deep snow and admiring the lake, a walker behind me caught me up. Without any hesitation he walked a good few dozen metres out towards the middle. Not wanting to end up frozen like a fishfinger I didn't follow his example and kept to the edge.

Since the day was still very early, I decided to strike out for the higher Lac de Capitellu. Amongst the indistinguishable snowy slopes to the West I couldn't see anywhere where another lake could be - moreover, the snow was so deep that most of the orange markers for the path were submerged. The best I could make out was a snow-free line of scrubby maquis which looked like a good candidate for the trail, and footprints rising from there up the smooth snowy slope to the West. With some difficulty I managed to reachy the island in the snow - I repeatedly sank so deep in the drifts that had piled up against the North wall of the lake that I had to turn back and find another route. In this slow manner I made may way around the North side of the lake and past the hut, and followed the snow free strip, where I could make out some markers.

At the end of the strip, footprints led straight up the sheer slope, which rose around 100m above me to what looked like a shelf. The gradient was steep and featurless, but at the bottom was a clear expanse of snow - if I slipped, even with my attempt to slow myself down, I would in probability just slide gently to the bottom unharmed. If the lake was on top of that shelf, then the climb would definitely we worth it. I steeled myself, and keeping myself bent low to make sure the centre of gravity of my pack would not pull me backwards and out into space, made my way gingerly up the slope, stepping in the footprints left before me. The going was very slow. Sometimes the snow would be too soft, and would give way under my weight in miniature avalanches - when this happened I would instinctively press myself forward and sink my fingers into the snow, and would stop sliding almost immediately. Equally often the snow would be hardened and slippery, and I would have to chisel out new footholds by kicking at the slope. The going was slow, and my fingers got very cold and my feet a bit wet, but apart from that progress was steady and I felt safe. If I really got stuck I planned to simply point myself down the slope and slide to safety.

After about 20 minutes of this, very frequent stops to rest, I reached the edge of the shelf and gratefully pulled myself onto flattish ground. I had been a bit optimistic - I hadn't gained enough height to get to Capitellu yet, and the footprints curved around to climb another shelf to the South. The views back down to the frozen Melu were spectacular, however, and these restored my resolve.

Looking down on frozen lac de Melu from the shelf 150m above. The stream linking Capitellu and Melu is visible, and the Monte di Giovan Paolo (2123m) are in the background.

The next ascent was bigger, but really more of the same. I even started to get pretty hot with all the climbing, despite the strong wind which was blowing. The slope was higher and even more featureless than the last, and I tried not to look down as I knew it would be a very long slide indeed to the bottom. I spent about half an hour toiling up the slope, moving progressively faster as it became less steep and perilous. After what seemed like an age and several false horizons I popped out onto a rocky escarpment, and finally turned back to check my progress...

Looking East down on Melu from Lac de Capitellu - and the massive rock walls behind, including Monte Rotondo shrouded in cloud.

The slope I had to climb to get to Capitellu. This is virtually unphotographable, but the two trees should give some idea of the huge scale...

I'd ascended roughly 280m from Melu to a height of 1990m, and this added elevation made the views back over Monte Rotondo and the Restonica all the more spectacular. The ranger's hut and even the lake below looked tiny, and the slope I'd just scrambled up rather daunting - and I wondered exactly how I was going to get down. On the other side of the escarpment was lac de Capitellu itself, smaller than Melu and more thoroughly frozen (and with a thick layer of snow on top).

Little pile of stones as the path reaches the lake. Lombarduccio (2261m) rises spikily to the left.

Lake Capitellu! Completely smooth and blending in the surrounding snow, the only indication it's there is the odd flatness...

I sat myself down by some rocks, wrapped myself up, and had lunch while enjoying the view...

Tremendous views down the Restonica from where I had lunch

As I sat and ate, I rather nervously watched the sky, as the fast winds blowing from the West seemed to be bringing ominously dark looking clouds towards me. I suspected these might drop snow as they passed over the mountains, and resolved to eat up as fast as I could. I was distracted by the unexpected arrival of a couple apparently completely without equipment: they didn't have any packs or warm clothes - the guy was just wearing a "free Tibet" T-shirt - but had scaled the same slope I had so fast I didn't even see them behind me. I greeted them, and they looked a bit surprised to see me up there too.

I quickly finished lunch and packed up. There was one very fast way to get drop the 300m back to Lac de Melu, and the closing weather seemed to recommend it: I would slide on my bottom. I sat down on the edge of the shelf, made sure there was no way I could be directed over a precipice if I went too fast and lost control - fortunately the whole slope led down to the horizontal shelf below - gave myself a little push, and was off!

I picked up speed, and flew some distance down the slope. I moved surprisingly slowly: by boots and my pack gave me a lot of purchase and slowed me down considerably. After a couple of goes of this, I decided it was probably safe to try to sledge properly. A plastic survival pack makes a pretty good sledge: its contact with snow is almost disconcertingly frictionless, and the smoothness of the run made some survival bad sledging ideal. I got mine out, folded it underneath me, stuck my legs off of the end to act as brakes/rudders and gave myself a little push.

Much faster this time! I stuck my boots deep into the oncoming snow to regulate my speed, and clung onto the survival bad with my fingers. Snow arced up in front of me as I ploughed it up with my feet. I was only partly in control of how fast I went, but on the other hand steering was surprisingly easy, and I could even slalom down the slope with fairly good control. Eventually I went a bit too fast, went flying over a bump, and my surivival bag flew out from underneath me. I stopped in a pile, retrieved the bag, and in another run I was at the bottom of the slope. I must have descended the 150m from the lake in under a minute!

My novel mode of descent. You can just about see the track of my makeshift sledge next to my ascending footprints. Again, you can get some idea of the (huge) scale from the trees dotted about the slope.

I repeated this trick on the first slope, and depite a somewhat bumpier run, before I knew it was back at the lake. The sky looked really grim now, and I was pleased to be back around other walkers - several had gathered on the verandah of the ranger's hut to have a picnic.

I made my way back around the perimeter of the lake, and again was faced with a dilemma. While the sportif ascent had been strenuous but safe, descending by that route - with slippery rocks and a heavy bag - did not seem too appealing. The alternative was the facile route, which I could now see from the line of rocks that formed the North edge of the lake. This made its way down the smooth, snowy slope to the East of the sportif route - some walkers were already descending, and even with alpenstocks were frequently slipping.

