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!

Back in the Motherland for Christmas

Returning home this week reminded me how much I appreciate Christmas in England.

There’s certainly plenty to write to home about Christmas in Corsica; strolling around in a t-shirt in December, not having the car de-icing ritual every morning and avoiding weaving through Christmas shopping crowds.

But being a secular country, Christmas in French schools seems little austere without festive decorations or nativity plays; I couldn’t help feeling a little nostalgic for shepherds dressed in old sheets and the child who doesn’t want to be a camel.

And as for the food, it was perhaps unfortunate that I decided to try a traditional winter Corsican meal 3 hours before a very twisty three and half hour road trip to Ajaccio. From now on, I can only associate figatelli, sausage made with pork liver, fried egg and chestnut pate with holding my breath round every sharp bend to try and keep the waves of sickness at bay.

Taking in a panoramic view of London as I landed at Heathrow gave me goosebumps. An awash of Christmas lights illuminated the urban landscape adorned with iconic landmarks and a flurry of cars circulating crossing bridges and roads.

So for the next few days I will be making up for lost time and soaking up Christmas in England to the max, starting with my fist mince pie of the year, better late than never I suppose. And like it or loath it there will be no escaping the likes of Slade or the gin-soaked lament that is “Fairytale of New York” playing in every high street store.

After getting home from a last minute Christmas shopping trip with a bright red nose, surely a look that's fetching only on reindeer, I felt truly back in England.

Les Restos Du Coeur

I am in the fortunate position of having free time on my hands, something which I’m sure I will be very nostalgic about in years to come so I decided to get involved with “Les Restos du Coeur.” Started in 1985, every year this charitable organisation distributes 109 million meals to nearly 1m people living in poverty in France. Food for thought when you consider that France is hardly a third world country.

So last week I headed to the Restos du Coeur headquarters in Porto Vecchio. For three months of the year, a ramshackle former garage is turned into a food distribution centre for people struggling to make ends meet. Strategically placed buckets in the event of heavy rain, a cacophony of christmas decorations and copious amounts of strong coffee capture in essence Restos du Coeur: it doesn’t claim to be a panacea for poverty with big patronizing gestures but it’s about people doing what they can, to make light of a difficult situation.

Voluntary work has a habit of restoring your faith in humanity. As I arrived looking dishevelled and very much a foreigner (I am still resisting wearing a coat, its 19 degrees in the daytime which I consider tropical) I was warmly greeted by a truly Corsican man who waved and shouted emphatically at every utterance and a woman who spoke four languages within ten minutes,
It’s easy for poverty to hide behind the façade of luxury villas, yachts and throng of four by fours tearing through a town sometimes referred to as Corsica’s St.Tropez. The increasing rich poor divide is certainly not a predicament unique to Porto Vecchio; but perhaps the problem here is sharpened by flocks of tourists descending on the island every summer with their bottomless bank accounts. The double edged tourism industry has undoubtedly created extraordinary wealth whilst pricing out those left behind.

Food shopping is no exception. I struggle to spend less than 35 euros a week on basic items and having managed to track down tinned tuna for 30 cents last week, it’s fair to say I’m not someone with especially extravagant tastes. Admittedly I’m yet to open it, if the truth be told I’m scared about what may lie inside.

The diversity of people signing up for food donations bares testimony to how indiscriminate poverty can be: a woman whose husband walked out leaving her and her four children, , young families unable to pay for rent let alone wrapping paper this Christmas and immigrants trapped in a social security catch 22.

Whilst climbing inside a chest freezer to scrub down the sides and developing mild repetitive strain disorder from lifting 100 cartons of milk from the back of a van, I realised there is a tendency to lose touch with other real living, breathing, human beings. Self checkouts, computers, email and facebook don’t lend themselves to interaction and opening our eyes to problems sitting on our doorstep.

Le Col de Bavella

I have always been a firm believer that there's no room for adventure and excitement staying inside your comfort zone. This was certainly put to the test Friday when I hiked the Col de Bavella.

Perched forebodingly in the stunning Alta Rocca mountains, the Col de Bavella crosses Bavella Needles, a backbone of granite spikes rising high above the ground.

I was a little in the dark about what the walk would entail and I didn’t want to turn up clad head to toe in lycra. As luck would have it, my ‘middle of the road’ hiking attire sufficed...just.
The walk started through a pine forest studded with chestnuts and paths lined with ocre stained leaves. With the backcloth of dramatic mountainous landscape laced in fine mist and clouds, we steadily ascended up a rocky path.

