London to Nice to Corsica, France
The summer sun rises at 4:45 in London, ensuring an early start to Stansted airport. The 10 km ride from my hotel to the airport was the perfect dose of adrenaline and I was in the queue at the EasyJet check-in by 6:00 a.m.. With a smile and a little resistance, I saved myself the $40 tariff for Ganesh (my bike), allowing me to treat myself to a Starbucks before departing. EasyJet is the UK's version of SouthWest airlines, on steroids; they've replaced flight attendants with ballpark-like food vendors who walk up and down the aisles in their poly-uniforms selling peanuts for 5 bucks a bag. Nevertheless, the flight to Nice was indeed 'easy' and relatively cheap.
Ganesh arrived in the oversized baggage terminal unscathed. A few squirts of air in each tire, I loaded my panniers and followed the busy road until it connected with the well-worn bike path on the Promenade de Anglais. Riding out of the Nice Int'l Airport I felt the 'city-stress' from London disappear. After a week of 'cheerios,' buses, trains, tubes and cars, I was ready for the laid-back atmosphere of the Mediterranean. The 15 km ride to the ferry terminal reminded me of my days scooting up and down the Mission Beach board walk with roller bladers, runners and drunks moving past the stationary sun worshippers bronzing their bodies on le plage (the beach). I skipped the temptation to indulge in a creamy gelato, arriving at the Gare Maritime with time to spare. I’ve never been here before but it was easy to find simply following the Promenade de Anglais until it runs smack into the docks donning Mediterranean bound yachts.
The French labor strikes earlier in the week created pandamonium at the ferry counter. I met car travelers delayed for days eager to make the crossing to Corsica. Fortunately, there’s always room for a girl and Ganesh and I booked an open seating ticket for me and an extra tariff for Ganesh for a combined total of €35.
The ferry from Nice to Corsica is first class: videos, reclining chairs and deck seats. It carries hundreds of cars and even more passengers in less than 3 hours. Arriving to Corsica by boat was ideal with a slow introduction to the Corsican coastline and it’s varied terrain.
Off the boat, my chest swelled with the advantage of having Ganesh. I figured I could make the mad 2 km dash off the ferry to the city of Ajaccio and scour the hotels. I even had enough time for a few wrong turns. It was already 6:00 p.m. and rooms would be going fast. Despite my speed, I found signs reading 'Complet' hanging from the windows of all budget hotels. How soon I forget -- the French like to travel on a budget. As the sky grew dark and my choices ever so slim, I was forced to take shelter in a high priced dump a good 1.5 kays from town. The guidebooks were, well, misguided. The high season apparently started early this year. I had not seen the news for weeks and I gave a quick glance at CNN before exploring the streets of Ajaccio for the remainder of the night.
Ajaccio, Corsica
One of my favorite things to do in a new town is to start with an early morning run. Today is no different; I lace up my running shoes and head towards town. My run is interrupted by several hotels I missed the day before. Collecting a few business cards and jotting some notes, I continued through the old town, around the citadelle and past monuments dedicated to Ajaccio's most famous denizen, Napoleon Bonaparte. On my route back, I found a small hotel with old world charm and a receptionist with a thick French accent and fast tongue. Practicing my French (which makes my French friends cringe it's so horrible), I booked a nice room at a reasonable price for the night. I raced back to the expensive shack to pack and repack the panniers, carefully selecting only what was necessary for the next few weeks. This includes peeling out the Corsica pages of my France guidebooks. If nothing else I’ve learned, lightening the load is an art. After some convincing, I was able to leave a large backpack with the receptionist at the expensive shack for safe keeping for an undefined period of time. I wrote on a sticky attached to the strap: ‘Keep for Julie Gildred – I will return in a few weeks.’ It didn’t occur to me until later that I probably should have written my message in French.
