![]() It takes around four hours to walk to Bastia, a picturesque town with a recently restored citadel, home to an excellent museum. I point out that I will be on the beach, following the shore so, grudgingly, he gives his permission. After a hurried conversation, she tells me that he advises against it, as he says the road is blocked. Perhaps the story reaches higher command because next day, when I’m planning to leave the ship and join it later in Bastia, the purser says she has to check with the captain. I celebrate my narrow escape with a large beer and regale anyone who’ll listen with the story of my escapade. I make the final tender with minutes to spare. ![]() Fortunately, the second family takes pity and drives me directly to the port. I approach a couple of parked cars and beg them to give me a lift. Worse, my phone has died so there’s no way I can communicate with the ship. My thrusting thumb doesn’t work as nobody stops. It’s too far to walk all the way back to L’Isle Rousse and panic is now setting in. Of course, five minutes afterwards, I hear the sound of the train arriving and see it vanish into the distance. The station is unmanned, with no information, so I set off to the main road to try my luck hitch hiking. I’m now beginning to worry as the last tender leaves port at 5.30 and there’s no sign of any train. From here I can see the railway line wriggling its way along turquoise coast below.Ĭonscious of time, I pick up the pace, and manage to reach the station just before the scheduled departure of 4.45. It fully deserves its title as “one of the most beautiful villages in France”, its rectangular stark stone buildings silhouetted against the sky. The way is marked by yellow flashes and I climb steadily reaching Occiglioni, at around 400m, only a cluster of houses, before reaching the 9th century hilltop village of Sant’Antonino. ![]()
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