Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/06/17/road-trip-europe-iii-25-05-22-25-05-29-the-island-of-corsica-who-knew/

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I already know the comfort limitations on Corsica Ferries from my first torturous voyage with them, so this time I stake out a table in the forward bar directly in front of the glass wall, buy one coffee, and refuse all further service for the rest of the trip.

As I occupy my bar chair with the panoramic view, a little girl of about 3 spends a long time staring through the window during the voyage, often ignoring her parents sitting at a nearby table. I can see the roaming instinct in her. Reminds me of myself in the New York subways. From my earliest years, I’ve always stood at the front of the train as it speeds through tunnels and elevated lines, staring out the window adjacent to the invisible motorman two feet away in his steel cab. The only reason I don’t still do it is that modern subway trains no longer have a passenger-accessible front window. I rarely ever sat in a seat.

The transit to Sardinia is only 5 hours, but open sea voyages are pretty boring and time crawls along. Had I been able to get passage on the Ichnusa Line, it would only have been 30 minutes. No wonder they’re always booked solid. During the voyage, I ask one of the crew why there’s only one trip between Corsica and Sardinia. He explains that it’s a way of serving both islands from their main port of Toulon, France. Their regular Corsica route is Toulon to Bastia, but occasionally they make the longer run to Porto Vecchio, then on to Sardinia to accommodate traffic from there back to Toulon. At 7:30 PM we dock at Porto Torres on the northwest coast of Sardinia, having crossed the sea border of France to Italy.

I’ve booked a room at a rural lodge, about two hours from the port. I’ve carefully written route instructions since I don’t have a phone. I head in the proper direction and try to buy a road map of Sardinia. After all, I used printed maps all my life until mobile route finding just became so much easier. But, with everyone using Google Maps or Waze (also owned by Google), gas stations just don’t have any demand for paper maps. To buy one in person these days, you have to go to a large bookstore. A kindly motorist overhears my attempt to tell a gas station attendant I want a map and, in English, asks me where I’m going. When I tell him the name of the larger town near my destination, Nuoro, he says he’s going there and I can follow him. I hop back in the car and chase him down the highway at high speed for about an hour, He repeatedly blows through signs saying “Electronic speed control” and associated overhead cameras. When we get to where I think our routes diverge, I thank him for the help and ask about the speed controls. He says to ignore them. We’ve stopped in the traffic lane so I can’t ask for more details: Are they non-functional or not monitored? Is it only in Sardinia or throughout Italy? My samaritan is gone and I don’t get that important in-the-know info.

I continue on what I think are my pre-written directions. After my high speed chase, I’m very low on fuel so I’m looking for the first service station I can find. I take the exit my scribbles indicate. It’s a complex interchange and I pick a wrong ramp. Suddenly, I find myself forced onto the highway back the way I came. Since the prior exit is way down the road, this will add 15 miles to my route. Will my fuel hold out? I’m not sure. To make things worse, it’s now dark, so any visual cues are sharply reduced. As I head away from my goal, I’m looking for a miracle solution. European limited access highways do not have barrier breaks for emergency vehicles. The center guard rail is uninterrupted, so an illegal U-turn is impossible.

Suddenly, I spy a break in the right shoulder. Is it an exit road? I brake sharply and see that it’s just a crude track branching off the pavement, but any port in a storm. It looks barely driveable, so I take it. Clearly unused, the vegetation is slapping the Berlingo as I inch along the ruts. Shortly, I come to a gated yard. Is this just a dead end driveway? But, no, an even smaller track spurs to the left. I take that and negotiate what appears to just be a cow path. After a while, I come to a junction and keep to the left because I need to get to the other side of the expressway. Luck is with me, the farm road goes through a narrow underpass, not much more than a big culvert, and a major obstacle is cleared. I’m on the north side of the expressway. I’m now sure this road goes somewhere, but where?

A little farther along, I see fast moving headlights — a paved road. I’m going to make it. The track eventually gets to the road, or almost to it. I cross a patch of grass and get onto the local 2-lane highway. It runs parallel to the expressway, so I’m sure it will take me back to where I need to go. I proceed back to where I made my wrong turn, but without a map or phone, I’m in trouble. In desperation, I stop at a local bar and try to ask if I can use their wifi on my laptop to get new directions onto paper. The two young guys are very nice and cooperate fully, despite our language barrier. They also try to direct me to the nearest gas station but I can see I’ll have trouble following their instructions. As I close the laptop and thank them profusely and try to buy something to return the favor, they insist on giving me a going away present, a beer or whatever I want. I’m floored.

I head off into the night, trying to find the gas station. I’m not successful, so I flag down a cop car and ask for directions again. I also can’t follow their instructions but I do finally stumble on a station. As with many automated stations, it won’t accept US credit cards. I imagine they refuse to pay the high merchant fees. I give up and feed some of my Euro cash into the machine and thus end that crisis.-

Now I still have to find my lodging. The first step is to get to the nearby town, Oliena. Directional signs seem to be influenced by the chambers of commerce. In a number of instances, they direct drivers not to the shortest route but detour you through the business district of the village you’re in. At one point, a sign points right for Oliena, A mile up the road, a second sign points back the way I just came. After a couple of passes, I figure out the first sign is simply wrong.

Once in Oliena, my written instructions are again of help. I find the route out of town that I need. I even have the distance to the driveway, but when I get there it’s completely unmarked.

I turn in but I’m on a deserted estate, There are two buildings but no lights or activity. I cruise around the property’s various tracks, but there’s nothing. I go out to the highway and remeasure the distance. By that standard, I appear to be in the right place. It’s now approaching midnight, so I give up and cram my 6 foot body in the 5 foot back seat in front of the deserted building. Very frustrating, and all for lack of a phone.

Friday morning dawns and I unfold myself from the seat. In order to look at a map and reorient myself, I drive into the town of Nuoro, locate a coffee shop with wifi, and haul out the laptop as I eat breakfast. Scrutinizing the map and satellite photos, I figure out that I stopped just a little short of my goal last night.

On my way back, I cross a modern bridge and notice that on my right is an abandoned, much older, arched version. Parking the car, I struggle through underbrush to the old bridge. On the one hand it looks like ancient construction, but since the approach shows remnants of paving, I think it was used until fairly recently, maybe 50 years ago.

The contrast between old and new bridges is interesting and in the thicket I also find a stone commemorating the death of two young people almost 50 years ago, perhaps in a traffic accident at that spot.

Returning to the car, I drive further down the highway and a short distance past last night’s driveway, find a commercial landmark I was looking for. Across the road is another unmarked, but wider, driveway. Proceeding up there, after a few junctions, I find my lodging. I slept only 1,500 feet away from my paid room, but on the neighbor’s property! I’m finally arriving, but just before checkout time.

I explain to Ivan, the owner, what delayed me. He gives me a quick tour and I like it enough to take a break there. I say I’d like three nights and, since there were empty rooms last night, would he credit what I paid toward the new charges. To my dismay, he says “No.” Had it been my lodging, I would have offered that courtesy without even being asked. But, it was not his fault that I was a no show, so I grudgingly accept it.

The lodge is so rustic, it isn’t even marked with a name. It’s what in Italy is called an agriturismo — guest facilities on a farm. It isn’t a full farming operation, but Ivan has pigs, chickens, and a large garden. There’s a lot to like, but it’s definitely a mixed bag. The rooms, including the one I had paid for and didn’t use, are in the attic and only about 5 feet high, sloping to less than 4 feet at the rear, where there’s a small window to the outside. As a result, they’re only suitable for sleeping.

The steep, ladder-like stairs are very hazardous, with zero protection from a possibly fatal fall from the narrow attic walkway. Completely unacceptable. There is an 8-bed dorm room on the first floor — no windows, one dim light bulb, and the only ventilation from a floor fan in the single, open doorway. A bed there is half the price of the unusable bedroom, so I opt for that.

Why, you ask, am I eager to stay in these miserable accommodations? Because everything else is just great. The lodge is adjacent to a beautiful shady garden — the key word here being “shady” since the sky is absolutely cloudless and the air is hot. There’s a large outdoor, shaded patio, an open air couch lounge under giant shade trees, a shaded hammock, two well equipped kitchens (both shaded), and even a basket of eggs for guest use. Just to the south is a broad view of impressive, bare rock mountains, And, there’s a hot tub-size swimming pool! It’s a perfect place to spend some time working.

