We buy some bread, jam and salami for breakfast, but don't fill up our supplies any further since this day will be our last day in the mountains: we've decided to back out in Vizzavona, first because we have enough of our first big mountain tour and second because we want to spend the rest of our short time seeing something else of Corsica than the interior.
Today's march is very pleasant and has lots of water. Except for some short sections the way goes downhill. We pass through regions where the anually forest fires have already raged, and when we're approaching Vizzavona I can smell - fire. We can also see that it's there: it's not the usual dust that hides the mountain tops, because it's not white but grey and yellow. Alarmed by my observation Thomas and Markus force their pace, and I follow them as good as I can with my slightly injured feet.
This is how Corsica looks after a macchia fire (the black line is a water hose, in case you're wondering)
We reach Vizzavona by 14.45, but not by following the signs or our map. Both would direct us round the village, and my infallible sense of locality (self-praise) leads us directly to the train station.
Vizzavona is an awful hole in one of the many backyards of the world. There are some "hotels" but no shops at all (just some sales vehicles every now and then with horrible prices and nothing to offer). We buy our tickets to Corte (23 FF), the train departs at 15.48. Waiting on the platform we meet a whole lot of Germans (you really meet them everywhere); we'll become acquainted with six of them later. They're telling us of the fire that's raging in the valley behind the next, so there's been no danger to us.
A journey with the trans-corsican railroad is an experience of a special kind. It's a narrow-gauge railway with a gauge of about 1m, and with quite modern, but also with quite old railcars with diesel engines. It doesn't make much sense to tell the exact gauge though - it just isn't, the tracks are in a miserable shape. The railway is operated by the CFC (Chemins de Fer de la Corse). Corte, our destination, is about 30km away, but it takes us not less than one hour to go there! I don't have a seat, and I really have to hold on not to fly through the whole waggon. Putting baggage in the luggage rack is not only useless but dangerous; it's just a question of time 'til it's on the ground again, so put it there straight. You're also told by the conductor to do that.
The track twists its way through narrow, superelevated turns, goes through many incredibly narrow tunnels and climbs up considerable ascents. During the ride I see another macchia fire in the vicinity of Corte.
After we arrive at Corte, I call my parents at home. During the "summer hole" the papers and the tv news always report forest fires from all over the world and of course from Corsica. My parents are of the solicitous type (I guess most parents are), and I want to let them (and those of my companions) know that we're OK. And believe it or not, Corsica has been in the news last evening, so my call was just in time. Of course I don't tell them that while we're talking I have a good view of the fire that's devastating a slope about 3km (2 miles) away with fire-aircrafts above it getting in each other's way.
Corte is the centre of the interior of Corsica, and it's the secret cultural capital of the island. Not that it's a big city with its 5000 inhabitants, no, but it even has a university of its own! Besides, Corte has been the capital of Corsica from 1755 to 1769, during those 14 years of independence. The main attraction of the town is its medieval citadel, the only citadel in the interior of Corsica. Corte has fully adapted to tourism: there are lots of accommodation offers, lots of banks and shops, and even lots of camping sites.
Corte
So we trot from the station to the town centre where we replenish our supplies first. Not that we don't have any more rice, but it's definitely time for a change. Like tortellini with vegetable sauce and grated cheese, and beverages with inherent taste.
Other rucksack tourists suggest us to stay at a quiet, secluded campsite behind the citadel. We share our knowledge with a group of four girls and two guys that we meet at Place Paoli and that we already know from Vizzavona. They're Franconians from somewhere between Heilbronn and Schwäbisch Hall (two german towns near Stuttgart), and they join us on our way to the site. "Camping A la Ferme U Tavignanu" keeps what we've been told about it: nothing special, but not expensive, very quiet, smooth ground, a good sanitary block, and lots of shade.
We're here for just about an hour when we once again learn that the world is just a village. Not only that there are people from the Saarland (that's the state of Germany where we are from), no, they have to be from Landsweiler, a place just two kilometers from where I live! But I don't know them, and we don't get to know them. In my humble opinion they are pretty sleepy-headed: they always come at awkward times (when we're eating) or too late (when we're calling it a day).
During the whole evening I'm watching the fire-aircrafts of the 'Canadair' type approching the fire from right above our heads. They don't fly in the dark, though, they haven't got the necessary equipment. The fire isn't extinguished when night falls, at least that's what I think when I see a pale light exactly in the north (direct sight is blocked) that can't be the moon.
We sit together for a long time with the Franconians who have brought a small guitar and two identical songbooks with them, talking about the two parts of the GR 20 (they did the northern part), and Markus and two of them make use of the guitar while the others are singing (hah!, of course we're better singers than the dwarfs!). By midnight (of course we haven't sung that long) we call it a day and let us pester by very distant, polyphonic, almost a capella-like yapping and yowling of a dozen curs. But not for long; we pass out soon.