Tag Archives: ferry

Van to Vannes

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We’ve not been back long from Malta- but feel it’s time to get off somewhere in the van. There have been unfortunate circumstances punctuating our van travel in the last few years but we’re hopeful, now, that things have been resolved.

We won’t be doing anything exceptional, rather visiting familiar territory in easy, comfortable France, where vans and motorhomes are catered for better than anywhere.

Packing the van is never my favourite part of van travel but it gets done and we manage the early morning scramble [when I have to wrestle with the fridge contents] and short drive to our local port of Poole, arriving to a quiet check-in with only a few vehicles and even fewer campervans.

Then we’re on board and the sun is streaming through the windows as we exit Poole Harbour- a very beautiful area, for those who don’t know it- and enjoy Brittany Ferries’ coffee and pastries, which are very welcome. Then I do my usual descent down to the couchettes for a snooze and a read, which is really the only way to pass the four hour crossing. We’ve long since given up looking round the shop or wandering the decks. Other than one or two families with very young children or babies, the boat is quiet.

Once arrived, we go first to the ‘Orange’ shop at Cherbourg [known to us now] to get a SIM for our little mobile internet device- then we’re set. And we belt down our well known route, past Avranches, Mont Saint Michel etc until we arrive at Saint Brice en Cogles, a small town with a wonderful aire that we know very well having used it for years. There is always a new addition, an extension or an improvement to this free parking area with all services, in front of a cemetery and next to the police station! And we’ve a handful of French motorhomes for company.

The weather is too lovely to start cooking so we wander into the little town to find a bar- not easy this evening when most places seem closed. But the trusty PMU is open- although it’s not obvious- and busy with locals, so we can find a table and enjoy a beer- or two. Then it’s back to the van for dinner.

In the morning there are the usual chores- emptying, filling with water, ditching trash [taking great care over the recycling- the French are very particular in providing a range of bins] and we’re off again, heading south. And on to Vannes, Brittany, on the Gulf of Morbihan, to a site we’ve stayed at before- one of a chain of sites. Site chains are becoming increasingly common now. They can be more expensive than smaller, independent sites, but this one- part of the daftly named ‘Flower Campings’ conglomerate, is not too pricey, is convenient and offers all we need.

The skies over Vannes are blue, the temperature heating up and we’re here for a few days. We’ll take another look at the city of Vannes, which we can walk to along a very pleasant footpath and we can also relax in some much needed sun.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Small Island

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Once upon a very long time ago, a beautiful, olive skinned Maltese woman met and was courted by a red-haired, British sea captain. They married and she was brought to live in Plymouth; at least- that’s the vague bones of the story of my great grandparents and I may have embellished even this, sketchy tale. But my mother somehow inherited the olive skin and the jet black hair which I assume were attributes of my great grandmother.

It has taken me all these years to visit the small, Mediterranean island of Malta, birthplace of my great grandmother and ideal, we think, for an early spring break.

We can fly from our local airport- a mere 10 minutes taxi ride from our house. I’ll skip the grim realities of flying with a budget airline this time, having detailed the joyless experience in a previous post…

We arrive in the dark, mid-evening and are transported to our hotel- an enormous, shiny block at the end of the peninsula of Sliema, which faces, on one side, across a stretch of water, the beautiful and historic capital, Valletta. We have not stepped out of the plane into a hot and balmy night. It’s breezy and tolerable- warmer than at home in the UK but not ‘sitting outside’ weather. Still…we’re here.

After being shown to a vast room complete with vast bed, we return down to ground floor and are just in time to consume the remnants of dinner- which had been ‘Tapas night’ but was now a range of tenuously described tapas in a less than newly prepared state, for which we pay a princely sum- not being in a position to seek an alternative. We repair to the bar, whose meals would have constituted a better proposition, had we known they were available. Still…

After breakfast [the usual hotel buffet-style bun fight], reception furnishes us with a map and we’re lucky to meet Karen, who is a fount of information and ideas- then we set off to explore, although in a slow manner, due to my incapacity of the hip. It’s sunny but with a cool wind as we walk [hobble in my case] down past the conglomeration of high rise flats and hotels that comprise Sliema’s waterfront towards the bend housing ferry terminal, bus stops and cruise jetties. The other side of the road is lined with cafes and restaurants- all busy.