There are interesting people to talk to, including two German cave divers, Unluckily, they spend the entire day working on their equipment, arranging for a motorboat, and driving across the island to the west coast. As evening approaches, they return, crestfallen — the boat motor, which they had rented from Ivan, wouldn’t start [sigh].

Taking full advantage of the kitchen, I cook myself a great dinner. Ivan has been chiding me for various trivial power “wasting” activities like failing to turn off the 12-watt dorm light bulb when I leave the room and leaving my laptop plugged in to charge while I’m not using it. Late in the evening, I retire to my bunk bed in the dorm. It has much of the ambience of a Louisiana prison cell. As I lie there, my dissatisfaction with the conditions and the owner’s refusal to credit my original payment increases and my desire to spend two more nights here ebbs away. I have a last minute invitation from a Servas host in Sassari, which I initially turned down because it would require driving back almost to where I arrived on Sardinia. Now, I’m reconsidering, so I send a message asking if they’re still interested.

Morning arrives. While waiting for a response, I make a satisfying breakfast and again enjoy all the lodge’s pleasant amenities. In the early afternoon, the Sassari host replies that I’m very welcome there, so I pack up, pay my one night bill, and start the two hour drive back west and north. Now that I’m retracing my route, the lack of GPS isn’t a problem, at least not until I leave the highway and again have to follow the directions to the host’s residence I’ve written out in advance.

After 30 minutes of confusion, I find my destination and go upstairs to a gratifyingly warm welcome. Mauro and Maria live on the 5th floor roof of their building. They have, essentially, two penthouse apartments at opposite ends of the roof, each with a generous patio and expansive view.

Their immediate neighbor is the elaborate Villa Mimosa, dating from 1911 and surrounded by its own park. The open roof space between the apartments is common to the entire building but, to a substantial extent, they have it to themselves. The outdoor area is lush with their greenery. You would be hard put to find a nicer urban residential setting.

Mauro and Maria do not speak any English, and I, of course, do not speak Italian or Sardinian. It’s quickly apparent that our verbal communication is going to be via Google Translate, handing phones back and forth. Even with this limitation, plus that I don’t currently have a working phone, the language barrier is only a modest limitation. They set me up in the secondary apartment, which is fully equipped and very comfortable.

Over on their side of the roof, we have a nice dinner and start having effective conversations via Translate. Mauro offers me the use of a phone that apparently belongs to his brother, but to make it useful I would have to do a factory reset and put in my own accounts and apps, so I just use it in the apartment for translation and mapping.

As darkness descends, Mauro offers to take me out on a walking tour of the town. Sardinia, I’m finding out has a long and varied history. It has been conquered, dominated, or influenced by many cultures and powers over the millenia. This is due to its central location in the Mediterranean Sea, making it important in the marine trade that has dominated that area throughout history and prehistory. Sardinia has also been coveted for its rich mineral resources. It has been an important source of obsidian, gold, silver, lead, copper, and zinc, salt, iron, and coal.

Even a quick summary of the island’s history would be too long here, but its importance is illustrated by a list of various forces that have played a role: Prehistoric cultures, Nuragic culture, Phoenicians, Romans, Vandals, Goths, Byzantines, Iberians, Judicates, Pisans, Genoese, Spanish, House of Savoy, and Italians. Everybody wanted a foothold in Sardinia.

Mauro’s about 3 years younger than me and in good physical condition. Our long walk loops us past dozens of sidewalk bars and cafes, all filled with boisterous young people out for Saturday evening socializing. Soaking up the enthusiastic crowd, you wouldn’t know Italy has a serious aging crisis. They have the oldest population in Europe, and second oldest in the world! None of this is evident tonight as we reach the Piazza d’Italia, its 2.5 acre extent equally packed with nightlife.

Dominating the center is a large statue of Vittorio Emanuele II, one of the dominant Savoys. In 1849, he became the last king of the modest island of Sardinia. Was he the end of the family line? No way. To the contrary, he wangled one of the biggest job promotions in history. 12 years later, he became king of all Italy, and his family retained that cushy job for the next 85 years. It wasn’t until 1946, after Italy made a slight error of judgment by losing World War II, that the monarchy ended by popular vote.

After the piazza, we move into Sassari’s old town, by contrast very quiet this evening. Spain ruled Sardinia for 400 years and its architectural influence remains strong. As we walk through the nearly deserted, narrow streets. Mauro points out the Spanish building designs and various historical relics that pepper the neighborhood. Keep in mind that our extensive conversation is almost all happening on the screen of his phone. Our long walking tour ends back at the house and I’m ready to sleep.

I’m finding an interesting new aspect of the Italian language. As I pronounce Italian place names, I’m being corrected by the people I’m talking to. Unlike in Spanish or Portuguese, most Italian words seem to have the emphasis on the first syllable. Sassari is SAH-sahri. As I think about it, this trait may be what is spoofed in stereotype Italian accents, a la Chico Marx, i.e. before doing comic ethnic impressions became politically incorrect. I have to say, it may be more respectful to eschew that sort of humor, but the breadth of comedy is definitely far more constricted these days when jokes about almost any group (except hillbillies) can ruin a career.

Sunday morning, Mauro invites me to accompany him to the seaside town of Alghero (AL-gayro). Both of his sons own tourist apartments there and since they don’t live in Sardinia, Mauro handles the rentals for them. My understanding is we’re going just to welcome a family of 3 Americans arriving today. I’ve decided to buy a new interim phone, so we stop first at an electronics chain store. One of the salespeople speaks English, and I ask him for an inexpensive phone with the Android operating system. He suggests a Chinese brand that costs only about $100 and I buy it.

Mauro and I continue to Alghero, park the car, and walk about 10 minutes to the apartment which is just steps from a busy tourist waterfront promenade. I immediately notice the street signs use the Catalan word “Carrer” instead of the Italian “Strada”. There’s 200 miles of open water between us and Catalonia, in Spain, so I ask Mauro about it. He says Alghero has persisted as a Catalonian enclave since invaders from Aragon, Spain arrived in 1372. The 400 year period of Spanish rule of the island ended over 300 years ago, yet many town residents still speak Algherese, a variant of Catalan.

I’m expecting a quick room makeup and guest greet. I’m wrong. The apartment is in disarray and looks as if no one has stayed there for quite a while. Mauro has a substantial cleaning job ahead of him. I offer to help but he gives me a firm “No” and suggests I go out and explore the town.

I proceed to do this, walking the wide seaside, pedestrian mall. There’s a lot of activity and the one-time fortification is lined with outdoor restaurants, gift shops, and kiosks. Every few hundred feet there is a life size reconstruction of a catapult, trebuchet, or other defensive weapon of the past pointed out to sea. It would be nice to take a swim but the sun is hot, the beach is far away, and by midday there’s very little shade. Instead, I go into cockroach mode, scurrying through sunny stretches between shady resting spots. Back at the apartment, I have no way to get Mauro’s attention until he passes by a window, so I sit in a narrow bit of shade in the little piazza outside. I must look pitiful, because a waitress from the adjacent restaurant taking a smoke break asks me if I’m ok. Even though I’m not in any distress, it’s a really kind gesture of concern. After a few minutes, I get Mauro’s attention and he buzzes me in. He’s still cleaning and still refusing to let me help. I sit in a corner starting the long process of making my new phone usable.

The guests are flying in to the regional airport, renting a car, driving here, and finding a place to park outside the pedestrian zone where we’re located. As a result, they won’t arrive until about 8:30 PM and we can’t head for home until they do. Since they’re American, one thing I can do is relieve Mauro of the difficulty of communicating with them. I start trading text messages to get their status and help them home in on us. When they finally get to the apartment, Mauro and I can walk back to the car and head back to Sassari.

On the way home, I point out that spending the entire day driving and preparing for one night of guests can’t possibly be cost effective. He responds that his two sons are creative types, painter and filmmaker, and do not earn much money. Indeed, one son recently earned a prestigious award for a film he created. He does this out of love for them. I get it, but I’m very relieved that both of my kids are financially stable.

Once home, I start using my new phone. It doesn’t take me long to find out that although Google Maps works as expected, Google Timeline displays a message saying it’s not supported. A little research informs me that the phone does not have the Android operating system, but rather Android Go. I’ve never heard of this, but it’s a crippled version installed on low end phones which does not support all Android apps. Since Timeline is an absolutely critical part of my travel recordkeeping, this phone is clearly unsuitable. I do a factory reset, repack the phone, and resolve to go back to the store in the morning and swap it out for something more expensive and powerful. Except for the wasted time and the extra money, this should be trivial.