I had a few reservations about simply sledging down this route. First, there were a good few more trees and other obstactles, as well as the river running in a crevasse to the left of the field. Secondly, I really didn't want to accidentally barrel at high speed into the carefully walking family. I don't think a few Je suis desolees would have made up for that.

Seeing the slipperiness of the slope, however, walking it was pretty much out the question. Instead I took up my temporary sledge, and very carefully toboganned for a few metres. Finding my speed to be more controllable due to the less steep gradient, I cleared the slope in this manner - sliding for a few metres, repositioning my survival bag, and then sliding some more. After I was near the bottom, I picked myself up, and walked the rest of the way, using the little silver birches that covered the slope for support. I was tempted to have one last slide, but couldn't see where the slope led: it was fortunate I didn't try, as it lead into precisely the icy crevasse into which the stream disappeared that I had photographed earlier. I passed and greeted the well equipped family, and they didn't look at all surprised at my unorthodox method of descent (though I bet they told their children later not to try anything like that themselves).

I made my way back to the main patch, and hurried over the easy section to reach the bergeries. Just before I arrived I was surprised to be passed by the same couple I had seen up on the "summit" - running between the rocks. To descend that fast they must have slid as well, and I felt pleased my sledging idea wasn't completely unheard of. I reached the bergeries car park happy but extremely wet, and now rather cold, and elected to get a hot drink at the little wooden cafe just before the path.

The cafe at the bergeries de Grotelle is really charming. It's a little wooded construction, with an iron coal fire in the middle of the floor radiating heat. Sausages hang from the beams of the roof, and the walls are covered in maps, postcards, and hiking related paraphenalia. A large dog dozen by the fire. The propriator spotted me and greeted me immediately with great friendliness: he made me a fantastic hot chocolate, pouring hot milk onto a cup full of chocolate buttons. All the other clientelle seemed to be locals enjoying their Sunday up the mountain. I squeezed myself into a corner and dozed myself, probably steaming slightly. The place was so perfect I really didn't want to leave, but I knew I had to set off in order to get back to Corte at a reasonable time. I bought a postcard of the Arch, and made my way out into the now overcast day.

The next stage of the trip was the supposedly easy path which shadows the road all the way down the valley to Corte. The walk started well - it is easy going and well marked, and after passing through the bergeries quickly crosses the river at the road bridge and heads through pine forest on the other side. I was well below the snowline and the only snow I saw from here on flowing in miniature glaciers down the sides of the gorge. It soon started to drizzle. This was fine for a while, and I was just pleased to be off the mountain and that my prediction was correct, but soon got heavier and heavier. I found it impossible to keep my feet dry, as I was compelled to walk through wet undergrowth that would soak my socks within minutes of them being changed. I powered on, following the path as it climbed above the river: after some snaking backwards and forwards a path braches off to cross the Plateau d'Alzo, via which you can eventually reach the refuge de la Sega. By the map and the scale of the gorge, I'd guess this would make a very challenging way to reach Sega.

After this the path drops back down to the road, which it follows for a while. The misty drizzle had lifted a bit and I could take some pictures.

Torrent falling down from the gorge to the Corte road

A misty view of the magnificent gorge. The road had no barrier whatsoever between the tarmac and the precipice.

After some slightly silly trail difficulties caused by misinterpreting loggers marks on the pine trees for the trail, I found the the path leaves the road by crossing over a little bridge over the Restonica. The path then climbs back up the slope, and makes its way fairly directly through the woods to camping Tuani, giving you some of the nicest views down the gorge.

The mighty Restonica, blueish and swollen with meltwater

One of the better views down the gorge, with the river and the road

This is a strange campsite which straddles the path for about half a kilometre. Even during April there were a few people camped up. The whole place is riddled with signs explaining what to do if (a) the campsite becomes part of a forest fire (b) the campsite "catastrophically" floods, which didn't do much to advertise it. It even has a little, shop/restaurant attached, but all were closed when I went through. Camping Tuani is accessed by car by its own little bridge, and in hindsight I really should have left the path and walked the (short!) distance back to Corte on the road, as I was now very wet and rather miserable.

Instead I pressed on up the path. Unless you have time on your hands, and don't mind a fairly tortuous ramble, I'd probably advise people to avoid this part of the path. Firstly, it doesn't seem to be walked much, and this means that large parts of the path are covered in maquis or equally spikey undergrowth. This can cause trail problems, and also led to me being continually splattered by cold water as I pushed my way through them, something that quickly lost its novelty. Secondly, despite the fact that the distance by road between Tuani and where the path rejoins the road is only around 3km, the path is extremely contorted and the going is very slow. None of this is obvious my map, but it's best avoided in my opinion. I spent the best part of an hour and half on that section of path, and was feeling somewhat miserable when I popped back out onto the Corte road only a few kilometres from where I started.

I pressed on with my mp3 playing to keep my spirits up. It was still raining, and by the time I squelched into Corte in the fading light, I was saturated and not too happy. I never felt exposed or even particularly cold once I got off the mountains, so I don't think it was particularly dangerous, but I did sneeze continually for the rest of the evening. Once I'd got back to the de la Paix and had a warm shower I was generally feeling more positive about the situation: visiting the frozen lakes was hugely worthwhile; and set off to have a quick bite at the same pizza place. Again, the food was good, and again the service was a little confusing, and I treated myself to a few chesnut beers while planning my more audacious hike to the Nuolu.

That afternoon was my one seriously wet day in the holiday. I was rather nervous before I went, as the (usually conflicting) weather reports all predicted rather more rain than this. The estimate of one wet day in three for April is probably totally accurate. When it does rain, off the mountains it tends to be a light, rather English, drizzle (thunderstorms are common in Summer but less so in Spring) - and this shouldn't prevent you walking as long as you have some sort of waterproof - I had a poncho thing that packed away really small, and this did the job admirably. I didn't take any waterproof trousers as I figured that my legs weren't the main thing I had to worry about - but these might be a good idea, as I got pretty sick of having my legs drenched with cold water every time I had to wade through some wet undergrowth. At no point did I feel I had to stop walking because of rain - the only time I would advise taking cover is if you are above the tree/snowline, where rain might turn to snow and you risk a white-out. And even though the rain did make the walk back to Corte a little uninspiring, I still got a whole half day of brilliant sunshine and sledging!

