Corsica Bound: Diary of Departure: 15

We're both up early, Di to clean the house, me to clean myself and  pack. We always stumble silently around 'Chez Diane' on our last day, so I put on some Ennio Morricone.
For breakfast we eat most of the remaining provisions and make up a food bag of what's left for our neighbor Marie Lucie. As I dunk crusts into my coffee, the stale bread reminds me of something I wrote on our last visit:

Yesterday's Bread

“Everyday but Sunday” she says

Glancing over my shoulder

As she counts out change

 Every day but Sunday

In the shadow of St Augustine

Crusts offered reluctantly

From the back of a crumpled white van

I am not yet 'of the village'

So have worked my way 

From the back of the queue

'Voila, you were lucky'

She draws a dark brown oddment

From within, then

Steps to her left

Blocking my view

I bound home with flour on my chest

To find you in the kitchen

Teacups brimful

Over your shoulder I see

The remnants of yesterday's bread

"Always leave a crust 

To show you're not in need"

Terry's chant

"Waste not, want for nothing"

I am my father's son

So every dawn we test our teeth 

On yesterday’s bread

Leaving the soft and the fresh 

For tomorrow

You hold me hopefully

As I picture pater

Tight lipped and wanting

Pressing broken teeth

Into the back of his smile

We ready the house for our absence during the summer.

- Secure the blinds and windows

- Turn off the gas in the kitchen

- Turn off the electricity and water supply in the downstairs shower room

- Lock the front door

As we leave the house I look to my right at what used to be our view of the mountain villages, now blocked by our neighbor's recent development. His front door is a fine, solid thing, engraved with musical motifs. 'X' is a talented musician. I remember the commotion when his grand piano was delivered to the house by half a dozen shirtless young men who grunted and groaned under the weight of the instrument while 'X' tutted and clucked, issuing directions from above. Once the piano was inside there was a brief silence before the playing started. 'X's house is floor boarded and the music reverberated from within and out over the valley. We reluctantly leant in, our resentments briefly forgotten.

It was a sad and beautiful moment.

We shuffle silently past our recently departed neighbour Titin's sculptures. 

They will grace the rocks outside our house long after we've all gone.

Titin was a good age and was seemingly rock solid, costaud, until the end.

We thought that he'd go on forever...

I think back to the morning we officially moved in to 'Chez Diane'. Di and our friends Gregg and Suzi stripped wallpaper whilst I went off tapping on neighbors' doors in search of a tin opener. Titin and his nephew had just returned from an early morning hunt and Titin dragged me into his kitchen and plied me with pastis. We drank until the bottle was empty and I stumbled home mid morning with a 'Ricard' bottle opener, no tin opener, and a seaside smile...

As we enter the square by St Augustine's church we look up to our right at the house of our English/Australian friends Janet and David who translated the village's ways for us when we first arrived. Janet and David worked in tourism and were massively influential in popularizing the island back in the 50s and 60s. Their children grew up in the house, went to the local schools and are as Corsican as it's possible for foreign blood to be. When we first arrived in the village Janet and David flitted between Paris in the winter and long summers in the house, visited by family and a whole host of quirky friends. Their children, now grown, are successful in the world of theatre and design, so there was always a bohemian aura permeating from within those walls.

These days, part from the odd visit from their kids the rambling house is sadly ever empty... Janet and David now rest in the cemetery above the village, but we still see them waving from the balcony, chuckling and chatting, chuckling and chatting...

At the airport I return the car rental, complimenting the 'Avis' mechanic on our car. 'You liked it?' he says surprised, scratching at his clip board, 'No one likes French cars. It's Renault. How you say? A piece of shit!'

As we board the plane Di gasps, turns and skips back down the steps, elbowing her way past the ascending flow of passengers. 

She's forgotten to kiss the Corsican earth, part of her ritual for departure. Di touches her fingers to her lips and then to the tarmac; lingering a little longer than usual.

Song of the Day: As we are returning to a much anticipated visit from Brian Lopez let's have him singing his own composition 'Love Comes Over You' from yesterday's favourite album, Giant Giant Sand's magnificent miss mash, 'Tuscon'.
It seems oddly appropriate given our unquantifiable intoxication
with this irresistible little island.

Corsica Bound: Diary of Departure: 14

Saturday

It's our last full day and we make the most of the weather, hitting the beach. We take a bottle of wine with us and raise a glass to the sand and sea which have helped to purge us of the anxieties of city life.
In the evening we head for the local mountain village of Calenzana, famous for being the starting point of the first leg of one of the great world walks. The GR20 is a 20 leg trek down the spine of the island, traversing the granite outcrops that bear testimony to the violent volcanic history that form the island's spectacular internal topography. There will be no such endeavor for us tonight; we are eating at one of our favourite local restaurants 'Chez Michelle' which specializes in Corsican mountain cuisine, roasted in a wood fired oven. The pizzas are spectacular, but tonight my mind is set; I'll be having the spectacular 'Agneau de lait au feu de bois', the restaurant's speciality. It's baby lamb, basted in local olive oil, herbs and garlic, served up with tiny salty potatoes, all roasted in that wood fired oven. Di's eye is on veal and goes for the day's specials which she reads as 'Trumpets de Veau', surely a fanfare for this delicate meat. The first plate arrives and my heart sinks. I get the whiff before I see what's in Di's bowl. Her 'trumpets' are actually 'trippettes':  'Trippettes de veau', veal tripe! No way is she eating that! Her shoulders do that shudder so I quickly offer to swap it for my lamb which has just arrived, smelling beautiful. I struggle with texture and taste whilst Di luxuriates in my divine dish. Insult to injury: she ain't sharing! When the lady's hungry she has no conscience. I'm offered up the odd stripped bone to suck on but my meal basically consists of salty potatoes and bread dipped in tripe sauce... joy!