We’re beginning to find our way around and Karen has given us some good ideas. We can get a pass for two bus tours plus a harbour tour, which seems a good deal and will give us a chance to see as much of this small island as possible in our week. For now, we’ll attempt a ferry crossing to Valletta for an initial look round, which might be challenging for me, given that I’ve acquired a hip problem. Still…

The ferry is efficient and only takes a few minutes to travel the short stretch of water between the two cities, although when we disembark, the first hurdle looms- an extremely steep climb up to the first level of Valletta. There are, however, a couple of ‘golf-cart’ type buggies offering ‘hop-on-hop-off’ tours for 5 euros, which seems cheap- and we are about to discover why. The buggy takes us up and around a few of Vallettas narrow streets then stops in the main square- and that’s that. Still…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Those that Swim and Those that Don’t

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By the time we’re up and out and walking to the harbour in Agios Nikolaus the breeze has stiffened, raking the sea into choppy waves. It’s cooler. Knowing we’d be blown about on a ferry, we’ve packed fleece tops into our rucksacks but we’re still in shorts. We descend to the quayside and get our tickets at the booth, then follow others up and on to the boat, choosing seats on the middle deck, which has a roof but is open at the sides.

The boat is full, though not bursting at the seams and gets underway at the stated time of 12.30pm, reversing out of its berth and setting off out of harbour.

Once out of the shelter of the harbour it’s breezier still. We get intermittent snatches of commentary from a guide who is clearly as ‘end of season’ as everything else. He points out a few things along the coast- the ‘most expensive’ hotel and one or two of the islands. The woman opposite us hands out snacks to her two children and drapes them in towels to warm them up.

After about half an hour the boat pulls into a bay and shudders to a halt some metres from the shore. This is a stop for people to dive off the boat for a swim. Regular readers will know that swimming is not a favourite activity of mine and I’m only tempted into water if the outside temperature is so hot as to necessitate cooling. I’m even less inclined nowadays, since modifications to my physical self have occurred [but that is another story]. And by now, it’s cool- far too cool for cold water!

We descend to the lower deck, where a handful of braver souls are shedding their outer wear and plunging off the back [sorry- stern] of the boat with abandon, then swimming off into the lively waves. On this lower deck we can get coffee, which we do. Outside on the sea I watch as a flat cap bobs jauntily past, its confused owner patting his head to note its absence.

Coffee done and the swimmers return, clambering up the gangplank and dripping puddles on the deck. We return to our upstairs seats and the ferry resumes its travel towards Spinalonga and I succumb to an extra layer as by now the wind is cold, blowing across the decks and causing the boat to rock and roll. I’m grateful at this point for not suffering from sea-sickness- a condition I’ve only experienced twice [in spite of having made countless boat and ferry trips].

But I do want to get some photos, which means getting around to different points on the deck and this is tricky, involving hanging on to various fixed items with one hand while gripping my camera in the other. Yikes!

A little further and the tiny outcrop of rock that is Spinalonga Island comes into view. We almost circle it and then we’re pulling in towards a minute beach and the crew lower the gangplank- which rocks and slides, making disembarking a dodgy feat- although we manage better than some! We step off on to the shingle to wait for our alleged guide- now where can they be?

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Tavira Island Revisited

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We’ve had enough time to get familiar with our surroundings in Tavira and even to find a regular bar. Hoping for some late afternoon let-up in the heat we step out for a stroll, although exiting the hotel doors still feels like entering a boiler room. We walk down the steepish hill to the tiny triangle housing bars and restaurants, then on over the river to a larger square overlooked by an imposing civic building. Book stalls line the path along the river. A stage is being installed here with rows of seats lined up. Then it’s along through some gardens to the market hall. Just past here, the ferry to Tavira Island is moored. It would be fun [and cooler], wouldn’t it, to go and look, for old times sake?