Descending the hotel driveway I met 2 Dutch cyclists FULLY loaded with 4 panniers each and camping gear on their back racks piled as high as their heads. It's no wonder I discovered them way-layed by 2 broken spokes. She was tatooed with road rash on her shins and arm and missing more than half of her right front tooth; a benign byproduct of a self-inflicted accident a few days prior. He was wearing a wide grin and baggy shorts, his enthusiasm for independent cycling and the island obvious. Before escorting the Half-Toothsomes to the nearest bike shop, I pulled out my road map and pumped them for information on potential routes. Most tour companies follow a leisurely route starting in Ajaccio, moving South along the coast before heading inland through Sartene, Zonza, Porto- Vecchio and finally ending in Bonifaccio. Other more challenging routes include starting north in Calvi, down the rugged coastline of the Balange and then inland to the island's capital, Corte, or, alternatively, starting in the north east and following the east coast down to the south. With so many 'must see' destinations, I had trouble narrowing my course for researching my Ride Strong trip. The Half-Toothsomes had cycled from the north west and gave it high marks, becoming particularly animated as they described cycling through the lush interior.
The unseasonably high temps sent me straight to the beach for the rest of the afternoon to ponder my course while floating backside down in the Mediterrean. By the time I awoke from a short snooze, the route crystallized -- sort of. Starting in Calvi, I'll ride down the coast for a few days to Porto, take a sharp left to Evisa for a taste of the mountains and then back to the coast so as not to miss Les Calanches and continue along the water to Ajaccio. From there, I can follow the route to Bonifaccio and then somehow get back to Ajaccio to pick up my belongings. Happy with the decision, I spent the evening relaxing at a beach front cafe enjoying a romantic evening for one under the full moon.
Ajaccio - Calvi
The train from Ajaccio departs everyday at 6:45 a.m, except Sundays, when it departs at 8:00. Traveling by bike for nearly a year, through multiple time zones and even more languages, I rarely, if ever, take notice of the day. Arriving promptely at 6:45 am, I used the extra hour to begin installation of the new wireless odometer from San Diego -- hand delivered by friend in London. They have wireless odometers in London or France, just not cheap ones. Without the proper Philips head, I was only able to program the computer before gulping down a delicious café o’ lait.
The metre-guaged single track rail system in Corsica is over a century behind France's mainland counterpart. Of the four cars, one is sectioned off with a few bike hooks and I followed the lead of the other cyclist, hanging my bike next to his. An easy conversation ensued with hand gestures and maps. I learned in just a few whiffs, he was a Frenchman from the mainland who has cycled the island several times without ever once washing his jersey.
The tracks don't follow the most direct route, but instead run from Ajaccio to the interior where the west coast of Calvi and the east coast of Bastia adjoin in a 'Y' in the barren junction town of Ponte Leccia. Moving slower than a bus, we chugged, rocked and crept our way as the white sandy beaches gave way to Eucalyptus, pine and chestnut trees to heavily forested woodlands. The winter growth occassionally poked its way in the open car windows, forcing me to duck as I dashed from one side to the other soaking up the scenery. I try not to notice the century old bridges as we passed over deep ravines and gorges. We stopped occassionally for semi-wild pigs and goats (Corsican delicacies not to be disturbed) and slowed at charming rural stations to pick/drop weary hikers negotiating the plethora of trails on the island. In the tunnels, the smelly French cyclist and I hung on to eachother, as we used his screwdriver to attach the rest of the odometer to Ganesh. In Calvi, the train deposited us literally on the beach. I raced to my preferred hotel only to find it complet. Ditching my bike and bags at a nearby Gite d'Etape (dorm style hostels for hikers), the mediterranean beckoned me more than a place to sleep. The Australians I met on the train were kind enough to baby sit my fanny pack (i.e. all my valuables) as their wives and I waded for a good 50 meters before being knee deep in water. It felt like paradise.......
Calvi is a somewhat lazy west coast port town at the southern end of a 4 km long beach. About the size of Encinitas proper in terms of population it holds the disputed title as Christopher Columbus' birthplace and boasts a Genoese Citadel perched high above the Mediterranean. I'm able to hotel shop, have lunch and explore the town in less than 2 hours and spend the late afternoon gesticulating with a Corsican with bulging eyes and a bald head, eager to help me with my odometer (which is not registering) and even more eager to invite me to dinner. Back at the Gite, I'm delighted with the spacious seaside room and 3 English speaking roomies from Australia and Holland who are starting one of France's most famous hikes -- the 200 km, 15 stage 'GR 20'. We spent the too-hot-to-sleep night on our balcony swapping travel stories and comparing the size of our bellies after too much french bread and cheese. Some time after midnight we all assumed the position in bed when it's too hot -- on our backs, with half the sheet draped loosely over one leg -- go figure! Tomorrow is day 1 of riding and I'm anxious to see more of this island on bike!