Back on my laptop, I search for a way to travel from Sardinia to the other major Italian island, Sicily, the infected big toe of Italy’s well known “boot” shape. To my surprise, there is only one ferry a week, on Saturday. Since today is Sunday, I make a reservation and then plan out my remaining time in Sardinia. The ferry leaves from the Sardinian capital, Cagliari {KAHL-yari) at the southern end of the island, over 2 hours from Sassari. I have two invitations from hosts in Cagliari, each for specific days, so I decide to drive directly there tomorrow.

Monday morning after breakfast, Mauro takes me out on another excursion by foot to the Sanna Museum. Although not massive, it has a diverse collection of artifacts from the various periods of Sardinian history. I learn about the Bronze Age, Nuragic culture, a prehistoric civilization that persisted for about 1,600 years. They must have been under severe pressure as they filled Sardinia with at least 7,000 stone tower forts, called nuraghes. The museum has a selection of artifacts covering thousands of years of Sardinian habitation. Apparently, the island is a gold mine of archaeology. One big surprise is that elephants were native to many Mediterranean islands. They were able to migrate during the Pleistocene period when the current islands were accessible via land. As often happens to large animals stranded on islands, their size shrunk over the millenia and they became dwarf elephants. Sardinia is unique in that it yields the only evidence of a dwarf mammoth. Imagine a mammoth that betrays its name by being smaller than a modern cow.

As we near the house, right across the street, in the villa garden, Mauro points out an unusual tree he identifies as the “drunken stick”. Ceiba speciosa. It’s unusual shape is said to be due to it storing water in its bulbous trunk.

On returning home, I pack up, we say our goodbyes, and I leave for Cagliari. First, I stop at the electronics store for what I think will be a quick upgrade from the phone I purchased yesterday, but it’s not to be. I tell the same salesman that the phone he recommended is not suitable. He says once I’ve started up the phone, the warranty is in force and they cannot take it back. I say, I asked for Android but got Android Go. He says that’s still Android and there’s nothing he can do. I say you didn’t sell me what I asked for.

Remaining polite and cheerful, but insistent, I speak to the store’s floor manager. She concurs the phone is now mine and they won’t take it back, but I’m welcome to buy a more expensive one as well. I ask to speak to the store manager and am told he/she will not arrive for another 2 hours. I surprise her by saying I’ll wait and start pacing back and forth along the cell phone sales counter, quietly lurking behind customers shopping for hardware but careful not to display any anger or aggression..

This behavior makes the staff very uncomfortable and I see various consultations going on. In about an hour, when I make some innocent conversation with a pair of shoppers, they’ve had enough. I’m called over and told I’ll get a refund. They take the phone and hand me the 90 Euro price back in cash — no paperwork at all. I’m certainly not willing to spend more money now in that store for a better phone, so I leave and head southward on the highway.

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/20/road-trip-europe-iii-25-05-03-25-05-10-madrid-springs-and-canyons-dr-zhivago-locale-calatayud-the-hike-from-hell-and-return-to-girona/

[NOTE: Some displayed images are automatically cropped. Click or tap any photo (above the caption) to see it in full screen.

Getting off the 17 hour ferry from Sête, I’m tired, but it’s a beautiful day and I’m eager to explore Corsica. Pascal and Marie have urged me to sightsee the north end of the island, Cape Corsica, which is a relatively narrow “finger”. We’ve disembarked in Bastia, one of the largest Corsican towns. It sits at the base of the cape, so getting off the ferry, I turn right and I’m immediately on my way. The distances aren’t that great so I figure I’ll be done in 2 or 3 hours. I head north along the water, and within minutes the road becomes sinuous, twisting and turning as it follow the steep inclines that drop down almost into the sea. Above me to the left are entire mountainside communities perched on precipitous slopes. I will find this is common on the island. Flat land is scarce so many people live on steep terrain. Not far along, I see a tower high above to my left and find the street that climbs to it. Climb it does in switchbacks and steep uphill curves. The tower turns out to be the spire of a church in a wooded setting.

Going a little further, I hit a dead end residential alley with a stunning view of the coast and sea.

Twisting my way back down to sea level, I continue north. I’m really tired from my uncomfortable night on the ferry, so I stop twice for short naps. The northeast corner of the cape is sparsely populated, so I turn off on a dead end road just to see where it goes. It gets a little rough as it ends at a very pleasant beach and adjacent bar. I figure a bath will wake me up, so I go into the quiet water to swim and float for a while. Immersion does the trick and my fatigue disappears, so I walk the coastal trail for a mile or so to get a better look at the island of Elba off to the northeast. Just off the coast is a small island containing one of the 16th century Genoese watchtowers that ring the entire island. Their function was to warn of Muslim Ottoman galleys, also known as Barbary Pirates, approaching from Africa to raid for loot and Christian slaves. The basic Genoese strategy was to yell, “Run, run, hide! You can’t protect yourselves!” They eventually gave up Corsica as unmanageable, also due to interminable revolts of the locals. They got out gracefully by selling the island to the French in 1768.

Eventually, I return to the car and continue my counterclockwise circuit of the cape, stopping briefly in the picturesque northern tip town of Barcaggio before turning back south along the west coast.

Every turn of the road offers beautiful but precipitous views of lushly green mountains with many exposures of bare rock, always with the sea at the base. I had no inkling Corsica is so beautiful. The road winds high above the coast with barely a straight stretch anywhere. I’m due at Pascal’s home at 7 PM but I now see that my inchwise progress will make me at least 2 hours late. I let him know and he replies that he will not wait dinner and suggests I eat something before arrival.

Finally, at almost 9 PM I reach his house on the east side of of the island and he readily agrees travel on Corsica roads is excruciatingly slow despite (and because of) the magnificent scenery. We spend a little more time getting acquainted but since we spoke at length on the ferry and because I badly need a comfortable sleep, we make it a fairly early night.

When you’re on an island with a car, it’s important to know how and when you can leave. Ferries can easily be fully booked or very expensive. Thus, first thing this morning I check out the possibilities. The ferry ride to Sardinia, my next destination, is only 30 minutes but Pascal tells me two of three boats of one company are not operating and the other line is shut down completely at the moment. Indeed, online searching shows nothing available on either line until June 4th, which will slow my progress to mainland Italy by too much. Hoping there is a standby system or waitlist that might get me on board sooner, I email the Ichnusa inquiry line. As backup, I ask Pascal to phone them with the same question while I send a query to the other line, Moby, which he thinks isn’t operating at the moment. He gets an answering machine, so we have no useful info yet.

I’m setting off today on my own tour of southeastern Corsica, and I decide to add a stop at the physical ferry office at the southern tip of the island. I set off on a secondary road that parallels Corsica’s mountainous backbone. Running from north to south, the range has peaks to almost 9,000 feet and in the distance many still have substantial snow cover. The scenery quickly becomes amazing.

One of my first encounters is a river pool that’s a near perfect swimming hole. It’s inlet is a small waterfall, and the pool is long and deep. I later find out this is where Pascal grew up, spending many hours fishing the river to help support his family.

As I resume my southwestward drive, the road goes up and over a ridge through a large fire burn area. Judging by the regrowth, I guess it dates from about 10 years ago.

Descending, I come to a wooded challenge park. It’s still closed, but when open it offers a series of rope walks, zip lines, and flexible bridges. It must be fun to work the course.

I stop at a parking area signed for one of Corsica’s hundreds of trails and fire roads. Ahead are rugged, sculpted, mountains. The views are a mixture of bare rocks and mature forest, much of it pine trees. In the other direction, I’m looking back down at the Mediterranean, about 10 miles distant. I am still shocked at how ruggedly beautiful Corsica is.

I take a short hike up the trail and end up making a loop with a steep, rocky descent on a “sort of” trail back to my starting point. The sun is out but temperatures are modest and a stiff breeze keeps me cool.

Re-entering the forest, the road becomes serpentine, winding tightly upward toward Bavella Pass at about 4,000 feet. Pascal has told me I can hike to a waterfall here but the parking areas are crowded and private. About a 1000 feet past the main crush, I find a pullout, park, and walk back to the trailhead. The scenery here is also rugged and I start downslope on a well worn path. After 20 minutes, a trail sign points out that the waterfall is about a 4-hour round trip. Given my other plans for the day, this is too far so, disappointed, I reverse and head back to the car. South of the pass, the road descends spectacularly and steadily toward Porto Vecchio on the eastern coast, another important Corsica port.