Day 1 - The Arch of Corte

As described in the last post, there are a whole bunch of good hikes you can do from your base at Corte. Combine this with Corte being the most well connected town in the region in terms of transport and the local hotels and facilities (as well as the fact that Corte is a proper town, interesting in its own right, unlike - for example - Vizzavona) makes it an excellent base for exploring the area. I had two days before my big hike west over the Corsican watershead, one of which would be spent walking the Restonica valley and seeing lakes Melo and Capitello. One my first day, however, I decided to break myself in with an "easy" walk. Based on some upside-down logic which escapes me now, for some reason I decided that a hike up to a local landmark, the Arch of Corte (or Arcu di u Scandulaghiu as you'll sometimes see it). I also decided to do the walk with a full pack to test whether I was up to lugging all my stuff dozens of kilometers over the mountains. For some strange reason I failed to grasp that a vertical kilometer of ascent can hardly be described as an "easy start".

Map showing route from Corte to the Arch, and back via Padule. Entire area is covered by IGN map OT4250

On the other hand, the actual distances involved are surprisingly small, as the approximate map above shows. I knew from my research and maps that the trail to the arch should be well parked, was apparently signposted with arch symbols, and would climb the ridge above the left bank of the Tavignano before winding up to the North West through mountainous forest.

I got up reasonably early, grabbed some supplies at the small grocery on the main street and some breakfast at the cafe de France near the hotel, and by 9am had climbed out of the town and around the citadel. I had hardly got going when I receieved in rapid succession two strict lessons in Corsican route finding. The map indicated that trail to the Arch and the Mare a Mare Nord leave Corte together. I had found the start of these the previous night, as well as a signboard indicating that both Sega and the Arch lay down this path. The path was initially good quality, often wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and very clear. The map indicated that the path to the arch should diverge from the Nord after a hundred metres, and I thought I spotted a path bearing off to the left, so I bore right and kept walking. My spirits high, my mind started to wander as I strolled through the bright morning air, and I began to walk automatically, as is easy to do when the path to take is very clear. After about ten minutes of this, I realised the trail was becoming less and less defined, and I was now walking over angled rock without any clear markers or piles of stones to guide the way. I hadn't in fact seen an orange paint flash (which is the marker of both the Nord and the trail to the Arch) for about ten minutes. I stumbled on a bit further, now having to use my hands to steady myself against the steep and gravelling rock surface - and caught a glimpse of the much clearer, markerd path, maybe 30m below. There followed a good five minutes of undignified scrambling as I attempted to work my way down the slope to rejoine the marked trail. The moral of the story (part i): if you are following a marked path, flashes (or piles of stones) will have been placed at least every minute, and at every turning that could be ambiguous. If you find you have walked for more than a few minutes without seeing a flash, you're almost certainly off the path. This had to happen to me three or four times before I finally learnt to just stop and retrace my steps. Stopping walking when you're in a rhythm is frustrating, but not nearly as frustrating as finding out that you just climbed right over a ridge for no reason at all. Walking for any length of time when you're off the path can get you very lost indeed, and is best avoided.

Once I had returned to the proper track, I resumed walking now slightly more circumspectly. Now I had no problem with the flashes, and strode on for a further ten minutes. All the time I had been contouring around the river, slowly gaining height on a pretty but not very challenging path. I was slightly concerned that I wasn't climbing much, and that I was still following the river - but I could see another track right down by the river bank which I assumed was the diverged Nord path. It was only when I stopped, got out my compass and took a bearing on a little stone hut (bergerie) that I became certain I had fooled myself. I was enjoying the easy pace and scenery so much I wasn't paying attention to the how all the details of the path did not match what was on the map: I should have been up on the ridge to my right, and was instead on the path to Sega. The moral of the story (part ii): if you feel like you're going in the wrong direction because the terrain doesn't match the map, you probably are. The IGN maps are extremely accurate, and even tiny details (like the stone hut) are precise. The major trails like the Nord are especially well marked and will not just branch off without warning.

I walked rapidly back down the easy path, feeling rather foolish, but realizing I had lost less than an hour and there was still plenty of time to get to the arch. The real turn off to the arch occurs just after you pass the Corte signboard, before you get to a small farm with wooden cages holding goats and geese. The path quickly doubles back (as shown on the map), loops round the back of the farm, after which you can see it clearly rise up the ridge. The trail is marked with orange flashes very similar to those you'll see on the Nord, but is not clearly indicated with arch symbols, as reported. I had seen one or two other people strolling along this section of the Nord, and one couple were walking ahead of me up the ridge. It was starting to get hot, and we climbed the ridge in direct sunlight, both of us pausing regularly to catch our breath. About half way up...

Climbing out of Corte and looking back over the town and its citadel

...I started to feel I may have overeached in deciding to carry my whole pack with me. The entire ascent to the Arch is over 1000m, and you gain height fastest during this beginning section, making the gradient steep and unrelenting. I freqently had to stop to get me breath back, and I was reminded of when I walked up to the top of Siroke Sedlo in Slovakia's Tatra mountains: also a 1000m ascent, and also my first walk of the holiday. There I almost had to turn back due to lack of breath and spinning head, and I was getting close to that state here. I seemed to be travelling much slower than the couple of in front of me, and by that benchmark I was wondering whether my fitness was up to this kind of walk.

I pressed on, and even though there was no let up in the heat or the gradient, things seemed to get gradually easier. I've noticed this phenomenon on several occasions on tiring hikes: while I'm initially preoccupied with how tired your legs and lungs are getting, after twenty minutes or so I find my mind has drifted and I'm thinking hard about something completely unrelated (song lyrics always have a habit of worming their way into my consciousness in these situations). I always imagine that the diminishing oxygen to my brain prevents me from thinking clearly (and painfully) about the state of my body, but I really don't know if this is physiologically plausible. In such a distracted state I found I had to pause less and less, and before I knew it had overtaken the walkers ahead.

Looking back over the hills North of Corte and the little road to Castirla

A tiny example of the stone huts that dot even the most inaccessible slopes

The going continued to be tough but I felt good and continued around the hillside to the North. The path contours around away from the the Tavignano, before attacking the gradient again and rising up through small patches of woods.

