A bitter taste left in the mouth can quickly sour the past, the present and the future. Best to spit it out as soon as possible. Spit it far. That’s what we do.
The country lane from Camping des Iles has Corsica written all over it. We leave as planned and on time. Need to get quay side. Check in for our noon Moby Lines crossing to Santa Teresa Gallura closes ninety minutes beforehand. An easy 4K. Typically, at the only section where two cars can’t pass Beastie’s confronted by a lorry. We both stop. He can’t reverse. Too many cars behind. Laura hops down. Explains to the three drivers behind Beastie. They need to reverse if they don’t want to feel the brunt of a Beastie backside. Beastie politely reverses just enough. Snucks in close to the rock face. The grateful lorry smiles through. As do all but one of the following cars. A frog-face individual pulls alongside. Winds his window down. From his contorted humanless features he vehemently utters “Restez en Angleterre!!!” Moves on. Stops. Replicates the same twisted mouthful to Laura.
We have an hour to kill in Bonifaccio and earmark it for a longer stay. The old town is precariously perched on the cliff tops. Hovers over the waves below. Like a suicidal no-hoper wondering if they’d be missed. To jump or not to jump?
We land up at our first Sardinia site with a few hours of afternoon heat left to rise. Camping La Foce’s ferry, ferries us to the beach. A novelty.
We neatly arrange ourselves like an oiled trilogy of John West lookalikes. Always a good way to end the day . . .
