Travels Without

Travel^* s Without .'.. '.*> -., r" •— i«r 'Jf-'. £MZ*I •• . -• . ";A., . &*?;•. *£: rt|:> C/- •.~t -C-••^illf?t •• -'- '.»-•' »•'', 3 Xf *>,-f^.. fof ^.- * •'*.. '• • CHAPTER NINE THE FIRST THIRD FORM EXPEDITIONS In 1961 and 1962 we selected a email band, a group of twenty-five Third form boys, to try out the idea of an Easter trip to Corsica. As it happened we had excellent weather for both these journeys. We went via Nice to Bastia where we stayed for breakfast in one of the restaurants near the docks, and then up to the station where we caught the usual narrow-gauge railway up the Golo river, in 1961 to the mountain village of Ponte Leccia, from which we went up the Asco gorge to the village of Asco near the top again. In 1962 we went on the train right up to Corte, the ancient capital of the island which was, incidentally, the garrison town of the French Foreign Legion, which was mainly garrisoned in Corsica since its removal from Algeria. We went to the camp site below the citadel and established ourselves there but we then found that we could not cash travellers' cheques in Corte as there were no banks there at that time. This problem we had to solve by two or three of us going back to Bastia on the train to cash some cheques to provide the whole party with money. We then moved forward up the Tavignano valley, another great river gorge through the mountains parallel with the Scala de Santa Regina and even more impressive in its wlldness as there was no road along it, only a mule-track. We climbed up the southern slopes to the ridge of the Col de la Rinella from which we had tremendous views of the two principal peaks of the Island, Monte Rotondo at the head of the Tavignano valley on our left, and Monte Cinto away on our right over the roofs of Calacuccia in the valley below. Calacuccla 102 Trtvels l/ittuut A Donkey The first Easter Trip to Corsica, 1961 The second Easter Trip to Corsica, 1962 Tht tint Third Fort Exprtititnt 103 We only cane a little way down from the ridge and stayed at the first flat piece of ground where we could lay out our sleeping bags, cook our evening meal and settle down for the night. We had not thought about the temperature at that height so early in the year, and we were glad when the morning cane and the sun appeared over the eastern peaks. We found an inch of ice on the tops of our billies. We were glad to get up and continue our descent to the Golo river and across to Calacuccla. Here we camped by the football field, replenished our stores from Madame Grlsoni's shop in the village, and laid in a supply of freshly baked bread from the boulangerie. The familiar church clock always chimed twice so that the farm workers, away in the fields, if they missed it the first time, could carefully count the chimes next time round. From Calacuccia we went along the road a little way to the village of Albertacce, where the road made a sharp turn to go up the hill to the village of Calasina. Here we left the road and dropped down the fields to the bridge over the Calasima river. Next to the bridge there was a ruined water mill and several of the millstones were lying about on the bank. We always rested at this point and then climbed up the very rough hill behind and crossed to the path which had come from the village of Calasima and led us forward to the Foret de Valdo-Niello. There was a gate in the forest wall where the path became a forest access road which led us through the tall, dark pine trees, across several side streams bringing water down from the hills on our right to supplement the Golo river below. The path ultimately led to a crossing of the river deep in the forest below the Col de Vergio. There was a little clearing beside the path at this point and near the sparkling mountain stream which was the beginning of the Golo. There was a timber bridge over the fast flowing stream which in later years, after a winter of severe storms, was replaced with a concrete bridge. We decided to camp here as the evening was drawing in. I am sure our camp here was very unofficial, Indeed illegal, but we continued to use the same place for many years, whenever the snow permitted. No one ever saw us there. No one else ever crossed by the bridge. We had the place entirely to ourselves even though the Col de Vergio was not very far away up on the road above us. We cooked our evening meal, stacked our plates and mugs outside our tents, and settled down for the night. During the night I remember hearing an animal of some kind nosing around the tent, probably a wild boar of which there were many in the forest although we rarely saw them. There was a crunching noise, then a clatter of plates. It moved away a little and the crunching continued. In the morning when we emerged we could not find our plastic butter dish. In that first year, the snow being fairly light, we were able to follow the Golo river up the forest forcing our way through towards the high passes. It was obviously a very little-used path covered with fallen branches and many other entanglements. We crossed the river on the trunk of a fallen tree when we were able to see the path in the snow on the other bank. We made our way up through the snow towards the peak at the head of the Golo, Monte Piercee, the mountain with a cave which pierces right through the peak. We found our way on some stepping stones across the river again and followed a steep slope to the Col de Guagnarola (about 6,000 feet high). We rested at the top and admired the tremendous view down the totally uninhabited Bois de Lonca towards the sea. The snow this year was fairly thin and we made our way down from rock to rock to the forest below. When we arrived in a sheltered place we crossed the head of the valley and went up the other side to the Col de Capronale (about 4,500 feet). Over the 104 Trials Vithout A Donkey col we went along the ridge a little way and followed a very dramatic path along a ledge which in many places had fallen away. We had to cross the gaps with great care. We finally went down into the head of the woodland below. Here we met a local man who was astonished that we had crossed these two passes at this early time in the year. We settled down here and made camp for the night before following the Fango valley down to the Bay of Galeria. The whole valley had been subjected to a very severe forest fire in the previous year and it was almost totally denuded of trees. It was a very monotonous walk and a long way down to the Bay of Galeria. We came to the village of Galeria very tired indeed and, with the permission of the schoolmaster, we camped for the night on the school playing field before climbing the steep path up to the remote farmstead of Focolara overlooking the sea. We gave the time to the farmer's wife here as their clock had stopped and they seemed to have no contact with anyone else. From the farmstead the path rose still higher to the Col de Fuata from which we could see down to our haven of Girolata on the coast below. Girolata was about two hours' walk from the Col de la Croix on the other side but from Galeria it was about five hours' walk over the Col de Fuata. We settled at Girolata under the eucalyptus trees behind the beach and renewed our acquaintance with Jean Teillet. Unfortunately John Calvert developed German measles and Heery had a badly sprained ankle. I stayed with them an extra day in Girolata while the rest of the party went with Ken Armstrong over the Col de la Croix and down the coast to Porto. The next day John's temperature had settled enough for us to go on. Jean Teillet lent us a donkey and his son Josef to guide it. 'I will lend you a donkey but I'll give you Josef. ' (Je vous donne Josef). So we set out: Heery, along with our rucksacks, on the donkey's back, Josef, with a stick, to hurry the donkey along; John Calvert, looking very pale, and myself, behind. Girolata, le chateau It was a long slow walk to the Col de la Croix from where we had arranged a taxi into Porto. From Porto we hired a coach to take us down to Ajaccio. I cannot, at this distance of time, remember how we hired it, nor from whom. In Ajaccio we made our way out past the Necropolis to the camp site right at the the far end of the headland. The weather was getting worse hour by hour and as we set up our tents it was pouring with rain. Then things began to happen. Andy Shipsides had bought a souvenir knife and somehow managed to slice his finger very badly.

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