View South over the Punta di Zurmalu to the snow-capped Cinto massive

Looking back down to Corte from a bend in the trail as it passes through the woodlands

The view quickly becomes obscured in the trees, and the trail weaves and winds as it climbs up through the woodland clingling onto the side of the mountain. It's dry and heavy going, but being out of the direct sunlight offers some relief. After about half an hour you cross another ridge...

Simple cross fixed up on the brow of the ridge

...before plunging back into the woodland. The only descriptions of the walk I had read noted that the trail was very dry, but in April the marked streams were flushed with meltwater and the path was crossed once or twice by small streams indicated as marginal on the map. After a good deal more climbing the forest thins out, and you are rewarded with breathtaking views back down into the valley and of the Cinto massive on the other side -

Looking back down into the valley from a break in the trees. Part of Corte is just visible as well as the road heading South

Looking South, with the high altitude making Cinto look closer...

As the trees thin out and the trail contours West next to a rather steep gorge, the gradient decreases and the walking becomes easier. I had kept an eye out for "arch" symbols but had only seen one (at about the half way point between two patches of forest). I was so surprised to see another one it was only when I looked up that I realized I had almost stumbled directly into the arch itself...

One of the few "Arch" signposts on the Arch trail, ironically
right in front of the arch itself (like you could miss it...)

The Arch of Corte. Granite is such a hard rock, it boggles the mind that weathering process can sculpt it to such weird forms...

The arch from the other side with Cinto in the background. The dead tree leaning beside it gives you some idea of the scale...

Often when making treks like this, the real enjoyment is in the walking and exploring rather than reaching an arbitrary destination, which can itself be anticlimactic. But I'm pleased to report that the arch of Corte is genuinely worth hiking up the thousand metres to see on its own account. The position is spectacular, overlooking part of the gorge which falls 700m down to the level of the Tavignano river, and the arch itself is larger than I expected (look at the dead tree above for some idea of scale). Once you're here it's irresistable to climb inside the arch and gaze up at the continuous rock, which has presumably been left after some weathering process has removed its "scaffold" - but you have to take care, as the arch is narrow and projects out into the gorge - and looking up at the rock above you is pretty vertigo-inducing. It does make quite a good place to lie and stare out at the view though, and I had my lunch sitting wedged at its base.

What with my diversion, it took me somewhat longer than I expected to get to the arch, but by the time I had lunch it was still before 1pm so instead of returning directly back the way I came I elected to explore some distance up the path. I could see little rivulets of snow left in grooves in the rock not high above me, and I was intrigued about the Bergeries de Padule which were only around a kilometre further up the path and 180m ascent. The trail looked easy going, and soon passes the 1500m altitude - what I soon found to make a reliable indicator of the edge of the treeline (affording wonderful views below) and the start of the snowline.

You can just see back down to Corte (or at least the stadium) from the last bend in the trail

My first sight of snow! Looking over Punta Finosa (1855m). This would quickly become very familiar...

The path climbed briefly but steeply to cross the ridge. As I cleared the top, I was greeted with a sight that contrasted so vividly with the parched terrain of the climb up it was like stepping into another world. The gentle slope down to the bergeries was covered with deep, even snow, disturbed only where footprints indicated the position of the path. The snow seemed to radiate coolness and was wonderful to walk over after the hot ascent. I shuffled through the snow and soon reached the bergeries which are remarkably well built and extensive and flank (what was in April) a sizeable stream. A small track road leads to the West, leading according to the map to some more bergeries even deeper into the mountains. A signpost with timed distances to various destinations was also in evidence.

The path winds down to the bergeries de Padule out of the snow. The bergeries are supplied with water by long hoses running from nearby streams...

Snowy slopes and ramshackle constructions looking North from the bergeries...

At the bergeries I decided to take advantage of the meltwater stream and try out my homemade chlorine-free water purification kit. To recap, this consisted of a large (50 ml) plastic syringe and a micropore filter which I'd borrowed from the lab. The filter is so fine (~0.5 um) that it should remove any pathogenic bacteria from water forced through it: we routinely use this setup to sterilize solutions in the lab so I figured it should be more than good enough to produce drinkable water. It worked pretty well, although forcing stream water through the filter turned out to be a little harder than I'd anticipated, probably because even very clean water seemed to contain a remarkable amount of silt. If I held the syringe between my knees and pushed hard it was fine, although I fancy I looked rather silly. I did purify about 300 ml (rather needlessly as I'd brought plenty along anyway), and I experimentally drank about half of it with no ill effects. The taste was great, so definitely preferable to chlorine/iodine there...

It was also at the bergeries when I met a second couple of fellow walkers (fortunately after I put away my somewhat suspicious looking kit). I hailed them from a distance while I was puzzling over the signpost, and trying to work out where Bocca d'Ominanda - which apparently lay down the path to the North - was. They turned out to be a friendly French couple, and rather hardcore hikers. They asked me where I'd been, and I told them my route and how long it had taken me - and they wondered whether I had got lost! They couldn't help me on d'Ominanda but did recommend heading North anyway to head back to Corte via the Foret de Forca - it only took them two hours, and that was heading uphill. I had initially planned to turn back - but now I was at the bergeries I was keen not to retrace my steps, and since the route was clearly passable ("you can follow our footsteps in the snow" they told me) it seemed like a good plan. It was before 3pm so I had plenty of time should the route become impassible to simply turn back. In hindsight I probably should have kept in mind how quickly they could walk to the Arch, and readjusted my expectations appropriately...

We said our goodbyes and I set off on the route to the North. The route is reasonably gentle, rising up away from the bergeries on the opposite slope and contouring around to the North East, and is marked with orange flashes. The path quickly became covered in snow, at times deep enough for me to sink up to my knees, but was easy to see snaking around the hillside - which itself becomes steeper and steeper, eventually becoming rather ravine-like. The whole hillside was covered in a thin blanket of snow, and I was careful to stick to the path - if I had slipped I would have kept going for a long time!

A section of the path leading North East from Padule. At around 1700m the entire
hillside is snow covered - you can see where the path divides the smooth blanket.