Back at sea level, the temperature is noticeably hotter. In addition, the center is full of tourists, so I content myself with a drive by and then leave via the waterfront.

From here, it’s another 40 minutes south through flat, coastal territory to Bonifacio, the ferry port closest to Sardinia, about a 30 minute crossing. The town is attractive, but also crowded with visitors. I have a hard time imagining how bad island traffic must be during the actual summer vacation period with the crush of people, cars, RVs, and tourist buses winding their way along the narrow, mountain roads. I work my way downhill to the port, leave my car blatantly illegally parked, and walk to the ferry terminal building. There’s a line of vehicles queued up for boarding but no ferry in sight. Inside the small terminal building, the counters for both ferry companies are closed and deserted, so I’m not going to get the firsthand information I came for. Unwilling to wait for an unknown period and perhaps not getting a productive answer anyway, I give up, I continue my driving loop, heading northwest along a scenic coast highway and turn off, as planned, on another mountain road, this one on the west side of the backbone range.

It’s another sinuous highway, with narrow lanes and endless sharp, blind turns. This one goes over two passes above 4,000 feet. The first, Col de Vaccia, is fairly austere and rocky, while the second, Col de Verde, fits its name (“green”), being heavily forested all the way through. Off and on, I come around a curve and encounter farm animals grazing without stress on the roadway. Cows, pigs, goats — they all have the right of way over the few cars along the route.

Eventually, I get back to the coastal plain and Pascal’s house where he has dinner almost ready. More pleasant conversation and then bed. I’m pretty concerned about getting from Corsica to Sardinia in a timely way. In the worst case, I might have to ferry directly to the Italian mainland and skip Sardinia entirely. I recall a casual remark Pascal made that the local ferry companies don’t participate with travel agents and that he thinks Corsican Ferries handles that aspect for them. Pursuing that lead, I look on their site and — to my great surprise — Corsican Ferries itself advertises one, and only one, voyage between Corsica and Sardinia, for this Thursday. It’s a perfect date for me and, even better, the fare shows as “half price”. I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s because I joined the Corsican Ferries loyalty program before my first journey, from Sête, France. It doesn’t matter. I book immediately and my scheduling problem is solved! It’s a 5 hour crossing instead of 30 minutes, but who cares?

Saturday, I stay close to home. I meet a friend of Pascal’s, a young woman struggling with her role as volunteer firefighter due to encounters with sexual harassment and some fear of possible violence in the overwhelmingly male environment. This is so sad to see in this day and age but she says there is no official support to address her situation. Pascal recommends I check out the Saturday street market in town, so I walk to the center and end up buying homemade salami and goat cheese from one of the vendors. They’re both really tasty, even though I’m not generally a salami lover.

I’ve been offering to cook something but I always get a polite refusal. Finally, Pascal confides that he doesn’t like anyone using his kitchen. But, he tells me, he’s much more relaxed about it now. Until a few years ago, he says, he didn’t even allow anyone else to enter it.

Sunday morning, I ‘m going to head across the island to a second host. She has warned me to bring some food because Sunday shopping is very limited in her small village. Fortunately, in France stores are open Sunday mornings. I bid farewell to Pascal and his dogs after a really nice visit.

I stop at the supermarket and load up on groceries. By now, I’m accustomed to long drives over short ‘as the crow flies” distances across Corsica. The route starts out in flat, coastal countryside. Not too far along, I get a view of a beautiful piece of engineering design, a 14th century Genoese bridge over the Tavignano River. Amazingly, until a modern bypass was opened in 2011, this ancient bridge was part of the main highway, carrying even heavy truck traffic.

The transit to the tiny community of Curzu takes over 3 hours, twisting surprisingly close to snow covered peaks,

then climbing to the Col de Vergio mountain pass, shrouded in beautiful pine forest.

On the other side, the road descends continuously for an incredible 25 miles only to immediately start rising again over another ridge.

I finally reach Curzu, The last stretch — the main road through the village — is a severely steep switchback. MaryLou’s house extends down the embankment below the road. On the narrow street, I park with my wheels tucked perilously close to the vertical wall above her property to leave room for traffic, including large delivery trucks.

She escorts me down steep outside stairs to a delightful garden terrace and the lower floor of the house, which includes her guest rooms. The long drive, requiring my full attention through the mountains, has tired me out and Marylou invites me to take a nap on an outdoor bed in the shade of a large tree. This is irresistible and an hour’s sleep puts me back in action.

Marylou is French and German, very dynamic and welcoming, and makes her living as a language trainer. She does some of her work remotely with students and also has a student, René, staying in the house, taking daily lessons. He is German, a Mercedes truck salesman from the Dusseldorf area. I meet him when he returns from a day of biking. Although married with 2 teenagers, he’s taking two months off without pay to learn French with MaryLou. I never fully understand his motivation, but at least in part, he just needs an adventure and this is it. From my point of view, dealing with two teenage daughters is reason enough to bolt.

All three of us speak German, and MaryLou is also proficient at Spanish, but outside of René’s French lessons, when the 3 of us are talking or it’s only him and me, we settle on English for our conversation. He already speaks it but he’s not overly proficient. The more we talk, the better his vocabulary gets, with me supplying the right word whenever he has only a German term at hand. We talk about his decision and he describes how many of his colleagues simply can’t understand how could do such a thing. He says one of his friends is so upset he no longer talks to him.

About 6 PM, when the sun is less intense, MaryLou and I go down to the beach for a swim. It’s only 3 miles away, but the dizzying descent from Curzu on narrow roads takes 15 minutes. This part of the coast is a large bay and the water is quite calm and not at all cold. Marylou has brought a diving mask for me, so I can see the clear bottom and the large number of saddled seabream that inhabit the surf zone.

She describes a recent close call when she swam from the beach around a headland, had some kind of problem, and ended up with a very difficult barefoot hike over steep rocks to get back to the beach. No one knew she was out there so she was completely on her own. This leads to a conversation about how solitary activity is much more risky than with a companion. A small mishap with a second person present can be dealt with, but solo it can be dangerous or fatal. About 8 PM, we return home, where René has cooked a delicious dinner for all of us and the good talk continues until bedtime.

Monday morning, I prepare a French toast breakfast for us. It’s really a quite consistent pattern that foods named after a nation are rarely called that there. There are no “French” fries (pommes frites) or “French” toast (pain perdu) in France, no “Swiss” cheese (Emmentaler) in Switzerland, and no “Belgian” waffles in Belgium (that one’s at least close: Brussels waffle). The patio and garden are so shady and pleasant, and the direct sun is too hot for me, so Monday is spent without going anywhere until late afternoon. The three of us are going to a different beach for a swim. René drives a pretty elegant Mercedes sedan and I joke that he should experience the luxury (NOT!) of my Citroën to see what a real vehicle feels like. He declines the privilege and takes his own car down the mountain.

Once at the beach, there’s a little surf — nothing like the ocean – but MaryLou, thinking of her recent problem, holds off. René and I start to enter the water, but he says he’s not a strong swimmer and doesn’t go in beyond his knees before abandoning the idea. For me, the waves, compared to Atlantic surf, are almost trivial and absolutely no problem. We’re adjacent to a family-run beach bar and MaryLou knows the owner so she’s conversing there. I come out and join them but can’t do much more than nod and grin as the talk is all in French. Another guy joins us and he speaks heavily French-accented German, so I get a bit of participation in but he’s not really interested in what I have to say. As the sun drops, the wind has died down and the water is calm, so MaryLou and I go in for a swim. The bar has had absolutely no paying customers since we arrived, so we decide to have a drink. Something called Palermo is recommended to me, and we get generous portions. It turns out to be some sort of bright red herb liqueur. I could have lived quite well without it, but what the hell, we gave the bar a little business. We drive back up to Curzu and I make the dinner I’d planned for the 3 of us, Chinese fried rice, using all the fresh sausage and produce I brought with me. Halfway through the sauteing, the propane gas tank runs out. At that time of the evening, there is absolutely no way to get a full one, so we improvise finishing preparation with a couple of electrical appliances. It still tastes good.

Since I’m currently about 4 hours from the ferry terminal in Porto Vecchio, I’ve accepted another host invitation in Propriano for Tuesday and Wednesday nights. This will make my Thursday morning run to the ferry terminal much shorter. I’ve written to the host for final confirmation that it’s okay to arrive, but I’ve gotten no reply all day. MaryLou would like me to stay longer anyway, so I have a home. That’s no problem, but I would rather not leave the long make or break drive from Curzu to the ferry for the last minute. There’s only one departure and missing it would likely force me to skip a visit to Sardinia. I ask Marylou to call Françoise, but she just gets voice mail.

