Trip Start May 07, 2012
Trip End Jun 16, 2012

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Flag of France  , Corsica,
Thursday, May 24, 2012

There was an enormous explosion this morning. I went out onto the balcony expecting to see a massive pile up, or a siege, or half the mountain gone... but there was nothing to see and I had conclude that it was just another isolated clap of thunder, heralding yet more rain.

It was.

News from the UK tells me that they are basking in a heatwave, which all seems bizarre.
However, weather or no weather, it was time to explore the town a little more, so I decided to go for a wander.

Walking along the beach was the way to go.
The sand here is dark yellow, very coarse and grainy. 
It is the sort of sand that gives the underneath of your feet a jolly good scratch with every footstep. Not unpleasant, but a very different feel to some of the silica sand beaches of Australia where we have been so very recently.

The beach itself is more "working town" beach than "Mediterranean resort" beach, too.
The edges are heaped with concrete blocks and old fishing nets and there is a tide mark of small pieces of vegetative matter which has been washed up, lying like a long necklace made of natural artifacts along the sand.

There is a lot of building going on here, which will rob the present houses of their sea view.
The marina is full of boats: many tourist day tripper boats to see the marine life and the Corsican coastline; many small fishing boats and the usual larger cruisers and yachts.
But it does not have a swank air at all. It is more workaday and understated.
Around the harbour are the expected lines of cafes, bars and restaurants, interspersed with little fishing shacks

It is France, yet it doesn't feel quite like France. Almost, but not quite. There is also a slight Italian tinge here, and the language of the locals sounds like a torrent of French with the odd Italian thrown in. There is a lot of "ciao-ing" amidst the "hee-haw" of French sounds.

The buildings are tatty. When you glance into open doorways, in the dark you see stone stairs and courtyards, peeling paint, old bicycles and buckets.  
The people have a way of staring at you, whilst drawing on their cigarettes and carrying on their street corner conversations and leaving you with the distinct feeling that you have been judged on several levels and not scored terribly well in any department.

There were several shops by the harbour, many of which sold very nautical gear.
The window dressers still working on the old principle of "shove as much as you can into the window..  and leave it until it goes completely yellow and faded before removing it" giving a very old fashioned feel.

Watching the ferry load up before meandering home in the weak sunset, the draw of a hot bath was appealing.

The hotel Mog was waiting for me when I got back. He knows well not to go into the hotel, but that does not stop his very sweet little face peeping through the windows. He likes the car, too, and was curling his way round it in a very proprietorial way.
So long as he doesn't decide to pee on it, that is fine...
And maybe tonight I could have my bath without the housekeeping staff barging in?
Well, possibly, but I wouldn't bet on it. 
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