Aside from this, the going was reasonable easy, and I was still enjoying the novelty of walking on snow. Several small streams crossed the path, often under the snow, and I had to take care crossing them to avoid putting my foot through a layer of snow and into the water. On the map I could see that the path continued for about 1.5km and then makes a sharp right turn to cut down the hillside and enter the forest. I didn't want to miss this, but the steep snowy gradient to my right didn't look like it could possibly admit a path. I reached a small outcrop with a pile of stones, then had to cross another stream - a more difficult one this time, involving scrambing with hands and feet -and pressed on. It was only after another five minutes that I realized I had made the cardinal Corsican error (again): I realized I had not seen one orange flash.

I kidded myself, telling myself that this was clearly the path, and that orangeish patches of lichen were faded paint (in some places they can look quite similar). This worked for about three minutes, until the "obvious" path I was on petered out and I was left scrambling over dry rocks. I backtracked to the outcrop (back over the stream), and hunted around everywhere - wading through spiky maquis and scrutinising rocks for orange marks - but could find nothing. Swearing now rather loudly to myself, I tried going on to the North East again, going over the stream for a third time and picking a not very likely looking path in desperation. I got a bit further this time, but the path did again stop - and this time at a small stone bergerie, all alone on the hillside. Really I should have been aware that one was near, as I had all but followed its tell-tale hose pipe from the stream near the outcrop. Again, the map saved me: there was indeed a bergerie, about 1/3km North of where the path was supposed to bend. Feeling somewhat relieved about being able to pinpoint my position with a bit more precision, I headed back to the outcrop (and yes, again pulled myself over the river). But it didn't solve the problem of where the path actually went. I knew it should be heading back down the slope before me - but this section of it looked steep, smooth and frankly perilous and I couldn't see any obvious path. I could locate a certain orange flash before the outcrop, but that was about it. I swore some more and began to worry, as with all my messing around it was approaching 4pm, and I wanted at least 3 hours to retrace my steps if I absolutely had to. I cast around again, now somewhat hopelessly. I managed to sit on some maquis, which I do not recommend and did not improve my mood.

I was just about to head back when I saw them - a couple of pairs of footprints contouring back down the slope from a small path just below the outcrop. I could see no flashes to guarantee this was the way, and the route looked frankly perilous: the slope must have been around a 30 degree angle, was smoothly covered in snow, and had precious few hand holds or anything else to grab on to if I did slip. The drop was considerable, although smooth, and it's possible that someone could slip all the way to the bottom largely unharmed - but I wouldn't have wanted to try it. Unfortunately I don't have a picture of it, as I was mostly preoccupied with deciding whether I should chance it or not. If you imagine the smooth parts of the slope in the picture above then that's about right.

Fortunately I remembered my axiom: trust the map! I took a deep breath and very gingerly made my way onto the slope, stepping in the (often frozen) footsteps ahead of me and leaning the centre of gravity of my body and my pack into the slope, so if I did slip I wouldn't fall out into empty space. Often the snow would become quite deep, I would sink a little way and the snow I'd disturbed would tumble down the slope below me in miniature avalanches - vertiginously, I tried not to watch them too closely. Whenever I passed a little tree I'd grab onto it for dear life. Going by my later experiences I can be fairly sure that if I did slip my body and my pack would have sufficient purchase to stop me within a metre or two - but at the time needless to say I found it rather adrenaline inducing.

This continued for about 300m, and it seemed to take an age. Eventually I sighted "dry land" and stumbled onto the solid path with some gratitude. Almost immediately I saw what I'd been missing for over an hour: an orange flash! My mood improved immediately - and the path quickly descended below the treeline and into the forest. I knew my snow problems were over, and made a good pace as the path meaders down through the trees. I can sometimes find forest walks a little dull, because the tree cover limits what you can see, but this is a great descent, with nice views of the valley below.

The Foret de Forca, looking back down towards Monte Cecu

As the sky began to get dusky I emerged from the bottom of the forest, and walked into a flat, smooth region North of Corte. It had been a long day and I was relieved I was getting back into town in a reasonable time: in general it was getting dusky around 7pm, and was properly dark by 8. It would be highly inadvisable (nuts) to attempt to walk any of these trails in the dark, so I figured if I did get stuck, I would just have to stop, climb into my survival bag and wait it out: a prospect I didn't particularly relish when I only had a load of chocolate as emergency food. As you head back south to Corte, the path widens into a track. I passed several farms, and in one saw a barn full of goats being milked, presumably as a source of the ubiquitous goats cheese I sampled thoroughly. The track itself eventually pops out onto a road, and this road takes you right into the centre of Corte (passed the almost comically fortified hotel de Ville).

I stumbled into the Hotel de la Paix, and had a slightly farcical conversation with the guy on reception as I attempted to book a taxi for the run up the Restonica valley (in my exhausted state I managed to forget the French word for tomorrow with that for yesterday which caused all sorts of confusion). After some odd looks ("Is it possible to book a taxi for yesterday?") we got things straightened out and I got a taxi booked with Francois (I think) for 7am the next day.

I quickly changed and went out to get some much needed food. I thought I'd try out the pizza place on the main square: it has a covered seating area crowded with locals, and was pretty pleasant. The pizzas are good and cheap but the chesnut beer is a bit expensive (well, around €4 a go), and for a quick bite it's fine. I ate here in an exhausted state for two nights, and rather comically every time I ordered they would explain to me at great length that there would be a delay in cooking the food, which was quite confusing with my patchy French. In the event the delay was only about 15 minutes anyway, so I don't know why they went to such bother.

Walking options in Corte

Before I had to decide whether I wanted to commit myself to an attempt to hike the western side of the Mare a Mare Nord from Corte to the west coast, I had two days in Corte to see the local sites and hike the local trails. Corte is a great base for walking trips, and based on my research - particularly the experience of these American guys, who walked the whole of the Nord in summer some years ago; these guys from the UK who give good summaries of the hikes they did in Calvi and Corte as part of an organised walking holiday; and corsica.forhikers.com, which contains lots of useful bits of information (albeit with much more geared towards the GR20) - I could happily spend a week there, walking a different route every day and not getting bored. Including short trips on the Michelline train to, for example, Vizzavona, I came up with a good number of tempting places to explore over these two days -