I should say here that during my stay with Marylou, I managed to destroy my cell phone. I won’t completely humiliate myself by detailing my stupidity, but suffice it to say if my daughter reads this she’ll know immediately what I did based on my past history. A broken phone while traveling as I do is a grave problem. For one thing, all contact with the outside world is lost unless I’m on my laptop with a wifi connection– no contacting hosts, no ferry status updates, no nothing. Even worse, I can’t see my real time map location. In preparation for the drive to Françoise’s house, I carefully write down each step of the directions on paper. This works well as long as I successfully follow them but if I make one mistake, without the phone GPS, I don’t know where I am and the remaining directions are worthless unless I can successfully backtrack to a recognizable point on my recorded route.

Tuesday morning, my planned departure is on hold since I still haven’t heard from Françoise. It’s another completely sunny day, so I again stick close to home. Later, as the sun gets less intense, we go back to the second beach. Finally, Françoise returns Marylou’s call, apologizing for not having heard her voice mail or seen my prior texts. We agree I’ll go to her house tomorrow, even though the visit will be abbreviated by my need to get to the ferry Thursday morning.

Wednesday morning is when the itinerant bakery truck comes by. His horn signals the customers to come out to the street, much like the ice cream trucks of my youth in Brooklyn. I buy a few pastries. They’re a bit costly and not the best I ever had, but they were brought right to the door.

In the early afternoon, I pack up and leave MaryLou’s for Propriano. It’s been a really stimulating time here with wide ranging discussions and it’s hard to go. The first part of the drive continues southward along a coastal highway. There are continuous, tortuous twists and turns and many beautiful views from the frequent turnouts.

Traffic is quite heavy and I think again how crowded these scenic roads must be during the summer vacation season. Even now, progress is slowed to a crawl by elderly drivers of RVs (which are called “camping cars” in Europe) who think their vehicles are 10 feet wide and insist on taking their half of the narrow two-lane road from the middle, and then crowding to the right and coming to almost a complete stop every time there’s an oncoming vehicle, which is always. At one point, I meet a full size tour bus, completely inappropriate for this highway, which is inching around a sharp turn with a man on foot walking backward directing the driver so as to keep the bus as close to the rock wall as possible without scraping it, this to avoid shoving cars in the other lane over the precipitous embankment. Of course the line of oncoming cars has to wait through this maneuver and behind the bus are at least 50 vehicles that can’t pass it. The final part of the drive is through flatter coastal plains. Fortunately, Françoise’s home is only a couple of blocks off a numbered route, so my written directions get me there without major confusion.

Françoise is a retired teacher. She lives in the lower floor of a large house, having given over the upper one to one of her sons and his family. She often takes care of her two grandsons. She participates in a drum circle and tonight is a meeting on the nearby beach. It’s a pot luck dinner, so she’s prepared a sort of spinach quiche. We load the food and some large drums in her car for the short drive. There are about 15 people and, as usual at a social event where I don’t speak the language, most of the conversation goes over my head. A vivacious Moroccan woman who speaks English takes pity on me and she and I converse at length. After a few hours, the sun is down and I’m waiting for the drumming to start. Instead, food, beer, and wine having been consumed, everyone packs up their gear and heads home. Françoise tells me the group can be frustrating which is why she has quit and rejoined it many times.

Thursday morning, I have to drive to the ferry terminal in Porto Vecchio. Over breakfast, Françoise mentions some cell phone problems, so I take a look. She brings out a newer phone and says she would like to switch to that one. I start migrating data from old to new for her and suddenly have an idea. If I can get her new phone fully functional, perhaps she’ll sell or give me the old one to replace my broken one. Unfortunately, I’ve started the project too late. I must leave Propriano by 12:30 to catch my ferry and, while I get her up and running on the new phone, there’s not enough time to migrate everything over. I came close to a cheap solution but close, as they say, only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

I make the drive from Propriano to Porto Vecchio. It’s straightforward, without too many slow, winding stretches, so my lack of GPS is no problem. Finding the ferry terminal is also easy because I drove through last week and know the layout. I arrive in time to queue in the loading line, which is incredibly long and completely stationary in the hot sun. Finally, we all inch toward the ferry, which holds an enormous number of cars and trucks on 3 decks, and depart on time. I’m on my way to Sardinia and Italy.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/07/13/road-trip-europe-iii-25-05-29-25-06-02-sardinia-big-italy-island-with-a-long-history/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/20/road-trip-europe-iii-25-05-03-25-05-10-madrid-springs-and-canyons-dr-zhivago-locale-calatayud-the-hike-from-hell-and-return-to-girona/

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Saturday evening, I reach son, Eric’s, house in the Girona suburb of Sarrià de Ter. He’s informed me this is not the week he would have picked for my visit. He’s trying to organize his contractor for a full roof replacement, executing major related home improvement projects, training for his upcoming hard-core bike tour guiding in the Italian Dolomites, and girlfriend Gemma is coming home Friday, at which point he would like me gone for privacy reasons. They haven’t seen each other for a month.

I’ve got a number of things to accomplish this week but it will also be a kick back and slow down time. I get set up in the guest room and start planning my tasks. My major one is to get the Berlingo inspected before I leave Spain. It’s not due for a few months but I’ll be out of the country and there’s no grace period. If I hadn’t spent 10 months in New York, I’d have plenty of time left, but I did, so I’ll have to get it renewed prematurely. I ordered a set of 4 tires from Amazon Spain in March and Eric had those mounted for me just before I arrived from New York on April 1. Sunday, with everything in Spain closed, the only progress I can make is to replace my smashed but functional right tail light with a unit I ordered from an auto parts site a while back. Other than that, I just sit in front of the computer, scrounge a couple of meals, and take it easy. During the afternoon, there’s a clamor in the street below. A raucous crowd of jerseyed athletes and onlookers are marching and cheering. Eric explains it’s the Sarrià de Ter handball team. Handball is a big deal in the town because a town native coached Brazil’s handball team to a silver medal in the 2016 Olympics and the Spain team to European championships in 2018 and 2020. City hall, normally shut tight on Sundays, is opened up and the team, almost certainly a local one, stands on a balcony and is cheered by the crowd. The level of enthusiasm is far greater than I ever imagined handball merited. For that matter, I’ve never understood how spectators, who don’t play, can be so rabid about a team, but I guess I’m missing an important gene.

Monday morning, I walk to the nearby dentist to get an appointment. I have a little work to be done and, luckily, they have an appointment for Wednesday morning. Next up is windshield replacement. It has a couple of small cracks that are only significant because they will fail the inspection. My auto insurance covers the replacement fully, and Eric had made a number of appointments while I was gone but never managed to get the car to the glass shop. When he called a few days ago, the shop manager had enough and just refused to deal with him. I figure a new face might fare better, so I make the short drive and, without further ado, I get an appointment, also for Wednesday. Now, I should have no problem escaping town by Friday.

I find out that I’ve had misconceptions about horchata, my favorite drink. In the U.S., it’s often available in Mexican restaurants. I always thought of it as a rice-based drink but when I first bought it in Spain, I learned it is always made from chufa (tiger nuts), a nut-like fruit largely unknown in North America, so I assumed my earlier rice idea was incorrect. In fact, some weeks ago, my host in Valencia, Spain went out of his way to take me to Horchata Avenue, a street celebrated as the center of chufa-based horchata drinks. Today, I bring some home from Aldi and Eric enlightens me that horchata is not one drink but a class of them — sweetened water extracts of a variety of plant materials. So, yes, the Mexican version is made with rice, the Spanish version is almost always chufa. In other countries, the base can be barley, melon seeds, sesame seeds, and a substantial variety of other substances. The word itself derives from the Latin word for barley. Orgeat syrup, used in the U.S. as a cocktail flavoring, is an almond-based horchata and the two words have a common etymology. So now you know much more than you ever wanted to about horchata, and only because I love to drink it.

My appointments arranged, Eric suggests a modest hike to a nearby hilltop ruin. It’s only about 4 miles round trip and the air temperature is moderate but the weather is 100% sunny and at midday there isn’t much shade, so it takes some effort on my part to ignore my thermal discomfort. I go into cockroach mode, as usual, scurrying across sunny stretches from one spot of shade to the next. The ascent of the hill is along an old road, so it’s a substantial but forgiving grade. We emerge at the top at an old church. Its cemetery has been in use from the 8th to 21st centuries and is currently under archaeological excavation.

