A waterfall played lazily over a nook in the hillside, marking the final turn towards the forest and the hotel on the other side of the valley. We stopped for a break and then set off into the trees. It was a pleasant walk, well defined and basically level path through the mixed deciduous and coniferous forest. The late afternoon sun lit up the rocky hilltops around us in stunning yellow, orange, and gray pastels. The deciduous trees took over and crowded in on us until eventually the horizon disappeared. Several well-dressed people passed us (that is to say they were in normal, non-hiking attire). It was a mystery where they were going: the only bit of civilization we had passed was the bergerie , and that didn't look nearly civilized enough for these people.
Figure 19: One more river to cross
Another hour passed, and we finally heard the sound of motors, and in a couple of minutes broached the road. I told Claudia to stick her thumb out, and before we reached the tarmac (five seconds or so), someone pulled over. I had a sudden twinge of conscience, and couldn't bring myself to "cheat". Claudia, showing her usual common sense, had no such scruples and jumped in. I set off at a cracking pace, enjoying the opportunity that the smooth tarmac afforded to stretch my legs. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I failed to see a message Martha and Alf had imaginatively left impaled on a bush, indicating a short cutover the small ridge that the road circumnavigated to the hotel.
Martha and Claudia were waving from a balcony as I swung into view. Our balcony. A bedroom each. With a shower. Heaven. It was too unpleasant for me to be in the room with myself, and the smell was making Claudia nauseas, so the vote was unanimous that I should shower first although it is probably true to say that my clothes needed the shower even more than I did. I scraped them off me, and left them leaning against the sink while I stood under the hot water. What utter bliss.
Over an excellent dinner of local charcuterie, veal, ravioli, French fries, goat's cheese and peaches, washed down with several bottles of Corsican red, we decided to throw the itinerary and our schedules to the wind. Tomorrow would be a rest day.
This seemed like an honorable way out: Alfie's and Claudia's knees, Martha's exhaustion, and no resistance from me; we would all benefit from the break. Plus it would give us an opportunity to replenish the chemicals that Claudia (and of late, Alf too) had been popping in liberal enough quantities that stocks were getting dangerously low on some items.
Plus it would give us an opportunity to have another night stop with a good restaurant, hot showers, and real beds.
We celebrated the wisdom of our decision by finishing the evening with a nightcap at the bar. The Germans who had been following the same schedule as ours since the second day were there, and struck up conversation. The two guys were obviously very experienced walkers, and their companions were no slouches either. They were here because this route was rated as one of the toughest challenges in Europe. And of course it had been conceived and charted by a German, Michel Fabrikant. It took him ten years. He was seventy by the time it was completed, and the Corsican people were disappointed by his desire to return to Germany-they were keen for him to settle with them now that his work was done. But return to Germany he did, and was dead before his seventy-second birthday. It was consoling to hear that these, his fellow countrymen, had had much the same surprises, knocks and shocks as we had, and they commended the reasoning behind our celebratory drink. But since they were going on the next day, this hello was also goodbye.