1. The Restonica gorge and Lac de Melo/Lac de Capitello. Some eerie wonderful pictures of the deep lakes here, high in the mountains and surrounded by rock walls and clouds, meant this was top of my list. The gorge runs right up the Restonica valley, starting only a few kms outside of Corte, and makes an interesting, and not too challenging, walk in itself. It is however a good 15 km along an incredibly tightly winding road (c'est un slalom, as my taxi driver described it) from Corte to the start of the ascent to the lakes at the Berguries de Grotelle. You would have to get up very early in the morning to walk there and back in one day! In the summer there's apparently a regular shuttle bus (and the whole place is apparently jammed with sightseers). In the spring a realistic option is to take a taxi up to the burgeries, where there's a little car park and a lovely cafe, climb up to see the lakes, and then stroll back to Corte in the afternoon.
2. The Tavignano gorge is, if anything, even more spectacular. Since I was planning to follow the gorge up to the refuge at Sega as I walked west along the Nord later on, I could leave this for now. If, however, you're not planning to include it in a longer walk, I would definitely recommend it as simultaneously jaw-dropping and not overly challenging. The PNRC guide signs (which are usually dead accurate) say Corte-Sega (1100 m) is a six hour walk, I did it at what I thought was a leisurly pace (taking lots of photographs) in four, so I'd say it would easily be possible to walk there and back in summer (and if this plan didn't work out you could always stay overnight at the refuge).
3. East of Corte. Here is a nice description of a hike to Mt Tomboni and the village of Santa Lucia di Mercoriu, East of Corte. I could find very little other information about walks east of Corte away from the Mare e Mare Nord (and not too much info on that). Although the biggest mountains and ultimately the watershed rise up to the West of Corte, from my hotel window looking East I thought I could identify the peak of Mt Tomboni (1062m) and it certainly looked rather intimidating. Certainly this looks like it would be entertaining and worthwhile, although a map is probably essential.
   
4. The Arch of Corte. As mentioned here, the strange free-standing granite arch in the mountains to the North West of Corte is a bit of a local landmark, and does appear on many postcards in town. Despite this, and despite the fact there is a well-marked (though not well signposted) trail leading up to the arch from the start of the Tavignano valley trail, I could find precious little information on this hike (my Rough guide doesn't even mention it). The map indicates the arch is about 4 km as the crow flies, and around 6km on the trail, from Corte. Despite this diminuitive distance, if you plan to do this walk be prepared for a stiff climb up to the arch at 1452 m, a altitude gain of over a kilometer. Even in April I needed lots of water and it took me rather longer than I expected. You can also make the walk a circular one by continuing North to the berguries de Padule (1680 m) and looping back round to Corte through the Forêt de Forca. More on this below...
5. Walks from Vizzavona. You can easily (ahem) catch the Micheline train in Corte and ride it a few stops South to reach the GR20 hiker hub of Vizzavona. From here there are a number of quite popular hikes which I found included in the rough guide. The walk to the Cascade des Anglais is supposed to be laid-back and pleasant, although apparently I get the feeling you exactly be alone in summer. The Cascades (1092 m but a climb of less than 150 m from Vizzavona) lie in a forest about 3km South West of Vizzavona, along a strangly easy section of the GR20. You can also walk to the Punta di Zarpi via Bocca Palmenta (1657 m) along the Eastern direction of the GR20. Just don't miss the train back to Corte or hitchhiking will be your only option...
6. Mountain climbing. Of course, many people come to Corsica to tackle the big peaks. Some of those easily accessible from Corte include Monte Rotondo (2622 m and Corsica's second highest mountain) which rises spikily on the other side of the restonica gorge from the Melu and Capitellu lakes and Monte d'Oro at 2380 m, close to Vizzavona. While the thought of attempting these did cross my mind as I was planning my trip, one look at the peaks when I arrived put my Edmund Hilary fantasies to rest. In April 2010 around Corte, the snow line started remarkably consitently at around 1500 m, and steep ascents above this altitude would be extremely perilous without very specialised equipment, proper mountaineering knowhow and top fitness. I certainly didn't have any of these and made it very clear to the somewhat concerned locals asking me whether I was following the GR20 trail (which actively seeks these climbs) that I was staying off the high peaks. Even if you do know what you are doing, I would guess that attempting these ascents in early Spring would still contain a significant element of risk, and since it is not uncommon for hikers and climbers to be killed in Corsica by bad weather even during the summer, this is something you wouldn't undertake lightly.

Although I wasn't initially sure how easy it would be to book a taxi to take me up the Restonica gorge for the Melo/Capitello walks, I was certain I couldn't visit Corte and not see the Restonica. I would pass through the Tavignano on my way to Sega, so that was taken care of. Because a trip up the Restonica required some planning with booking the taxi, I decided to leave it until the second day. For my first day I wanted something relatively simple to ease me back into walking, and decided against taking any public transport (I didn't want to get stranded on my first day of walking). Based on some reasoning that was clear to me at the time I decided that a walk to the Arch would be entertaining and easier than a walk to Tomboni. Although the easy part did not exactly turn out to be the case, I'm still very glad I decided to visit the Arch.

Setting off

I set off for Corsica on the morning (early morning) of April 8th. I'd been a bit nervous about the UK rail strikes affecting the eurostar, but they'd been put on hold and now my only concern was the weather and my inevitable paranoia about losing my passport before I'd even set off.

Eurostar is brilliant.

View from eurostar on the new High Speed 1 - Impressive motion blur.

Considering I was paying less than what a return train ticket to London costs, the service in general is great and they treat you really well. As I entered the very impressive restored St. Pancras, I was a little alarmed to see lots of posters warning about a French rail strike for, well, the previous day. I didn't worry too much about it, but asked the conductor on the train. He turned out to be a really nice guy, and promised he would phone ahead for me once we left the chunnel. True to his word, as we emerged in France, he came and found me and told me the strike had cancelled my TGV to Nice! All my ticket-finding efforts seemed to have ended in failure - but even though my ticket to Nice wasn't part of the eurostar ticket (and so really had nothing to do with them), and I didn't even possess the ticket yet (I just had a flimsy print-out with a number for collection when I got to Paris), he wrote me a special note so I could get a later train. He wished me luck, and suggested I could maybe "see some of the city" in the few more hours I had.

Pulling into Gare de Nord - You can just see Sacre Coeur over the tower blocks

I arrived at Gare de Nord, picked up all my train tickets for the journey with no problem and made my way to Gare de Lyon as fast as I could to check out the situtation for myself. The conductor turned out to be exactly right: I would have to wait until 5pm, but could still get a TGV first class to Nice. I dumped my pack, and decided to go for a wander! I was surprised how far I got...