We last came many years ago. It’s only 2.50 euros for the short trip and we’re just in time to bundle on, cramming inside and perching at the end of benches- the previous passengers being very reluctant ro budge up- or even to pull their beach bags on to laps! t’s all very familiar- chugging along the river towards the estuary, stopping at Quatro Aguas and out into open water, before arriving at the jetty and stepping off with everyone else. A tree-lined, paved path leads towards the beach, through a conglomeration of cafes, bars and restaurants- far more, surely than were here 20+ years ago?

We continue to the beach. All that time ago, there’d been nothing but a massive expanse of sand, as far as we could see, with nothing on it. We’d put towels down. I remember falling asleep, waking with that slight smear of dribble that emerges during daytime naps, and being told by Husband [pre-Husband in those days] that I’d been snoring.

Today, when we get to the end of the paved path, wooden duck boarding leads off in all directions- to row upon row of sunbeds- stretching away into the distance and to various structures. It’s busy, although not full. Some of the sunbeds, the posher ones, are those with drapes over the top= others are bog-standard with sunshades. The best thing is that the island is blessed with a gentle breeze-.We wander through the restaurants, most of which have displays of hapless sea creatures. Presumable they’re mainly catering for lunchtimes, since the last ferry is 8pm ish, although there is a camspsite [a new addition since our previous visit].

We’re not prepared with beach paraphernalia this afternoon- but we’re not up for any more roasting in the enclosed brazier of the hotel pool complex- so we’ll definitely be returning tomorrow. For now, we get an ice cream then make our way back to the jetty, returning to town, where we stop off at our ‘local’ for a beer, of course.

Then it’s a slog back up the hill. En route we hit on the idea of picking up a couple of things from the bakery to take with us next day, on our way to the ferry.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

An Island Day

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Islands can be magical. We’re lucky enough to live close enough to an island to be able to make a day trip. In order to do this we must make one of the most expensive crossings of water, in terms of distance- probably only topped by Italy’s Capri [unless you, clever reader, know better!].

To get from our house to the Isle of Wight we need only to stroll the 3 minutes to our local railway station, take a train to Brockenhurst in the New Forest, change on to a tiny, two stop train to Lymington and get a ticket for the ferry, which makes regular departures to the island. the short train merely shuttles between Lymington Pier and Brockenhurst, back and forth. In the past we’ve gone by bike and stayed overnight but not on this occasion-

The Isle of Wight has a special character of its own, in that it is quaint and olde worlde- a throwback to the 50s in many ways. At this time of year there’s a steady flow of visitors so the boat is busy. Our nearest point is Yarmouth, where the ferry deposits us, having meandered its way over the short stretch of water following the line of buoys to avoid grounding. The channel between the mainland and the island is certainly hsort enough for a road bridge, but so far it’s unbreached, The miniscule town/village of Yarmouth is crazily busy with tourists, the island being a magnet for holiday makers, with many attractions, theme parks, walks, cycle paths and so on. It’s also a yachty heaven with boatyards, marinas, regattas, chandleries and all things for sailors.

But we’re here just for the day, so lunch and a stroll will certainly do. With a strong desire for fish and chips we try a few places, including one mysterious restaurant which ‘cooks on stones’. We’ve sat down before we realise it isn’t what we want, then make our excuses and leave, heading instead for the cavernous, quayside pub, which does indeed offer fish and chips- and beer!

After lunch we amble off up the road, following the coast, past reed beds, along the beach, up into the woods until we reach Victoria Fort, which has been tourist-ified with a reptile house, cafe and tiny shops. We continue on, over a stretch of grass housing barbecue grills. much in use today and on through some more woods, where views of the sea through the trees are lovely. The woods are full of enormous hearts tongue ferns.

We’re aware that time to the next, return ferry is ticking and we turn back, stopping at the fort to climb up on to the roof and take in the vistas, then back to picturesque Yarmouth, where the ferry is just leaving the quayside- so there’s time for a cup of tea before the next one; just the thing for a follow-up to fish and chips!