The summer sun rises at 4:45 in London, ensuring an early start to Stansted airport. The 10 km ride from my hotel to the airport was the perfect dose of adrenaline and I was in the queue at the EasyJet check-in by 6:00 a.m.. With a smile and a little resistance, I saved myself the $40 tariff for Ganesh (my bike), allowing me to treat myself to a Starbucks before departing. EasyJet is the UK's version of SouthWest airlines, on steroids; they've replaced flight attendants with ballpark-like food vendors who walk up and down the aisles in their poly-uniforms selling peanuts for 5 bucks a bag. Nevertheless, the flight to Nice was indeed 'easy' and relatively cheap.
Ganesh arrived in the oversized baggage terminal unscathed. A few squirts of air in each tire, I loaded my panniers and followed the busy road until it connected with the well-worn bike path on the Promenade de Anglais. Riding out of the Nice Int'l Airport I felt the 'city-stress' from London disappear. After a week of 'cheerios,' buses, trains, tubes and cars, I was ready for the laid-back atmosphere of the Mediterranean. The 15 km ride to the ferry terminal reminded me of my days scooting up and down the Mission Beach board walk with roller bladers, runners and drunks moving past the stationary sun worshippers bronzing their bodies on le plage (the beach). I skipped the temptation to indulge in a creamy gelato, arriving at the Gare Maritime with time to spare. I’ve never been here before but it was easy to find simply following the Promenade de Anglais until it runs smack into the docks donning Mediterranean bound yachts.
The French labor strikes earlier in the week created pandamonium at the ferry counter. I met car travelers delayed for days eager to make the crossing to Corsica. Fortunately, there’s always room for a girl and Ganesh and I booked an open seating ticket for me and an extra tariff for Ganesh for a combined total of €35.
The ferry from Nice to Corsica is first class: videos, reclining chairs and deck seats. It carries hundreds of cars and even more passengers in less than 3 hours. Arriving to Corsica by boat was ideal with a slow introduction to the Corsican coastline and it’s varied terrain.
Off the boat, my chest swelled with the advantage of having Ganesh. I figured I could make the mad 2 km dash off the ferry to the city of Ajaccio and scour the hotels. I even had enough time for a few wrong turns. It was already 6:00 p.m. and rooms would be going fast. Despite my speed, I found signs reading 'Complet' hanging from the windows of all budget hotels. How soon I forget -- the French like to travel on a budget. As the sky grew dark and my choices ever so slim, I was forced to take shelter in a high priced dump a good 1.5 kays from town. The guidebooks were, well, misguided. The high season apparently started early this year. I had not seen the news for weeks and I gave a quick glance at CNN before exploring the streets of Ajaccio for the remainder of the night.
Ajaccio, Corsica
One of my favorite things to do in a new town is to start with an early morning run. Today is no different; I lace up my running shoes and head towards town. My run is interrupted by several hotels I missed the day before. Collecting a few business cards and jotting some notes, I continued through the old town, around the citadelle and past monuments dedicated to Ajaccio's most famous denizen, Napoleon Bonaparte. On my route back, I found a small hotel with old world charm and a receptionist with a thick French accent and fast tongue. Practicing my French (which makes my French friends cringe it's so horrible), I booked a nice room at a reasonable price for the night. I raced back to the expensive shack to pack and repack the panniers, carefully selecting only what was necessary for the next few weeks. This includes peeling out the Corsica pages of my France guidebooks. If nothing else I’ve learned, lightening the load is an art. After some convincing, I was able to leave a large backpack with the receptionist at the expensive shack for safe keeping for an undefined period of time. I wrote on a sticky attached to the strap: ‘Keep for Julie Gildred – I will return in a few weeks.’ It didn’t occur to me until later that I probably should have written my message in French.