A little further on, at the top of the hill, are the excavated ruins of a Roman fortress named Castellum Fractum. This hill, overlooking the surrounding region, has been so strategic that it’s been occupied since prehistoric times, successively by the ancient Iberians, the Romans, the Visigoths, the Catalonians, and now by a rich guy’s nearby hotel. There are many interpretive displays to explain what we’re seeing.-

The return trip is a long walk down the access road. At the bottom we stop for lunch in a Romanian restaurant before walking the last mile home, in the sun, alongside a busy highway.

Tuesday, I’m sedentary, while Eric generates intense rock dust on his unfinished top floor, exposing hidden stone in his renovation. Wednesday, I go first to the dentist. She examines my month old x-rays and says my main cavity needs a root canal. This was not what the New York dentist said, but even if I accepted the need, there’s no time to do the work before I leave Friday morning, so that’s in abeyance for now. Next, I drop the car off for the windshield replacement. That goes perfectly except my German eco-sticker is destroyed, despite their promise to restore everything. I’ll just have to buy a new one next time I enter a German eco-zone. From, there, I go straight to the inspection station. As I’m getting ready to pay, the clerk points out that the current inspection doesn’t expire until mid-October, by which time I’ll almost certainly be back. For months, I thought it would run out well before that while I’d be still out of Spain. With that new info, I cancel the inspection. This means the windshield replacement was unnecessary. Although it cost me nothing out of pocket, if I pick up just one chip over the next 5 months, I’ll have to replace it again. Thursday, I organize my stuff for packing the car. It’s more crowded than before because on my first departure I accidentally left several bulky items behind, including my shovel — an omission that became significant when I got stuck in Spanish sand three weeks ago.

Friday morning, I load up and head north toward France but first a modest detour to the Catalonian village of Sant Llorenç de la Muga, an area that appears to have some nice hiking. Arriving, I park and head uphill on a small road to begin my planned 4 mile loop up to a ridge almost 1,500 feet above me. After two thirds of a mile, the trail leaves the road. I know I’m right because there’s an official trail sign, but just a hundred feet along there’s a fenced property barring progress. The French owner happens to be there and he makes it clear that I can’t enter. In fact, he claims there’s no trail — clearly a lie, but I have no choice but to turn around and walk back down, still in the sun, and choose a different route. This one is about 3 miles, but with much less elevation gain. It’s a nice uphill walk to a watchtower (reputedly Roman) guarding the town and valley. The tower has been renovated and I can climb to the top to appreciate the broad vista. The descent on the other side is along a forest road, and I return to the car via a riverside promenade. Not what I expected, but very nice.

Since my hosts in France are not expecting me for several hours, I detour a bit to a Citroën dealer in nearby Figueres to buy a small part that popped off and causes stress on my side window. They sell me the part, but when I ask for installation instructions, they tell me to have their service department install it — yeah, right. I don’t want to turn a $10 part into a $200 repair. I’ll figure out the technique for attaching it. From there, I head north, avoiding very expensive French toll roads to reach my next Servas hosts in Narbonne, arriving at 6:45 PM.

Jérôme & Marie live in a very nice home with an enormous yard, within blocks of the city train station. Their property is surrounded by 3-5 story apartment buildings, which makes its pastoral nature very unusual. They have two pre-teen sons, Felix and Julius. Julius has very long hair and soft features and as I’m introduced, I mistake him for a girl. I get straightened out the next day and apologize to him but apparently others have made the same mistake, so he doesn’t seem to take offense. Jérôme started out as an agricultural engineer and worked for many years in wine and beer making. He traveled widely, including living in Réunion island, an overseas French region in the western Indian Ocean. Unfortunately, he was diagnosed at way too young an age with Parkinson’s disease and had to retire and deal with its progression. Eleven years later, he is still independent and quite active, despite noticeable effects. Marie is an educator who creates special projects and trips for students having trouble with the standard school routine. She loves being an organizer. Shortly after I arrive, two German women, Gischi and Ully from Hamburg, appear as well. They have a recreational vehicle — although not one of those expedition-level, go-anywhere converted military trucks that are common among German world travelers — but have pedaled over from their camping park. We all have dinner together and decide on a bike ride to the coast tomorrow. I’m nervous because my bicycling skills are unsophisticated and rarely practiced, but what the hell.

As the two are preparing to bicycle back to the RV park for the night in the dark, Gischi’s bike pedal falls off its mount. Somewhere along the line the fastening bolt has worked loose and dropped off. They make it to the park anyway but will have to go to a bike shop in the morning before we can set out.

Saturday morning, to get a bit of practice, I accompany Jérôme to bike over to the downtown farmers market. Avoiding bollards, street grates, pedestrians, and oncoming bicyclists in the narrow streets is a challenge, but I manage ok. Before noon, bike repairs completed, 6 of us set out for the coast. The initial route is through downtown Narbonne, then a commercial strip, but we soon reach a canal towpath which serves as a bicycle route. Although unpaved, it’s just sufficient for my skills. There are occasional mud spots but since the whether has been dry they are rutted but hard packed. The trail has many protruding tree roots, both parallel and perpendicular to my travel, and each one of those requires care and faith. The towpath is distressingly close to the canal for my skills and I know that one moderate mistake at the wrong moment and I, and the bike, could be in the water. I do all right, though, despite the sun beating down on my hat and long sleeves, until we come to a double rut portion. Here each trail is as little as 6 inches wide with tall grass between and the canal on the right. It’s quickly evident that my steering skills are inadequate for that narrow width and, before something unpleasant happens, I dismount and walk the bike a few hundred yards until the track widens out a bit. There are occasional trees overhanging the path and I stop a few times to take advantage of the shade.

Jérôme, despite his muscular unsteadiness, does as well or better than I do. I have to credit his determination to succeed. After about 5 miles, our route leaves the canal and heads into open agricultural fields and wetlands without a hint of shade. About a mile into this, I decide I’ve reached my turnaround point. We’ve only gone about halfway to the beach, but I decide it’s not safe for me to do the full double distance. The rest push on as I turn back. To my surprise, son Felix turns back with me. I’m wondering if his parents ordered him to accompany me, but it later turns out he is bored with the trip and wants to go back. The return ride is a retrace, with the same difficult points as before, but I’m hotter and more tired than on the outbound trip.

I endure until we finally reach home, and I’m glad to get off the bike and rest. Bicycle riding for me is always a tense endeavor. On pavement, there’s vehicle traffic to deal with, not to mention the terrifying prospect of having to make some sudden maneuver in an emergency (which can be as simple as the person in front of me stopping) without damaging myself or others or the equipment. The knowledge that one steering flaw at the wrong moment could cause an injury accident is always on my mind. Today’s excursion over rough, gravel and dirt trails is pretty much a continuous white knuckle experience, but I did successfully bike those conditions for 12 miles and I can’t complain at all, although the activity was much more a matter of grim determination than carefree fun.

Sunday morning, I’ve booked a cheap hotel room near Perpignan, about an hour backtrack toward Spain. Starting before I left Eric’s 5 days ago, I developed a somewhat disturbing digestive condition. To avoid possibly causing you to lose your lunch, I’ll elaborate no further. By today, I decide I need some time without social obligations to see how it works itself out. Since there’s a slight possibility I’ll have to see a doctor, I figure going back a little toward Spain, where I at least speak the language, is not a bad idea. I’ve booked a room in a French beach town for the very reasonable price of $28 per day.

On arrival late Sunday afternoon, I am very pleasantly surprised. The “hotel” is actually a converted residence with 4 guest rooms, a fully equipped kitchen, adjacent living room, along with a tiny balcony. Owner, Pascal, does all the maintenance and housekeeping himself and lives in a private space in the house. The place is delightful and I immediately ask if I can stay a second night. All the rooms are booked for tomorrow but Pascal says I can have his bedroom.

My digestive problem is solving itself, so Monday morning I drive to Aldi and get enough food to cook some meals. This is the first commercial lodging with a kitchen on this trip. Of course, it’s also only the 4th day of commercial lodging of any sort. My next goal is to ferry to the French island of Corsica, so I have to figure out how to do that at a reasonable cost. In my relaxed surroundings, I find that most of the fares are around $150, but I find one voyage for only $65, so I jump on it. Now that I have that booked, I decide to extend my stay at the house to a third night and then drive to the ferry port a couple of hours northward. The embarkation port, Sête, is far from Corsica and doesn’t seem like a logical departure choice. It’s a 16.5 hour voyage. The trip from Toulon or Nice, a little further up the coast, is much shorter and much more expensive. It doesn’t matter, I’ve got my reservation.