The Gare de Lyon	Outside the Gare de Lyon
What I keep referring to as "The Bastille"	This charming building was actually a school
The "evil" side of Notre Dame...	...and the "good" side

I had a rapid meal, and an even more rapid reintroduction to speaking French (though I seemed to get on the waiter's good side by the end - he even wished me Bon Voyage, incredibly). I haven't even been to France for the last four years, and the last time I had to attempt French was in Brussels three years ago, so things were slow to get going. After this I wandered aimlessly for a while and soon came upon Notre Dame, which is frankly quite hard to miss, its two halves looking like some chimeric combination of the good and evil temples from Black and White. I'm always amazed that two of the most recognisable symbols of modern Paris, this and the Eiffel tower, were not much loved in their day and could have been demolished. What was next, the Arc de Triumph? In front of Notre Dame there was, as always, thousands of tourists, and (as always) some guy putting on a show and busking. I've seen a lot of city buskers, and you usually know what to expect - the oddest I'd seen up to this point were a bunch of magicians who then turned out to be born again christians in Rab Town, Croatia (the audience weren't really convinced). This guy was in a class of his own though - I'm still not quite sure what I witnessed. His act seemed to consist of the dog bringing him juggling balls - but the dog always disobeyed and wouldn't let go of the things. I'm not sure if this was part of the performance, and the French speakers in the audience seemed essentially as confused as me. It culminated in him sort of wrestling his dog to the ground, to the audience's palpable discomfort.

Still not sure what's going on here...

Apart from this, the most entertaining part was when a small girl came up to put some change into his hat, at which point he shouted "ATTACK!" to the dog. Didn't get many tips after that...

I kept walking and reached the Pont Neuf and the Samaritaine department store which I've always used to navigate by when I've visited the city before.

Looking down the Seine towards the Pont Neuf

That Eiffel tower

I got back to the Gare de Lyon with plenty of time, and I thought I would kill half an hour by dawdling around the station. This turned out to be a mistake: after my relaxing day, I hadn't figured that because over half the TGVs were cancelled, and now everybody's tickets were valid on all the TGVs, all the trains to the South would be hideously crowded. This occurred to me far too late as I saw mobs of people heading to my platform. People were getting quite pushy: as I half ran down the length of the train, I saw that the pressure of people trying to cram in had pushed some poor old bloke on crutches down the (pretty considerable) step into the body of the train. People were helping him up, but clearly we were going to struggle to get a comfortable ride. I squeezed into first class, and it soon became clear that it was going to be very hard to get somewhere to sit. I'd been travelled for over 12 hours at this point, and I wasn't relishing the thought of a six hour train journey standing up or sitting in a luggage rack (been there, done that). I grabbed a random empty seat, said Bonjour to the people around my table, and sunk myself into some Nabokov, aware that if somebody came on with a reservation for my seat I would have to move, and working on the theory that people are loath to move somebody absorbed in a book...

By the time the train moved off people were jammed into every vestibule, sitting in the luggage racks, and I still had my seat. After an hour I relaxed and attempted to snack. Nobody checked tickets, and I think ticketing was basically suspended. By some amazing fortune I kept that seat for the duration. The train reached Avignon, the sky darkened, I ate a very dubious Croque Monsier from the (very friendly!) buffet, and the train slowly emptied. By the time we reached the Cote d'azure...

The Monaco train

...the train was effectively empty. I reached Nice at about midnight, making my overland adventure around a 19 hour trip. The city was quiet and rather eery. My hotel (the lovely Hotel Rex), despite me being 5 hours late, had left me a note with the entry code. In my exhausted state I actually couldn't get the code to work, and stood at the door for a good two minutes of sheer despair until some other guests came back from their night out, and, rather bewilderdly, let me in.

I had to leave the Rex early in the morning to catch my booked ferry, so I didn't actually see any of the staff. At 6am I left them a €50 bill and an explanatory note on the main desk and made my way out into the dawn...

Main square in Nice, just outside Hotel Rex. Strange illuminated Buddha-like stylites add to the eeriness

Nice harbour and the Corsica ferries boat. I was very late, so I have no idea how I had time to take this...

I made the boat without too much difficulty, and felt a tremendous sense that the worst was over as we powered away from Nice...

Nice harbour with its distinctive granite outcrop. I had to walk around that thing to get to the harbour, almost making me miss the boat...	The other side of Nice harbour with some very nice yachts. The town stretches away to the East down the cote d'azure.
First sighting of Corsica - mysterious, dark and mountainous land...	Coming closer to L'ile Rousse, which is rather pastel compared to the dramatic mountains

The boat trip was incredibly windy. I sat on deck (I hate travelling inside on boats), drank coffee, and tried to keep hold of my guide book. A French lady almost lost her bank statement overboard, but her husband pounced on it. At one point I gingerly made my way to the observation deck at the front of the boat, and genuinely thought that if I didn't keep a tight grip on the rail I might be lifted off the deck (I don't weigh much and my clothes were billowing like sails). The boat was full of French school kids, presumably going to a football tournament - they were all in kit, and arranged into at least half a dozen teams. They tried to play on the deck but it was clearly too windy; so they mostly amused themselves by feeding small bits of paper into the wind, and watching them tumble endlessly behind the ship amid the black exhaust of the funnel. You certainly couldn't feel sea sick with so much fresh air.

L'ile Rousse is a funny place - my guidebook insists that it "doesn't convince as a Corsican town" which I suppose is true, but since it was my first exposure to Corsican towns I didn't really have anything to compare it to and still it seemed odd. Maybe it is more like a French riviera town in season, when apparently the place brims with tourists; when I was there it reminded me a little of Paignton near where I grew up, a town still suffering from the loss of the holidaymakers it drew in its Georgian hayday. L'ile Rousse is cleaner, though, and better kept. A single group of British tourists wandered along the long, sandy beach and the toy-like rails running parallel which form this stretch of the narrow guage railway. Most of the restaurants and bars were open, although customers seemed to be few - I took this as a good omen, as one of the things I was worried about was the wholesale closure of restaurants and hotels during my trek.

The Corsican railway in L'ile Rousse, and my boat in the background, looking comically oversized for such a small place.

Deserted L'ile Rousse and its long strip of beach. The sea was beautiful but cold...