I’m a big fan of public transport and I’m always sad when a journey comes to an end, so I feel reluctant to disembark, then reluctant again to leave the train, but we’ll definitely be going again!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Toe in the Water

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It’s a return to travel writing in this week’s post…

Not literally- at least I hope not!

The ferry from Portsmouth, UK to Santander in northern Spain leaves sometime after 11pm; after the last, remaining motorhomes, lorries, cars and motorbikes have been fitted into the jigsaw slots in the ferry’s capacious hold. This boat is one of Brittany Ferries’ newest, boasting ingenious ramps and contraptions in order to accomodate as many vehicles as possible. Similarly, there is more cabin capacity than public area, although the bar/lounge, once we’ve managed to get loaded on, found our cabin and got there, is bursting with life, a roaring trade, with drinks and platters of charcuterie and cheese flying out like the end of the world is at hand. Once we’ve sat down with a drink ourselves, all the dreary waiting in queues, yawning, is forgotten.

I don’t sleep well on ferries. In fact, I don’t sleep well at all, these days, but after this first cabin night there’s no rush to get up. It’s a dinky 4-berth, which is lucky because neither of us is cabable of clambering up and down off a high bunk, especiallly in the dark. Next morning there’s a cafe queue for huge breakfasts, and since we’re not huge breakfasters we grab coffee and a pastry, then…what? We can walk around the boat for a look, which we do. We can look at the one, modest shop, which we do. We can go to the ‘reading room’, which we also do, although it isn’t as comfortable as it looks and not as warm as the other areas. We spend an hour or so then get another coffee.

We have lunch. We read, We take another tour. We resist the urge to drink the day away as some are doing. The views in the Bay of Biscay become, briefly interesting as we glide past Brittany, with the lighthouse at Finistere a feature. The afternoon becomes bright with sunlight and the skies clear, until the sun is a tangerine orb that sinks into the sea. We go to shower in the tiny ensuite inside our cabin then go for dinner.

I’m awake before the tannoy announces our imminent arrival to Santander. It’s 7.00am, so 1 hour before we must disembark, but there’s very little to do except wash, dress and pack. In the cafe some are scoffing down ‘full English’ breakfasts as if they’ll never eat an edible morsel again. Santander port begins to slide past then the boat slows and we’re docking. We’re called to the car decks and descend through the hoards to ours- which we’ve taken care to remember! [I’ve described in a long ago post how we failed to locate our van on the Sardinia ferry and were mortified to be the last remaining vehicle as well as confronted by scowling ferrymen].

It takes an age to unload everyone and we’re one of the last to trundle off the boat and on to Spanish shores, then out into the outskirts of town, driving south and west. This first part of our journey is mountainous [the Cantabrian Mountains] and it’s exciting to see snow caps. We stop at a convenient supermarket for supplies and the bright sun feels warm. The autovia is easy and quiet and we’re on our way to Burgos…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend and The Year of Familiar Strangers. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Lost Van and the Art Village

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Our Ferry from Corsica arrives back to Toulon, south on the French mainland. It’s early enough to still be dark and I’m feeling stretched from lack of sleep, having spent a wakeful night on a mattress I’ve dragged from the top bunk. But we stumble out and make our way out of the cabin decks and in the general direction of the car decks. But which one? We came up from our deck in a lift, but there is more than one. I definitely recall a large, shiny space when we exited the lift- but where is it?

We begin to search all exits, trying staircases, of which there are many, descending to car decks, lorry decks, dead ends. Which deck is ours? Which side? And which end? We squeeze between gigantic lorries, searching for our van. Outside in the half-light of dawn, vehicles are streaming out and off while we continue to do a frantic search for our campervan. We’re starting to despair as we go back upstairs to try again to find our lift area- then we spot a group of foot passengers in a waiting area which is…shiny, spacious and outside some lifts. At last! We push through the foot passengers and go down to the depths. And there is our van, in almost solitary splendour except for a few vehicles trapped behind it, their drivers waiting for us to arrive and a few extremely irritated ferry crew members. We’re sheepish as we drive off and I’m mouthing ‘sorry’, although it doesn’t feel entirely our fault.

