Le Trail Blanc de La Restonica

A hike in Corsica’s mountainous interior was the perfect anecdote to long winter evenings.
Set in the breathtaking backdrop of the Restonica Valley, this year marked the third “Trail Blanc de La Restonica” organised by the cancer charity “Le Marie Do”

Since I am new to the trail running scene and on a more serious note, I didn’t fancy the shame of a rescue party carrying me in an exhausted heap from a mountain, I opted out of the gruelling 14km run in favour of a more leisurely 8km hike.

We left Porto Vecchio before sunrise, my 30 litre backpack in tow with a fail-safe supply of tuna pasta, although not in the least bit appetizing at 6.30am. Poised between the breathtaking slopes, the early morning sunlight illuminated the grandiose buildings and narrow streets as we passed Corte, the snow donned mountains in the horizon.

We waited for the buses to take us up to the starting point, my British orderly queue-forming instincts left us ousted from the crowd piling onto buses. In a similarly unprepared vein, The “Be bold, go cold” mantra, which in normal situations avoids peeling off layers in a cold sweat 20 minutes later, soon left me shivering with no feeling in my feet. But with everyone in good spirits, an hour and half later we finally climbed onto the bus and made the ascent to the start.

The narrow and twisting road snaked upwards with mercilessly sheer drops to the river flowing hundreds of feet below. I felt my stomach turn as, with true Corsican motoring audacity, we sped across an unforgiving one way bridge. Suffice to say I bounded off the bus at first the available opportunity.

You couldn’t have asked for a more congenial start: nestled in the verdant pine forest, a hospitable fire and the smell of spuntinu. As the runners scaled the uncompromising steep road, the walk behind began and the feeling quickly returned to my feet.

The route took us along a meandering road etched through the forest and leading toward the shoulders of snow-fed mountains. A soul-warming Vin Chaud greeted us at the refuge an hour in; the perfect pit stop before another couple of hours of walking, passing a, glacial gorges carved into the granite cliffs.

No convivial occasion in Corsica would be complete without a good spread, a delicious array of Corsican sausages and cakes at the finish to recuperate.

Despite losing all feeling in my extremities for a good deal of the day, the kaleidoscope of sights and wonderful atmosphere left me with heart warming experience. And I might even run it next time.

Le cross de Lecci

Christmas has passed with the usual ritual of over eating, drinking and more eating again. It was impossible to bypass the kitchen without taking a mit-ful of roasted nuts or surreptitiously cutting a morsel of Christmas cake, usually justified by coming back for seconds.

So on my return to Corsica, there was definitely no excuse to not take part in a cross country in Lecci, just a short drive from Porto Vecchio.

I appreciate cross country may not be everybody’s cup of tea. Perhaps the memory of being frogmarched through knee-deep mud by sadistic P.E teachers is an unwelcome blast from the past enough to put anyone off willingly partaking. But it is a shame, cross country competitions in England have always been a jovial affair; the odd man down in the mud and the camaraderie that ensues restore your faith in human nature, not the mention the extremely generous spread of sandwiches and cakes which follow suit.

What’s more, the loneliness of a long distance runner does not apply to cross-country, it’s rarely about elbowing your way to the finish line. But perhaps the ultimate joy of cross-country running is the freedom to run off road and enjoy the beautiful trails and parks which are often otherwise unbeknown.

With Christmas having taken its toll and not feeling particularly “en forme”, I couldn’t have asked for a better race to ease back into the cross country season: a flat 4.8k, 2 laps on a bright, warm January day....and a distinctly mudless course. That said, it was a struggle to find a pace which I knew I could maintain, especially with gazelle-like runners in the front of you gliding effortlessly through the air. By the end of the first lap my lungs were breathing heavily and approaching the slightest incline was beginning to fill me with dread. I finished in a respectable position; certainly not the best run I’ve ever had, but the friendly atmosphere and clement weather made for an enjoyable debut in the Corsican cross country scene.

I even had my photograph taken in the local paper; although it’s a shame they couldn’t quite get my name right. Anne-Sophie Marechal the Belgium, whoever she may be, seems to have stolen my moment of fame!