It’s those we love and those who love us, that make us whole. Even though we’re back down to just two Cheeses Rolling, we’re still three.
The crossing via the Strait of Bonifaccio back over to Corsica is short. 11 kilometres. A fifty minute dash. Not today. The Moby Lines RO-RO is built like a brick. Unfortunately, it also has the water dynamic properties of a brick. Coupled with the aerodynamics of a brick wall. As we leave the calm harbour we see the white tops skitting. Rubbing their hands gleefully. Wave making. Big ones. Unpredictable ones. Dare Moby forward. Totally unsuitable for his likes. He’s obviously a Moby Dick-head. Doesn’t think twice. A few minutes in and the Tannoy suggests all passengers move below decks. We’re already there. Some don’t. End up getting drenched. I’ve never been good on water. It has the effect of turning my insides inside out. Moby crashes forward like a hash-high head banger at a rock concert. Each impact sends mighty shudders down the vessel. Sends shudders through Laura. Rocks from side to side. Not quite to the point of tipping over. How could it? Tries its best nevertheless. Through the port holes on either side there is either a view of total sky or total sea. Even a dog near to us looks queesy. At any minute he might provide his own version of a take-away. Wonders if his master has remembered his doggy bag. It’s a very long fifty minutes. We survive. We are surprised to find all vehicles exactly as left. And not splattered around the car deck in mangled heaps.
Our poolside end to the day at Camping U Prunelli brings balm.
Today is Sunday. Time for Laura to leave us . . . she’s added a certain je ne sais quoi to our journey.
We check out satellite images of Ajaccio’s airport car parks. Zoom in. All looks good. Beastie enters via the one barrier system. Sadly and fondly we take our leave of Laura.
Our exit holds a surprise. Two barriers. Beastie stands well clear. Limbo dancing not his forte. A short and to the point conversation with the lady on the other end of the ‘info/help’ button includes a repeated over abundance of “Camping Cars sont interdits”. Despite the fact that not a single sign indicates such. I decide not to point this out. No amount of “très désolé-s” appeases. She reluctantly obliges. Raises the rear barrier. Beastie ducks through.
We intend to check out Bonaparte’s birthplace. He’d get a shock now. From above it looks like a typical 20th/21st century metropolis. Down at street level it’s a mass of car infested streets. Barely enough room for Beastie to squeeze past. No room to park. Another typical Corsican town that despises Camping Cars.
We move cross country to our one nighter – Camping U Sognu. Corte and its citadel. Napoleon’s elder brother Joseph born here. Its main square buildings in need of TLC.
The view from up top not too bad though . . .
Those clouds keep on rolling down. By daybreak they’re past saturation point. Pass on their contents. Saturate us for four hours.
Have just had a mega ‘catch-up’ with your travels … looks absolutely MARVELLOUS!
Strange coincidence … SPELL = Stanley Players Elderly Literature Lovers (!) meet tomorrow to discus what we made of reading Moby Dick!! Written about 1851 …FAR too wordy…the last 20 pages are the best. My advice is quite frankly, not to read it!
Roger
Hi Rog – MD has never made it to the the top of my must read pile. You mean it’s even more wordy than 2CGR? Currently experiencing a ‘wild’ camp. Two unfindable sites left us in the lurch. 14 nights to go. Enjoy your meeting . . .