Descending the hotel driveway I met 2 Dutch cyclists FULLY loaded with 4 panniers each and camping gear on their back racks piled as high as their heads. It's no wonder I discovered them way-layed by 2 broken spokes. She was tatooed with road rash on her shins and arm and missing more than half of her right front tooth; a benign byproduct of a self-inflicted accident a few days prior. He was wearing a wide grin and baggy shorts, his enthusiasm for independent cycling and the island obvious. Before escorting the Half-Toothsomes to the nearest bike shop, I pulled out my road map and pumped them for information on potential routes. Most tour companies follow a leisurely route starting in Ajaccio, moving South along the coast before heading inland through Sartene, Zonza, Porto- Vecchio and finally ending in Bonifaccio. Other more challenging routes include starting north in Calvi, down the rugged coastline of the Balange and then inland to the island's capital, Corte, or, alternatively, starting in the north east and following the east coast down to the south. With so many 'must see' destinations, I had trouble narrowing my course for researching my Ride Strong trip. The Half-Toothsomes had cycled from the north west and gave it high marks, becoming particularly animated as they described cycling through the lush interior.
The unseasonably high temps sent me straight to the beach for the rest of the afternoon to ponder my course while floating backside down in the Mediterrean. By the time I awoke from a short snooze, the route crystallized -- sort of. Starting in Calvi, I'll ride down the coast for a few days to Porto, take a sharp left to Evisa for a taste of the mountains and then back to the coast so as not to miss Les Calanches and continue along the water to Ajaccio. From there, I can follow the route to Bonifaccio and then somehow get back to Ajaccio to pick up my belongings. Happy with the decision, I spent the evening relaxing at a beach front cafe enjoying a romantic evening for one under the full moon.
Ajaccio - Calvi
The train from Ajaccio departs everyday at 6:45 a.m, except Sundays, when it departs at 8:00. Traveling by bike for nearly a year, through multiple time zones and even more languages, I rarely, if ever, take notice of the day. Arriving promptely at 6:45 am, I used the extra hour to begin installation of the new wireless odometer from San Diego -- hand delivered by friend in London. They have wireless odometers in London or France, just not cheap ones. Without the proper Philips head, I was only able to program the computer before gulping down a delicious café o’ lait.
The metre-guaged single track rail system in Corsica is over a century behind France's mainland counterpart. Of the four cars, one is sectioned off with a few bike hooks and I followed the lead of the other cyclist, hanging my bike next to his. An easy conversation ensued with hand gestures and maps. I learned in just a few whiffs, he was a Frenchman from the mainland who has cycled the island several times without ever once washing his jersey.
The tracks don't follow the most direct route, but instead run from Ajaccio to the interior where the west coast of Calvi and the east coast of Bastia adjoin in a 'Y' in the barren junction town of Ponte Leccia. Moving slower than a bus, we chugged, rocked and crept our way as the white sandy beaches gave way to Eucalyptus, pine and chestnut trees to heavily forested woodlands. The winter growth occassionally poked its way in the open car windows, forcing me to duck as I dashed from one side to the other soaking up the scenery. I try not to notice the century old bridges as we passed over deep ravines and gorges. We stopped occassionally for semi-wild pigs and goats (Corsican delicacies not to be disturbed) and slowed at charming rural stations to pick/drop weary hikers negotiating the plethora of trails on the island. In the tunnels, the smelly French cyclist and I hung on to eachother, as we used his screwdriver to attach the rest of the odometer to Ganesh. In Calvi, the train deposited us literally on the beach. I raced to my preferred hotel only to find it complet. Ditching my bike and bags at a nearby Gite d'Etape (dorm style hostels for hikers), the mediterranean beckoned me more than a place to sleep. The Australians I met on the train were kind enough to baby sit my fanny pack (i.e. all my valuables) as their wives and I waded for a good 50 meters before being knee deep in water. It felt like paradise.......
Calvi is a somewhat lazy west coast port town at the southern end of a 4 km long beach. About the size of Encinitas proper in terms of population it holds the disputed title as Christopher Columbus' birthplace and boasts a Genoese Citadel perched high above the Mediterranean. I'm able to hotel shop, have lunch and explore the town in less than 2 hours and spend the late afternoon gesticulating with a Corsican with bulging eyes and a bald head, eager to help me with my odometer (which is not registering) and even more eager to invite me to dinner. Back at the Gite, I'm delighted with the spacious seaside room and 3 English speaking roomies from Australia and Holland who are starting one of France's most famous hikes -- the 200 km, 15 stage 'GR 20'. We spent the too-hot-to-sleep night on our balcony swapping travel stories and comparing the size of our bellies after too much french bread and cheese. Some time after midnight we all assumed the position in bed when it's too hot -- on our backs, with half the sheet draped loosely over one leg -- go figure! Tomorrow is day 1 of riding and I'm anxious to see more of this island on bike!
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