Reaching the top, the track disappeated virtually disappeared. I watched incredulously as my fellow companions climbed effortlessly, one arm and foot instinctively stretching out and gripping the next rock. As I, not so gracefully, reached the top, my stomach turned. With sheets of cloud sweeping low above us, it dawned on me the slightest wrong footing on the narrow, cragged summit would give way to sheer drops. A companion asked me “Are you scared?” and I managed to stammer a very resolute yes.

We continued to rise and fall along meandering paths, although I use path in the very loosest sense of the word. We scrabbled through the 'Trou de la Bombe' - an 8 metre hole in the rock, and abseiled down near vertical rock faces; my companions doing so with the ease of an ape and myself more like a frightened mountain sheep.

In true Corsican style, the heavens opened with little warning. Soon after eating lunch, we walked for an hour through fierce hale and rain along an open path in the midst of dramatic lightning splitting the valley.

Arriving home and peeling off wet clothes, dealing with cuts and scratches on my legs and accessing the damage done to my trousers from sliding inelegantly down many a rock, I couldn't help but look forward to the next time.

Pyramid Training

What started off as a blog about running has rapidly been superseded by tales from Corsica, with food featuring heavily.

Running might have taken a back seat whilst I get to grips with the language and all the highs and lows that come with of living in a foreign country. This week for example, until someone kindly corrected, I realised that instead of making small talk about how much it's raining, I've been saying "It's crying a lot." Fabulous.

However that aside, I've found a very accommodating running club. In some respects, the language barrier is a blessing as I'm not always entirely sure how far we're supposed to be running. If in doubt, I just have to gage how much this session is going to hurt from the various cursing of "merde" and other profanities under the breath of my fellow runners.

We did some pyramid training last week at the track. If getting that 3000m under your belt is a hard pill to swallow after a long day at work, pyramid intervals are the perfect way to make time fly. With long distance running it's tempting to cruise along in your comfort zone without improving. This session is guarenteed to get the job done whilst building up strength and endurance.

10 minutes warm-up easy running.

1. 15 seconds high intensity 15 second rest
2. 30 seconds high intensity 30 second rest
3. 30 seconds high intensity 30 second rest
4. 45 seconds high intesnity 45 second rest
5. 15 seconds high intensity 15 second rest

Repeat 4 times

10 minute cool down easy running

I believe the technical name for this is the swedish word "Fartlek". Yes it does sound funny until you run one.

Hiking Le Mare e Mare Sud

Hiking has been high on my to do list in Corsica. So I jumped at the chance to walk the Mare a Mare Sud, a five day route from Porto Vecchio to Propriano taking in mountains, spectacular river gorges and aromatic macquis.

Branching away from the busier port towns and venturing into the mountainous Alta Rocca region was a chance to see the flora and fauna of Corsica. There was an abundance of irresistible fig trees and terracotta coloured leaves lining the paths, not to mention bearded mountain men and the alarming sight of small Corsican boys with a rifle casually in tow. Standard protocol apparently. Coming from a fairly sun deprived neck of the wood in England, I was probably overly fascinated by avocados and aubergines growing in late October. So fascinated, that I couldn’t stop myself leaning over the fence and picking an avocado from someone’s garden.

For the first couple of days whilst trekking up some steep hills, I wondered what had possessed me to pack an industrial sized bottle of hair conditioner. A friend of mine told me about someone who cut their toothbrush in half on a hike in order to save space; it didn’t seem like such a ridiculous idea when you start developing bruises from the weight of your rucksack. But the incredible views at the top were more than worth it.

On day 3, we discovered that anything claiming to be “waterproof” should be taken with a pinch of salt. Arriving at the gite soaking wet after 4 hours of heavy rain and resembling bedraggled mountain urchins, that cliché ‘look what the cat dragged in’ had never been more fitting. But two hours later, with our clothes drying nicely by the fire and tucking into a delicious lasagne made with the corsican cheese brocciu, the whole day became more of a bonding experience than one to forget.

We made it to the final gite about 7k outside Propriano on Thursday, certainly not having completed any kind of athletic feat but collapsing onto a bed nonetheless and proud of that fact that we walked across Corsica. It felt almost as good as emptying the contents of my bag into the washing machine when arrived back in civilization on Friday. I only hope there’s no bad karma coming my way after stealing that Avocado.

All images are the property of J.Hanley. http://aquariusadrift.tumblr.com/page/3