Thankfully the deserts are substantial so I have Soufflé au Brocciu. Corsican Brocciu is the famous artisanal Corsican  curdled sheep's cheese. It's normally baked into Fiadone, a cheese cake which is made with eggs and lemon zest. My soufflé is similarly flavored and served up with a fiery glass of eau de vie which helps to burn the tripe taste from the tongue. The job's completed by a couple of espressos. We wander the moonlit streets for a while then head for home. We need to pack for tomorrow's early departure.

Ipod: Giant Sand's 'Tuscon'

Song of the day: 'Out of the Blue'

Corsica Bound: Diary of Departure: 13

Friday

I have a predictable hangover and not a lot of sympathy from Di.

Copious cups of coffee and Keith Jarrett help to sooth my morning.

Our builder Dominguez visits for his last 2K and to admire his roof terrace. He changes the lock of our shower room that we’ll finally be able to secure. It takes him 10 seconds. ‘Un cadeaux’ he beams, proud that he’s done something for nowt…

Beach, then home to a rooftop sunset.

Supper is languine with a pork lardons and red pepper sauce; lots of basil and parmesan.

Sorry that I can't articulate more but it's hard to convey an ambience, particularly when I'm in this state of ennui. I love it here; dislocated, half wasted, half arsed, half way up our little mountain. I know that we need to change to grow but am fearful that we might be sacrificing a little corner of heaven to that vague principle...

At this moment I'm wondering why we're jumping ship; reminds me of a line one of my mates Trevor Smith came out with when we were on an ill fated sailing trip that took us from the beautiful island of Antigua south to its ugly neighbor Guadeloupe, 'We found paradise and we sailed away from it...'

Bed, book and brandy.

‘Ghostwritten’ is beautifully written but I need to slow down to get it. Not an easy holiday read; it’s full of sentences to savour, dwell on, re read… I must remember to start the holiday with the challenging reads and finish with the pulp. Next up, a coloring book and then 'Janet and John 1a'?

Anyone old enough to remember that series?

Ipod: Familiar fare tonight; The Blue Nile are on shuffle.

Song of the day: ‘Because of Toledo’.

Corsica Bound: Diary of Departure: 12

Thursday

Di’s up early to tidy the house as Lucy from the Estate Agency Etoile is visiting to take photos. We have a glorious morning so she will see things in the best light. Lucy arrives at 10am; we have coffee and chat about everything but the house. Finally we get around to business, agree a price and discuss the details of the proposed sale. I catch Di welling up; the house is a tangle of memories, a mine of emotional resonance for us both but it’s Di’s baby and she’s understandably wobbly. She's invested a lot of time, money and energy into 'Chez Diane'. This house will hold her shadow for many years to come.

Bodri beach for lunch and a swim. There’s a moment of mild drama when a drunken man parades the beach doing a classic comedy sideways stumble. Shaven headed, bovver booted, aged somewhere between 35 and 60 and whirling his shirt above him like a helicopter, he’s received with horror by all, recoiling parents clutch babies to there breasts as he belches his way up and down their beach. He stops to take a very public piss against some rocks. Things come to a head when he makes the mistake of mocking some middle aged German nudists who front him a little too aggressively. He squares up to half a dozen flaccid dicks who stand tall, suck their bellies in, broaden their tattood shoulders, and point their pink wrinkled winkles in his direction; like a firing squad taking aim at a deserter. Our defenceless drunk has definitely deserted the niceties of beach etiquette and continues to mock the Kraut’s cocks. They jabber and jeer back making bullish dummied advances; eventually seeing the intruder off, high fiving each other in celebration of their victory as the bewildered bloke wanders off with a sideways shuffle into the dunes.

We return home for a quick turnaround and we’re off to The Albertinis house above Calvi. Janet and Antoine are our oldest friends on the island. Lots of wine and laughter; Antoine has prepared a ragu of sanglier, wild boar that he shot himself. The Corsicans are enthusiastic hunters and always proud of their kill. The stew is delicious as is the red wine that always flows generously there.

Finally, after a rancid but delicious brie the inevitable eau de vie comes out. This fire-water is close to Italy’s ‘grappa’; flavoured by all sorts; berries sometimes but mainly myrthe, a fruit that grows wild in the maquis. This one is made from apples by one of Antoine’s friends on the mainland.  Nastrovia is the word of the evening thereafter…. Indeed the last word I remember hearing or speaking…

Di drives home as I’m drunk as a skunk.

No music or book; bed beckons; oblivion…