We’ve to navigate Toulon in the half-light then off up the motorways. We’re heading towards home now, although France is big [by our terms] and we’ll be making a small diversion to see a friend and ex-colleague of Husband’s. Nick was an art teacher and is now a successful painter living in a small village in the Minervois area. This entire region is almost entirely given over to wine production, with a spot of tourism thrown in- as well as art, of course.

The village where Nick lives, Caunes Minervois, has a community of artists including potters as well as painters. We arrive mid-afternoon and search for the village’s handy campsite, which, as Nick has established for us, is open. The entrance isn’t obvious, although it’s by the sport complex, which is commonplace for a municipal site. There’s nobody manning reception but we’re directed, via a notice, to find a place and see someone later. The site is tiny but lovely, with a view of the cute village. It’s beautifully maintained and has everything we need- and all for 12 Euros per night!

Husband strides off up the village to see his friend while I get an hour or so of sleep. We wander up to Nick’s cottage later in the evening, strolling through the lanes. It’s hilly, narrow streets flanked by stone, terraced cottages. There’s a stone cross and a beautiful bell tower on the church. It’s all idyllic. Opposite Nick’s house, on the sloping lane, lives a potter, Lionel- examples of his ceramics adorning his front yard.

The inside of Nick’s house is as quaint and cute as everywhere else, with small rooms leading on to a courtyard partly covered by a vine. The rooms are filled with his art works, large canvases, swirling and vigorous. Across the courtyard is his huge studio, rustic and criss-crossed with beams. It’s warm enough to sit in the courtyard to eat.

It’s late when we walk back through the village to the campsite. Nick has warned us that the streetlights will be off and indeed, it is dark, but there’s enough light to see to walk and there’s something lovely about the ancient village, silent in the dark.

In the morning Nick comes to us for coffee and we ask to buy a painting, making a quick second visit to the studio to choose. It’s tricky! Nick’s work is shown in many, prestigious exhibitions, including the Saatchi Gallery and Brazilian locations. https://www.saatchiart.com/account/profile/938067 But we reach an agreement and he wraps it carefully for us to take away.

I feel reluctant to leave but we must make progress north now that Autumn has taken firm hold so we bid Nick ‘au revoir’ and we’re off again…

You can visit Nick’s Facebook page here: https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=nick%20rands

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novelist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

Ajaccio and Away!

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Ajaccio, Corsica’s capital, is a beautiful, pastel-coloured city sweeping around a bay in the west of the island. It has a busy port with ferries coming and going, a few cruise ships stopping by and a marina full of expensive yachts.

One of our first jobs in the town is to find the ‘Orange’ shop and renew the SIM card in our mobile wifi device. This is the only way, for now, that we know how to keep internet costs down while travelling in Europe and I’m nostalgic for the pre-Brexit days when we never had to consider such things.

The city is everything you’d expect from a grand, old Mediterranean municipality- narrow streets edged with tall, terraced buildings, grand squares dotted with palms and a beachside citadel, sadly not open to the public but picturesque all the same.

One of Ajaccio’s claims to fame is being the birthplace of Napolean Bonaparte, a historical event much capitalised upon. Boney is everywhere, from pubs to barbers’ shops. We find his actual house in a tiny, cluttered street; a modest building next to a bar. Almost everything in the street is Napolean-related and there are groups of tourists eagerly snapping away.

The town’s main square is huge and houses the Hotel de Ville as well as ornate fountains. There is, of course a plethora of gift shops, bars and cafes. They are competing for cruise passengers’ cash. There’s a huge, white floating hotel in the harbour and it’s easy to spot its occupants as they wander the town dressed in their cruise outfits. They’ll be returned on board by the time we begin to look for a restaurant, so we’ll have plenty of choice.