I’ve been searching for a host in Corsica and the morning of my departure I’m invited by a Couchsurfer named Pascal. I drive to Sête, stopping at an Aldi for sustenance to keep me going through the long night. I’ve been on plenty of long ferry trips and never booked a cabin — well, I did once at my then-wife;s insistence when we were leaving Alaska with our one month old daughter — so I haven’t done it here, either. I have no trouble sleeping in deck chairs, or reclining seats, or lounge sofas. The ship is in a class called “cruise ferries” and is very large, with 9 decks, over 500 feet long, and about 10 bars and restaurants on board.

Unlike most vehicle ferries in my experience, Corsica Ferries does not allow periodic car calls. Once you leave your vehicle and go up to the passenger deck, you’re not coming back until arrival. The effect of this is that all pets — and the French love their dogs — are everywhere in the passenger areas. Owners are supposed to bag the poop, but some do not, so walking the outside decks requires watching one’s step. For all I know, the staterooms are also sprinkled with dog shit.

I leave the car and climb to Deck 8 and ask one of the crew where the seating areas are, He tells me quite clearly there is no seating except in the various bars and restaurants. This is an unpleasant shock. He directs me to the one room where non-cabin passengers store their luggage and sleep. It’s a completely bare, carpeted room, the kind of empty event space you would book at a hotel. Never imagining that floor sleeping would be my only option, I’ve left my sleeping bag and pad in the car. Now it’s too late to retrieve them. This will be a real test of my often stated ability to sleep anywhere.

As we’re leaving the dock, I get another message from Pascal saying, “I think we’re on the same boat.” This is a shock and we quickly arrange a rendezvous. He’s traveling back home from Sête with his sister, Marie, a travel agent, after a short vacation on the mainland. As the three of us talk, I get a partial explanation of why this out of the way voyage is scheduled and why it’s so cheap. Apparently, it’s some sort of promotional trip to generate interest in package tours in this part of France. At first, I think it’s a travel agent fam (familiarization) trip, but Marie seems to be the only travel agent. Most of the passengers came from Corsica on the same ship a few days ago and are all returning together. Apparently, I just lucked into a bargain fare because there was vehicle space available. No complaints here.

Pascal tells me that a group will be performing regional Corsican music in the bar/dance hall within minutes. I join them at a table along with two other Corsican friends and we are all treated to a very local musical tradition.

The conversation continues after the performance until my companions head to their cabins. I have nowhere good to go, so I continue a conversation with the adjacent table, two of whom speak some English.

This goes on for another couple of hours until they, too, head off to bed. I’ve cruised all the public decks for possible sleeping possibilities, but every chair, comfortable or not, is in areas that are locked at night. There are 6 swivel chairs in one open area that are accessible and I sit in one of them until the floor starts to look more attractive. I go down to the sleeping room and get (un)comfortable with the carpet for a mattress, no covering except the clothing I’m wearing, and my bulky day pack as my pillow.

It’s not a great night, although I do get some sleep.

At 6 AM, I get up and wander the decks again, finding one bar whose outside deck door was apparently inadvertently left unlocked. I sack out on one of the curved, upholstered, banquette couches and drop off immediately. Within the hour, though, a crew member comes along and rousts me. Short but sweet. I go back to my swivel chair and spend most of the morning (we’re not docking until 11:30 AM) in relative comfort, reading on my phone. For the first several hours of the voyage, we were close enough to shore for me to pick up land based internet. After that, it was expensive maritime cell service or expensive on board wi-fi. I forego them both and read a book stored on my phone. All the Corsicans had purchased a package that included their vehicle, a cabin, and food vouchers. I have only the car passage and the floor.

About 3 hours before arrival, Corsica comes into view over the horizon, very mountainous and, at a distance, obscured by morning mists. Eventually we round the north end of the island, getting clear views of the coast and peaks, and distant views of Elba, the adjacent island where Napoleon was exiled for a year in 1814 until he escaped and briefly ruled France again. After his defeat at the Battle of Waterloo in 1819, his enemies smartened up and exiled him to St Helena, a remote island in the South Atlantic where he was stranded until he died.

Finally, we arrive on schedule in the Corsican port of Bastia. Marie and Pascal have given me advice on how to spend my first day and Pascal is expecting me at his home further south at 7 PM. I am not very energetic.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/06/17/road-trip-europe-iii-25-05-22-25-05-29-the-island-of-corsica-who-knew/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/05/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-22-25-04-25-my-first-stay-along-the-coast/

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I arrive in Seville Friday evening, my visit timed to match my friends’ non-workdays. I first met Ana, Pola, and teenage daughter Sabina in November 2023. It was a great visit but the family was heavily occupied with work and school so our get acquainted time was quite limited. Ana is a reporter/newscaster for public radio in distant Córdoba. This requires a time consuming commute, 45 minutes each way — when the railroad is running well — 4 days a week. On a 5th day she works from home. Pola is a local television producer and seems to always be on call even when he’s not at the studio.

But, this weekend they are both free and, even better, Pola’s rock group is giving an outdoor concert tomorrow, to which I’m looking forward. We spend a few hours getting reacquainted and having dinner until Pola’s old friend, Octavio, arrives from his home in the Canary Islands. In addition to the concert, the Spanish football championship, the Copa del Rey {King’s Cup}, will be decided tomorrow, as well. Ana and family are fans of team Real Madrid, while Octavio roots for opponent FC Barcelona. He has tickets to the game so he’ll see it live.

At about 11 PM, we all head for a neighborhood bar for refreshments, standard Spanish weekend activity. When the bar closes well after midnight, the 4 of us walk home and the evening comes to an end. Saturday morning, Pola heads off after breakfast to prepare for the concert. Anna and I spend the morning talking in her backyard while she cleans the algae and detritus out of their small swimming pool. When my kids were growing up, we had an inground pool and I was terrible at maintenance. One neglected move and the whole thing was a scum pond, requiring tons of expensive chemicals and days of filtration and backflushing to return it to swimming condition. Ana is much more conscientious. Together, we work to get a string of overhead solar lights back in working order. The solar cell has turned upside down and isn’t getting much sunlight.

Ana is applying for a television reporter job here in Seville. Getting it would relieve her of the long daily commute. In addition to interviews, she will have to pass a screen test. It’s a high stakes opportunity to work close to home. We also talk about politics, our grown children and the choices they’ve made, and many other topics, almost all in Spanish. As evening approaches — but with no sign of approaching dark — we drive over to an adjacent town where the concert will begin at 8 PM. Pola’s musical group, AutoReverse, consists of him as bass guitarist and occasional singer, a guitarist, a drummer, and 3, count ’em 3, really good female vocalists. A big crowd has gathered in the park, waiting patiently for the music to begin. When it does, the audience is completely into it. People of all ages are dancing, singing along, and gesticulating. Many of the songs are Spanish with a heavy sprinkling of English lyrics mixed in. It’s rock at its community best. They play about a 2 hour set, with no breaks, with the fans and the band obviously drawing energy from each other. The vocals are dynamite.

Finally, the show is over — it’s still not completely dark — and it takes an hour or so to break down the set and pack the gear. At the end, we all repair to a nearby bar — the six band members, me, Ana, and the drummer’s wife.

The championship game is in progress and the adjacent bar with big screen tv is full. We sit a few feet away in the next establishment but Ana and Pola are watching on their phone. When something exciting happens, everyone jumps up and shifts a few feet to see the action on television. When we finally disperse to go home, Madrid, the fan favorite in Seville is ahead, but Barcelona later ties the score and, late at night, finally wins the game, breaking many people’s hearts.

Ana has suggested I visit Doñana National Park, a vast forest and wetland along the Atlantic Ocean coast, and I decide to do this. Ana has invited me to stay a third night, so we all spend Sunday lolling around. In early afternoon, I offer to treat them to lunch. Four of us go the same neighborhood bar as Friday night and have excellent food and drink, followed by a long siesta at home.

Toward evening, Ana has to prepare some material for her Monday from-home broadcast, so the night winds down fairly early. I’m planning to be out the door by 6:30 AM Monday morning for the hour drive to the park and I succeed at that task.

