Farewell to Corsica II/II

“When nothing is sure, everything is possible.” -Margaret Drabble

As I was already gone so far thru the land of Corsica that I definitely felt urge to view the scenery of Cap Corse from land as well. “S/Y Sunride” had carried me and the impassable hospitable family of Van Emst beyond Cap Corse, yet I wanted to encounter the vista of sea over to eternity. With rented Lambretta scooter I drove the route about 55 km from Bastia to Macinaggio and up north to Barcaggio village.

The mountainous landscape descends to the blue sea and soon I was on narrow strip of white sand beach right to east from Barcaggio center. There was a lot of boats and yacht attached to buoys on that bay. The Ile de la Giraglia erects there in distance. It is known for the lighthouse and for the Torra di Giraglia. That is a Genoese tower also among the official historical monuments of France.

There is an annual Mediterranean regatta held in June, named after the island of Giraglia, established by three men René Levainville, Franco Gavagnin and Beppe Croce. The race starts from St. Tropez, France passes the island of Giraglia, and then finally finishes off in Genoa, Italy. It has been held annually since 1953 and since 1977 it has been known as “Giraglia Rolex Cup”. This 243 nautical miles long regatta may be considered the largest offshore sailing event in the Mediterranean with over 200 sailing teams participating internationally.

There was a good-sized trailer on the beach having large speakers playing Highway to Hell out loud. AC/DC recorded legendary Highway to Hell early 1979. Now, this is a tune that really cannot be passed by without noticing. Unfortunately, as I recall, the talented singer, Bon Scott perished just about six months after the song was released. RIP.

I ended up having bowl of deep-fried small fish with lemon and spicy olives. The view was just glorious. Just like one would expect easy-going summer day by the sea-shore to be like. I decided to rent a sun chair and in the shadow of parasol I’ll took an opportunity to read few chapters of Lear’s Journal of a Landscape Painter. Farther the greatest white soul singer alive sang her first solo single. I was soon dozing in delightfully warm breeze.

Later the day I took the scooter another 15 km ride to the west cost Port de Centuri. At this place we already visited with Elms family, though I regrettably skipped going onshore. Visiting the port had haunted me since and this was an opportunity not to miss. While driving slowly across the countryside I looked any fields around in hope spotting visible crop circles in the hay. Actually I would most likely felt sheer naked fear to find out anything similar as around the village of Avebury in Wiltshire county, in southwest England. They have reported hundreds of complex figures found on fields there. This has been going on already since 1970 and later spread practically all over the globe.

Crop circle related studies has taken place since the very beginning and there are varying opinions all over investigators. Majority acknowledge them mostly as pure hoax and public environmental art. Yet not all. The subject is fascinating and I’m a sucker for more scientific studies. I did not spot anything but plain crops raising from the earth just as it is expected to happen. Should I have found something it would have messed my live anyway, so I had warm gratitude in my heart while finally reaching village of Centuri.

I have to admit that all the grey houses of this place were pretty terrible looking. They might have used little more vivid colors while whitewashing their homes. Lack of colors makes this village somewhat dull looking despite of the terrific scenery over the sea. Overall view is telling the truth about negligence and poor state of silent fishing village. When compared practically to any French or Italian small village the looks of this place is ashamed of its existence. Yet, I must admit, it’s all worthwhile of seeing. Contrast in between blue skies, sea and this rocky shore is just too overwhelming. This is pretty typical to old Corsican fishing villages, though. It was also the time of the year when nature is really drying out and getting brown and grey and it does not unfortunately help at all. There was a thought that I should have gone to the inlands where it’s more green.

One little drawback to my Corsican voyage seemed to pop my awareness more and more often. I was heavily but happily late with my, practically nonexistent, schedule and yet I was here goofing around some tiny villages on a scooter. Maybe I was not to make it to Sardinia at all but rather head straight home by taking the next plane from Aéroport de Ajaccio Campo Dell’Oro also named Ajaccio Napoleon Bonaparte Airport. Then again, what was I thinking now? Letting to go when reached so far already? Please excuse me, you wicked subconscious part of my mind. I was not to surrender voluntarily. Even it would mean that I would make sacrifices in terms of seeing it all. I finally started to realise that even a whole summer would not be sufficient for discovering all parts of Corsica the way I had dreamed. I could only comfort this hurting reality with light wishes of unknown return.

Despite of these internal struggles I made one night reservation in Le Vieux Moulin hotel that has quite exceptional views to the Centuri town harbor. After two Negroni cocktails I was ready to eat light shellfish mix with variety of tidbits and for some totally odd reason I started imaging about angels on horseback. Nice bottle of Vermentino made me eventually decide. Sardinia was calling me and I should not resist any longer. As said I could spend the rest of my life here but would never get rid of the haunting Sardinian whisper. Starting early morning I should have only one goal and that target was lying at the southmost tip of Sardinia island.

That decision finally clear in my mind I went for a long walk to the port of Centuri, Tried to pick the spot we had been moored and sucked around the serene views with my eyes hurting. Stepped on the pier constructed in the 18th century. Visited the Saint Antoine Chapel located nearby for silent moment. Being an agnostic makes me pretty neutral for prayers but there was a certain voiceless wish in my mind that I sent to all the holders of the worlds.

“Please, release me to go beyond.”

Next morning, after quite restless sleep, I woke up early. It must have been less than four AM when I packed my toothbrush and left the key to the counter of empty reception. On my way to the scooter I saw early seabirds screaming in the morning sun, picked three ripe and mellow pear-shaped citrus from the hotel garden and rushed for Bastia for the next train to Ajaccio.

This chapter is an example from yet unpublished volume
currently identified as "The Fast and Slow Rays"
by Yumatzuga (2011-2015).



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