In the late afternoon we need to look for somewhere to eat, principally because we’ll need to get in the queue for the ferry in a couple of hours. It’s tricky. Here in the Med, folks tend to eat late, with or without children, which means the restaurants don’t open until late, either. But most have a 7.00pm opening, which is just about ok for us to be in time to queue. We gravitate towards the dockside, a location that we know from experience is likely to provide a good choice of eateries. It’s fair to say that the meal we choose is fine, though not as inexpensive as most of our restaurant meals on Sardinia and Corsica have been.

Then we’re negotiating the complex maelstrom of roundabouts and slip roads which take us to the port and thrusting phone screen barcodes at various neon-vested ferry workers. A group of three lads seem to have a bantering discussion over the size of our van, despite us telling them the length but at last we’re directed into the appropriate lane and just have to wait. We’ve done all this enough now, to know the routine. There’s a long wait but once the ship arrives everything happens quickly, the inbound vehicles streaming out and disappearing into the [by now] dark and the processing of the outbound traffic. It’s like some complicated puzzle, fitting all the assorted cars, vans and motorhomes into the hold and then it’s our turn.

There’s little information or direction to the way we must access the passenger decks. This is not Brittany Ferries- where a member of staff hands you a ticket with the coded exit and stairs you need to use. We are left to work it out. We’re sandwiched tightly between huge lorries but there is a lift nearby that we can squeeze our way through to. When we get up to the passenger deck we exit into a large, shiny space with lifts either side of us. I’m weary by now and in an addled state, neglect to notice where we are. We’re intent on 1] finding our cabin and 2] finding the bar, both of which we manage to do.

I’m a little dismayed to find that our cabin has bunk beds, meaning that one of us will have to clamber up and down a ladder. This is not good. Nowadays, both Husband and I need to take nightly trips to the toilet, which is housed in a bijou en-suite in a corner. There’s a hiatus while we both ponder whether we will be the one to undertake this, then I volunteer to sleep on the floor and remove the mattress from the top. There’s just about room to put it on the floor with the end tucked under the bottom bunk.

We decamp to the bar, where we toast our departure amongst a throng of fellow passengers. Through the blurry windows Ajaccio recedes. There’s nothing else but to retire to the cramped cabin. I tuck myself into the duvet on the floor, hoping not to be trodden on by a bathroom visiting Husband.

In the event, it’s not a restful night’s sleep and I’m glad of my Kindle for whiling away the hours until we pull into Toulon. I’m unrested, stretched and brain-fogged from lack of sleep as the ship shudders up to the quayside. It’s still dark outside as we stumble up and stow our things. Now, how do we find the van? Hmmmmm……

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novelist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

At Last! Return to Corsica

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We’re aware that we must pay up for our stay at the site near Santa Theresa Gallura the evening before we leave, while reception is still open, as we’ll need to be early next morning to catch the ferry to Corsica. Feeling noble, I volunteer to make the descent down to the gate and pay, negotiating all the levels then flogging back up all the slopes and steps to our pitch at the top. Getting to the door of the van, I see Husband talking on his phone and once he’s done, he shares the news that our ferry for next morning is cancelled due to inclement weather and we won’t be departing for another couple of days.

‘Your turn’ I tell him. And he makes the steep descent back down to reception to re-book for two more nights. It leaves us with the knotty problem of how to occupy two days here in relative wilderness without beach weather. But it’s true that the skies are overcast and the stiff breeze is strengthening to gale level. Later, squally rain is added to the mix. I’ll admit to disappointment that we’re not leaving for Corsica just yet. There are a few places there left to see and not a lot besides reading or internet we can do here in the middle of nowhere except beach, which is not tempting in the wind and wet. Hmm-

With a day to fill, we opt to secure the van’s interior and go for a look at Santa Theresa Gallura, where we’ll be leaving from when the coast is clear. It’s only a couple of miles down the road. The town is hilly, with narrow streets but we find a car park that will accommodate the van and walk towards the beach front area. It’s very windy though not raining and when we reach the sea, we can see the strip of limestone cliffs that is the coast of Corsica across the choppy waters.