Doñana is managed for wildlife, birds, and local agriculture so public access is prohibited in most areas. The main way to see the park is via a motorized concession tour. I’ve been unable to book online, with the website showing no availability. Undaunted, I drive to the park, appearing at the tour headquarters about 30 minutes before the morning departure time, As I hoped, I have no trouble snagging a seat. The price is reasonable at 33€. The tours are conducted on 27-passenger, 4-wheel drive buses. I ask for a guide who speaks English and get Javier, who throughout the tour narrates in Spanish and subsequently translates into English.

We leave the base and head off through restricted sand roads into the park. We’re seeing birds of various kinds and I’m enthusiastically shooting photos on my large camera. After the first half dozen, I realize something is wrong. As I check, I realize I’ve failed to reinsert the storage card into the camera after my last upload. The card is sitting securely in my laptop, safely back in the car. Stupid, stupid, stupid. In the first locale of the journey where my wildlife camera is really needed, I’m stuck with just my phone, so I have to make do. The bus is ok but not the ideal way to view the wildlife and the environment. In the 3.5 hour tour, we’re only allowed to leave the bus twice. No matter how interesting, we have to observe from inside. There are private tours, more expensive, in smaller vehicles run by the same concessionaire that have the freedom to stop and linger on demand but the bus does an adequate job. The park is managed for both conservation and the local economy. The native trees are cork oaks, which in other areas have their bark peeled every seven years to harvest cork. In Doñana, this is prohibited to allow the trees to grow unhindered.

The other major tree in the wooded areas is the umbrella pine, a 300-year invasive that is allowed to persist because its nuts are the only cash forage crop available to the locals.

Adjacent private lands are given over to cattle raising, but when those lands are too wet, as is now the case, the cows are allowed onto drier park land to graze. I don’t know what the balance is between agriculture and preservation, but it seems to work during casual observation. There are many deer, and we see herds of them briefly before the weather gets too hot and they all head for shade and become invisible to us in the bus.

We’ve been seeing a variety of birds throughout: raptors, game birds, and aquatic species including many flamingos (most of which I can’t capture on my phone camera), but at our second stop, a visitor center in an intense wetland, the experience is phenomenal.

Thousands of birds are nesting wing to wing in the marsh, bushes, and shrubs. From the open observation doors, we see and hear a riot of bird life, Birds are perched and in motion everywhere around us. The noise is deafening at times. The only thing I can compare it to is some of the sea bird nesting rocks in Alaska that can only be viewed from the water, but of course with completely different species.

Javier has advised me where I can explore on my own. There are two unrestricted trails at a second visitor center nearby. With the storage card now back in the camera, I drive over there and walk one of the boardwalks, but the sun is out, shade is sparse, and in the midday heat, the birds have taken shelter. I decide to head to the beach unit of the park and check that out, with the idea of staying overnight and walking the trails at first light when the birds are active. As I return from the trail, the visitor center is strangely deserted and a staff member informs me the the power has failed, and moreover all of Spain and Portugal are blacked out! This is a major event of course but, being outdoors and in the car, I’m unaffected.

I’m going to jump ahead here for a moment: A week later, and the reason for the Spain/Portugal blackout is still “under investigation”. I believe the cause must be known but the utilities and governments do not want it revealed. Perhaps it was a cyberattack and ransom paid, perhaps the distribution grid lacks investment in resilience such as large scale batteries to handle renewable energy fluctuations. Maybe — and this is very plausible — it was just inadequate software in the grid-balancing computers. Whatever caused it, an electrical system has millions of logging entries and it’s inconceivable forensic analysis cant find the initiating event.

I drive to the coast and look for something to occupy the remainder of the day. Little do I realize just how intensely I’ll be occupied. The resort town of Matalascañas is uninteresting (and without electricity), so I drive a little further looking for some undeveloped coast. Just a mile or so to the west, I find a dead end road terminating at a bluff above the ocean. There’s a sand road to the side that promises to go down to the water, but I’m not going to take that risk. I decide to park and walk down. I pull the car just off the pavement but unhappy with the amount of space I’ve left for other vehicles to use the sand road, I adjust my position. This is where the day turns to crap!

My slight maneuver involves pulling a little forward and backing out of the way, but it’s not to be. My front wheels immediately get into soft sand and I can’t reverse out of it, 4 wheel drive or no. It’s the first time I really wish Susan was in the car yelling, “DO NOT TAKE THAT ROAD!!” followed by a possible-end-of-life video if I do it anyway.

The first rule of getting in a jam is stop, look, and don’t make it worse. In this case, I’m already in bad shape. I had a similar situation the first time I tried to follow someone in Sahara sand in Morocco last year. At the time, I thought that was caused by a steering mistake on my part. This time, I realize the Berlingo is totally unsuited for sand due to its low clearance under the engine. It doesn’t take much soft sand for the front skid plate to lodge firmly on a high center. Once the engine is resting solidly on sand no amount of traction is going to dislodge it.

I get out to analyze the situation and realize my only option is to start digging. To add insult to injury, I inadvertently left my shovel back in Girona at Eric’s house. So I’m reduced to scooping soft sand from under the engine with just my extended hand and arm while lying at various angles with my face under the chassis. It’s a Sisyphean task as sand I remove is partially replaced by new sand I’m dislodging. Fortunately, it’s after 4 PM so the sun is past its peak and I’m not suffering from heat. After about an hour, I’ve reduced the contact area substantially, but not enough for my best driving efforts to move the car one inch. A couple of foreign bicyclists come by, but 3 of us aren’t enough to budge it either. Frustratingly, the rear wheels are on fairly solid ground. My final attempt is to build a hard track behind each of the four tires, using pebbles extracted from a sand bank, in hope of giving the tires enough grip to back me out. That doesn’t work either.

I have no choice but to sit near the car and hope someone will come along with enough muscle to help me out, but that doesn’t happen on this lonely dead end. Around 7 PM, I start to call for a tow truck. Unfortunately, the nearest towing service is about an hour away and they inform me that it will cost at least $200 to come out and give me one little tug. I’m not desperate enough for that, so I decide to sleep in place and see what the morning brings. I’ve used up what drinking water I have and I’m getting thirsty, so I trudge back to Matalascañas to buy some fluids. Power has returned early to this area, after only about 8 hours. Other parts of Spain will endure more than 24 hours of blackout. Nonetheless, everything in town remains closed except one small grocery. It’s easy to find because people with shopping bags are emanating from it in every direction. I stock up on beverages and start walking back to the car. On my way out of town, I happen to pass the Guardia Civil, the local police station. On impulse, I ring the bell and ask if there’s a local towing service of which I’m unaware. The officer says “No” and asks what my problem is. I explain that I’m stuck in sand just two meters from the pavement and tell him where. He says I should head back to the car. Halfway there, a police car picks me up and we return to the scene of the crime. Four burly police officers pile out and look over the situation. After about 3 minutes, they literally lift and push the front of the Berlingo while I drive in reverse. In seconds, I’m back on the pavement. I thank them profusely and they emphatically refuse any compensation. It’s a really excellent interaction with Spanish police.

Now it’s 10 PM, after dark, and I make a second error in judgment. I’m due at another host in Granada, several hours away, tomorrow evening. My plan was to stay in a hostel in Seville before backtracking to the east tomorrow. Since I want to walk the nearby bird trails at first light, I decide to forego that and sleep where I am. I would have been better off at the hostel where I could sleep in a bed and then work during the day before my drive to Granada.

Sleeping in the Berlingo is definitely not comfortable, and I manage only because I can sleep virtually anywhere. Early Tuesday morning, I drive to the visitor center and walk the deserted trail out to the first bird blind. Disappointingly, what bird activity there is, is at quite a distance. Even with my telephoto, there’s not very much to see.

After about an hour, I give up and drive a short distance to the second public trail. This is a loop through forest and marsh to a “palace”, an opulent, former, private estate that is now a visitor center with exhibits that describe the local history.

I learn quite a bit, but it fits into the almost inevitable historical pattern: a few rich people own and control everything and the common folk toil to survive and enrich the owners. In addition to working hard for little compensation, the peasants are prohibited from hunting on the estate because the owners reserve that right for themselves. Resources are devoted to catching and punishing poachers.

Returning to the car by noon, I amble my way eastward toward Granada, slowly because I’m not expected until 5 PM. I stop in shady spots for a couple of naps to supplement my uncomfortable night and. on schedule, I arrive in Monachil, a mountain village about 30 minutes south of the city.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/15/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-29-25-05-03-granada-the-day-of-the-horse-and-i-get-tangled-up-in-spanish-siesta/