Day 2: Pointy Plants

 How quickly we forget: breakfast arrangements in France require a PhD in guesswork. This morning’s particular gem was that I should have ordered breakfast last night. Oh, and we only take cash. 

Some negotiation later I managed to procure a breakfast fit for kings.

Gratefully, I left the sanctuary of my beachside campsite and carefully navigated the track back up to the coastal road. Today was a 125km day with the best part of 2,000m climbing. It was 9am and already hot.

The magnificent coastline views had now disappeared as I headed inland skirting with Le Nebbio region for a while before making a steady descent to the town of St Florent.

St Florent wasn't designed for the likes of me, that is to say everything about it shouts expensive, from the huge yachts in the marina to the numerous michelin star restaurants, I ploughed on and beat a hasty retreat east towards the Desert des Agriates, once an area of vital importance in terms of livestock and olive plantations but now nothing more than an expanse of stones and burnt stubble provides evidence of an area destroyed by numerous wild fires.   

I skirted the southern edge of the Desert until coming across what I knew would be one of only a small number of Cafe's on today's ride. With only 25km done it seemed too early to stop however I knew that the next cafe a) was another 20km away, and b) closed at 12pm. I also knew that if I missed that one (which I likely would), there would be nothing this side of the Cat 2 Col de San Colombano. 

I duly stopped a quaffed a coffee, a coke and another pain au chocolat (in for a penny). 

I filled my bidons from the fountain next to the cafe and headed on. After a short climb I flew down a wonderful winding road and set about a truly remote wilderness. 

The road was little more than a track and there was no sign off any life. No vehicles, no birdsong, no buildings, not even the constant sound of insects which had accompanied me for most of my journey. 

Even the plants had taken on a sharp and aggressive nature, beware all who enter here. In fact the area was so unique I took to calling the plants “pointy plants”. A few miles on their name came to me: cactus. Proof indeed that I’d long since switched my brain off. 

Inevitably, there was no phone signal. If I had a problem here, I wasn’t sure how long I’d have to wait for help. 

The scenery, though, was out of this world. Every turn revealed a tremendous vista.

Soon the road headed uphill, which meant that the 15km over the mighty San Colombano had started. Although the road remained little more than a single track, I noticed that someone had gone to the trouble of painting a white line in the middle of the road. I struggled to think of any more futile exercise other than perhaps watching said paint dry again. 

Still the pointy plants continued to line the roadside. 

Eventually the track joined a main road, one which had tarmac and proper white lines, although still no traffic. I struggled on up the 6% slopes of the San Colombano which topped out at a mighty phone mast, and swept back down to Belgodere and - joy upon joy, a cafe. Seemingly the only item on the menu was local charcuterie and cheese, so I tucked in in. It was lovely.

I carried on through yet more stunning scenery, passing the beautiful village of Speloncato and the small village of Feliceto, famous for glass blowing, vineyards and olive groves. Apparently. Each village was as deserted as they were this morning. 

The road though, was cracking. 24km at 1-2% (up) and a tailwind to boot. The road was smooth, quiet (obvs) and hugged a ridgeline which enabled a permanent panorama of the coastline in the distance.

  I passed through La Balagne, Montemaggoire (once a major producer of olive oils before - you guessed it - wild fires destroyed the area) the village now has a population of less than 100 but the local cemetery tells a very different story of the village’s past fortunes. 

A similar story plays out 2 miles down the road at Lunghighano which still presses its own oil but is in a state of recovery following wildfires in 2005 which destroyed 80% of the olive trees.  I say the village still presses its own oil, in fact it's a small donkey named Georges who turns the grindstone. 

Next village was Calenzana, a popular and comparatively large village compared to others in the Balange region, with a rather fancy pants church which took some 16 years to complete. Apparently. 

I left Calenzana and pretty much freewheeled the 12km downhill towards Calvi and my campsite for the evening. I got the tent up, had a shower and headed to the beach too do this.. 

It had been an amazing day. The beauty and remoteness of the desert was a complete surprise, the roads were super quiet and (generally) smooth. I had a tailwind for most of the day, the local cured meats and cheese were wonderful and the views from start to finish were off the scale 

Oh. And I’d drunk 9 litres of water.