If you cross the sand into the corner of the small, sea-front beach there are steps up to a cliffside walkway. It doesn’t go all that far but is fun to walk round, especially with choppy waves splashing up, although the only option is to return via the same route. After this, we wander the town a bit. It’s pleasant enough, with some attractive squares and plenty of gift shops. Then it’s on to have a look where we’ll be getting the ferry and to ‘Eurospin’ for groceries.

Next morning we’re up early to prepare for the crossing, arriving at the port to join a queue for the ancient ferry, which is already waiting. We get a coffee and pastry from the portside cafe then I’m told to vacate and board as a pedestrian while Husband waits. Soon I can watch while he turns the van and reverses into the mouth of the boat whilst being shouted and gesticulated at. We’re learning, by now, that this is the way of Italian ferry workers.

There’s not much sun, but I can’t help standing to watch as our vessel approaches Bonifacio, the white cliffs growing larger, the medieval buildings on their overhanging ledge. I’ve already taken far too many photos of this picturesque city! Then we’re rounding the cliffs into harbour and as Husband descends to the hold to get the van, I follow the pedestrian walkway out to meet him. There’s just the steep ramp of road up from the quay to negotiate- thankfully without obstacle or need to pause this time. We’re back on Corsica!

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novelist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

Calvi-Solenzara- and Au Revoir for now-

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We spend three nights at Calvi, spending our first day wandering the old city, which means more climbing in extreme heat, although near the top of the citadel there’s a strategically placed ice cream shop with shady seating. The views are worth the effort, the harbour full to bursting with some of the most expensive boatage to be seen on the Med.

We’re less ambitious on our second day, opting to do a late afternoon stroll on the boardwalk that runs along the railway line. A tiny train putters back and forth around the bay. In the evening we go and find a harbourside bar for a beer and a people watching session- always a pleasant way to pass an hour or two.

We leave Calvi in the morning to head south via some ancient excavations, a journey which becomes frustrating. The ruins are next to a Basilica- elegant from the outside but tickets are required for a glimpse inside- tickets from some museum or other located elswhere! I wonder how many visitors the church receives! Likewise, the remains of the ancient village- medeival perhaps-who knows?

There’s an annnoying search for a site after this, and we end up checking into an enormous ‘beach village’ with 3 or 4 pools, huge bar, restaurant and ‘entertainment’ area with gift shop etc. I’m interested to see that their FB page is telling everyone to cut down on electricity use when their multiple pools and splashparks are fully functioning! It’s ok for 1 night though and next day we pootle on south to a site near Serenzola on a beach, which couldn’t be more different- a ramshackle bar/reception and choose pitch where we like. It’s bohemian and we spend an afternoon on the beach, although when I attempt entry to the sea I’m stymied by my feeble water skills on the steep ledge and have to extricate myself by shuffling backwards, thus filling my cozzie with gritty sand; then I have to remove it by pulling it out of my pants area- not a dignified look, but one that entertains Husband, of course.

We’ve only one more night on Corsica for now so we head on down towards Bonifacio where there’s a site near the port city, in an old olive grove. It’s still too hot to do much but we attempt a walk along a footpath towards the town which quickly becomes overgrown and impassable. There aren’t many people daft enough to attempt walking into Bonifacio. But we’ve already visited. If you haven’t visited, reader I heartily suggest you do. I’d put it in my top 10 European cities and Number 1 most beautiful harbour!

It just remains for us to get to port next morning and get on the ferry, navigating around the narrow streets and down a very steep road to the marina. I’m glad we’re going down, not up, but we’ll have to on our way back! We get a coffee and settle down to wait, discovering later that we need a barcode for our tickets- not something we knew. I go to the ticket office then a battered, ancient ferry comes wheezing around the limestone cliff. We, the passengers must get out of vehicles and Husband has to reverse into the hold, being shouted instructions at. It may be as well that he’s so hard of hearing on this occasion. Then we’re off! And just across the water, Sardinia awaits!

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.