Corse handling – Day 46

The  white cliffs of the port made the approach spectacular as we entered the natural grotto that formed the entry. 

The old town citadel teetering on the edge. I spotted a crazy staircase down the cliff side.

Pedro had been checked by customs on the Sardinian side. But now we were hauled over again and this time for what was to become an hour and a half of standing in the sun torture. It must have been training day for Customs in Bonifacio harbour.

Everything out of the car. Everything. Then a dog was sent to sniff around.  Then question after question. Exact port names and arrival and departure dates for the entire trip. Most of which I had to make up having lost track of time a while back. They wouldn’t let me approach the car where my phone was.

Then they started to take the car to bits. Vents detached. Interior light removed. Headlining pulled down and carpets up. Under the bonnet the air filter came out. 

By the time it was over I had lockjaw from maintaining a friendly grin. Not my natural resting face! All the time staring at the ‘Bienvenue a Bonifacio.’ writ large on the dock wall.

Pedro was pissed off as we whined in low gear up the very steep hill to haute ville. We were utilising all 60hp and being snappy with the gear changes. How this place had worked before steam I had no idea. Mules I supposed. 

We parked in the hotel car park. A true luxury for once. These days it was always slightly stressful entering a new town with traffic zone limitations and parking meters that not even the locals could understand. I left Peds to his thoughts, got into my room and hit the shower.

It’s a weird thing when you experience situations like that. You start to wonder if someone, somewhere, somehow, may have put something in the car without you knowing.

They asked if I smoked and I was delighted to tell them that I did not. Was there any alcohol in the car. ‘So what if there was?!’ I thought. We are in France. But I shook my head gravely.

It was all very structured.  Told to stand in a certain spot. Corralled by three booted customs peeps. I was tempted to make a run for it…or dive off the dock… just to see what would happen. 

The only one who spoke English was the girl Fed from Porto Vecchio down the coast. 

She pointed to my rucksack.

‘Not many clothes for two months.’

‘Rub-a-dub-dub.’ I replied blankly.

Then she asked what day would I be leaving France. 

‘4th November.’ I said. 

‘Just in time for your birthday.’ she smiled, handing me back my passport.  

Hmmmm! 

I didn’t allow myself to get cross but I felt that I’d been operated on a by an unqualified medic. There are other ways of going about security without such behaviour. Isn’t it always the non-offender who pays the price?

The town itself was hard to get a handle on without pitons, crampons and climbing ropes. 

There were views aplenty though.

And the sea miles below, so beautiful in the lovely afternoon light.

The town was stacked with tourists who were being systematically taken to the cleaners. But amazingly I found a 20 euro menu that got me pate, John Dory with rice and a strawberry parfait with a glass of wine. 

Having left Alghero and its obsession with fridge magnets. Here the craze was for knives. Every other shop was selling knives of all shapes sizes and lengths.  And quite a few were selling only knives.

That wouldn’t cut it at home. 

If I had turned into a street selling only shotguns it wouldn’t have surprised me. I’d carried a penknife the entire trip but had barely used it. Why you would want to pack a non-folding dagger around town I couldn’t fathom.

I found a little bar with a terrific view and ordered a Campari spritz. I’d got to like this low alcohol but punchy drink in Venice years ago. But the waitress brought me an awful version made with Aperol. The colour of a sodium streetlight.

 

‘This is Aperol not Campari. Sorry but I ordered a Campari spritz?’

‘Yes that’s right. We only serve Aperol.’ And then held her hand out for €12.

Not even a Gallic shrug to wash it down with. Tant pis.