I had some lunch in L'ile Rousse, on a terrace overlooking this statue of Corsican national hero (not Napoleon), Pasquale Paoli.

Riviera palms surround Poali's statue in his city to rival Calvi

Poali founded L'ile Rousse to compete with the Genoese stronghold of Calvi just a few miles up the coast. It's surprising the town's so bland considering its illustrious history. After my meal I lay on the beach for a while, and briefly braved the sea - it was freezing but wonderfully clear - and then made my way to the train station to catch the replacement bus (improvement works on the railway were delayed into the spring) to Corte.

I arrived in Corte, pulled myself up the hill into the town, and checked into the Hotel de la Paix where I had a booking for three nights - plenty of time to explore the surroundings. Corte is a fairly tiny place: one long street really, stretching from the Corsican University at the bottom of town up to some grander buildings to the north, including the de la Paix. At the Southern end of town is the main square where there are some good restaurants, and banks, bars and food shops line the main street. Some bits of the old town, and the high citadel, rise to the west of the main street; the main road to Ponte Lecchia and Vizzavonna passes the town to the East. Tall mountains rise all around, especially to the West, and you can see the Restonica and Tavignano vallies converge on the town, their respective rivers meeting.

I wasn't really sure where to stay in Corte, and plumped for the Paix even though it wasn't hugely recommended in the Rough guide. These guys, who walked the whole mare e mare Nord a few years ago, stayed at the Hotel du Nord and reported it was a "noisy dump" - they seemed to talk sense, so I decided to give that one a miss. Actually the Nord looked fine when I got there, but I can see why it could get noisy in summer - even when I was there and most of the patrons were locals, (very) small-scale nightclubs pumped out music until the small hours at the weekend. At the other end of the scale the de la Paix was very quiet (as the name suggests), and I actually think I was the only person on my floor for some of the nights I was there. Based on the information at tripadvisor, I decided to book a "superior" room for €5 more, and wasn't disappointed: these rooms, at least, had obviously been refurbished recently, and mine had quite a big bathroom, TV and balcony, things that I'm really not all the used to when travelling around. The building itself has seen better days, but it has quite a charm to it and I wonder about its history: its one of the tallest buildings in Corte, built like a six story tenement rising up from the small river that separates the town from the main road. The hotel does have a restaurant and a funny little bar, although both remained completely deserted while I was there. The reception is manned until around 9 each night, but the door is open 24hrs and I'm sure you could rouse somebody later on if you had to. English isn't really spoken, but I didn't have too many problems even with my limited French. For my purposes it was a great and economical place to stay, and I'd certainly recommend it, although I'm guessing it gets full in season. They only take cash (or cheques, I guess), but that's not a problem as Corte is full of ATMs.

As early evening rolled around I wandered out into the town to have a look around and get something to eat. The area around the citadel is pleasant to stroll around, although pretty steep, and in the gathering dusk I located the beginning of the trail leading up the Tavignano valley: it's marked by a large notice board dominated by signs warning against forest fires (there was actually a risk level notice which I assumed referred to danger of bad weather but was solely concerned with risk of fires), just above the entrance to the citadel. The smaller, less well marked path for the Arch of Corte also leaves from here. Dropping back into town, I noticed many of the restaurants still seemed to be shut, including the recommended U Museu. Without holding out too much hope I made my way to the Paglia Orba, also recommended by the guide. It has a rather nice terrace, but this was deserted and the place was pretty dark and deserted - I only gave the door a half-hearted push on the offchance, but to my surprise it opened and I was immediately greeted by the very friendly proprieter. Because I travel alone very often, I usually end up eating on my own, which I'm quite comfortable with: as long as you have a book, and the establishment is sufficiently informal for it to feel natural to read between courses, I tend to feel self-contained and content - but here I was the only customer and I was afraid it would be awkward. I am still amazed at the remarkable job the owner did of making me feel at ease. He didn't speak much English, but fortunately some of the rust had fallen off my neglected French in the last two days, and we discussed the menu without too much difficulty.

Here came the second problem: I often got the impression that not eating meat in Corsica is often regarded as something very strange, odd even to associate with foreigners visiting the island. Again, the owner took it in his stride, and despite the fact there was nothing without meat on the menu, got his chef to rustle me up a great pasta dish right there. We chatted for a while, about the weather in mountains and where it was good to walk; he warned me of the dangers of the April snow, which is was to learn of later first hand and for which I was rather unprepared; and he complained of the rain, which he thought had increased in recent years. I learnt that during the winter even Corte town itself was buried in deep drifts of snow, even though the town is at an altitude of less than 500m. He told me that business was very slow at the moment, because the students were away from the university, but it would pick up when they returned. It was a very pleasant way to spend my first evening in Corsica, and a great introduction to the friendliness and openness of the locals, even in areas which see a lot of tourists during the high season. If you're in Corte definitely go and eat at the Paglia Orba, tucked just behind the main square - it was the best place I ate while in town, and comes highly recommended.

I returned to the de la Paix and slept very soundly indeed. All in all my overland trek had been worth it, although those few extra hours in Paris made it feel much more continuous and epic than it otherwise would have been. Because I arrived in Nice at midnight rather than 8pm, getting into my hotel and getting something to eat became a challenge, and my night's sleep was cut short. But is travelling overland more subject to these kinds of difficult to forsee delays than air travel? In the absence of any systematic data, I'd have to say the probability of delay is around the same (somewhat depending on where you are in the world). But in terms of consequences I'd have to say that delays and cancellations you experience in air travel tends to impact your travel plans more profoundly. If you miss your plane or it is cancelled, even once you go through the inevitable bureaucratic labyrinth the budget airlines will put you through to get new tickets, you'll be lucky to arrive at your destination on the same day. Even if you manage this, when you arrive you likely won't be all that close to the local population centre, near to places where you can quickly arrange food and accommodation for your first night - some smaller airports may not even have public transport operating if you arrive at a less sociable hour than you were expecting (this is especially true of Corsica). I think it's fair to say one of the benefits of travelling overland - from city centre to city centre - is that if something does go wrong and you get stranded somewhere, at least you'll be in the middle of civilization and likely to be able to fulfill your basic needs without turning into Tom Hanks in Terminal. Comparing my experiences getting to Corsica and my attempts to fly home from Geneva at the end of my holiday, overland travel seems to win this one.