The three washerwomen of antiquity

The wild flowers are magnificent - some familiar from unspoiled places in Britain but many unknown to me. Wild cyclamen flood the woods. There are dazzling spreads of orchids, daisies, wild roses, a tiny dwarf lavender, mesembryanthemums, wild peas, pale dandelions, centaurea, thistles, grasses and so many more.
The birdsong fills the forests, and again some calls are familiar - especially the blackbird, but there are so many I do not know. We have seen woodpeckers, jays, many sort of crow, eagles in the higher reaches, and today several aerial skirmishes between kites (black kite?) and crows chasing them away.
Everything here is on the move - the mountains, the horizon, the clouds, the light, even the roads are dynamic.  Engineered to bring you across the astonishing gorges and peaks of the various mountain ranges, the roads are - for the most part - in pretty good shape, although occasionally, some stretches seem to be maintained by Kent County Council, being bumpy, rough and full of holes.  But these tracts are exceptional.  For the most part the roads are excellent, with all their climbs and corners, U-bends and cambers.   They are attacked day and night by hostile forces - rocks tumble down onto them, and bits of trees fall. The earth banks slither and slip. Water courses are usually directed beneath them, but sometimes flow randomly over the surface and can always undermine the tarmac.  Tree roots push their way underneath and then up, making unmarked bumps and hillocks. It's all fluid, shifting.
Today we left the quiet eccentricities of the Moufflon d'Or at Zonza and turned to the north east towards the coast. The road is one of the most spectacular in Corsica, with various stopping points along the way. The views are - frankly - staggering.  The granite peaks present an ever-ascending culmination of vertical faces, sliced and swept bare by the millions of years of erosion and weathering. Today they presented a sort of flesh-coloured pinkness in the sunlight, striated with black shadows and thin lines of vegetation clinging on against all odds.  The final crescendo of height is called the Col or Aig de Bavella, which is barely credible to understand.  The tops are so far up, jagged and dramatic you can only imagine someone dreamed them up in a kind of dystopian vision.    As you descend on the eastern flanks and finally arrive at marshes and meadows far down by the sea, you have to pinch yourself to remember what you have just seen.
Down here in the eastern lowlands the land is rich and fertile, with grazing flocks and fat little farmsteads. The tourist industry has bitten only gently - with low-rise buildings and a family-run air. Finding a big-brand supermarket is not easy. And although this is definitely French, it's not like other parts of France. This is called an autonomous collectivity, and is an expression of hundreds of years of a desire for independence. The Corsicans have been battling against ownership for centuries - against Pisa, and Genoa, and latterly France. There's an interesting and instructive article about all this dated Sept 7th 2017 in the Financial Times.  It even recounts the almost unbelievable story of how partisans blew up the villa belonging to a Paris property developer to stop him going ahead with an unpopular scheme - this had the effect of scaring all the others off too, which may account for the unspoiled and quiet atmosphere along the coasts and in the beautiful interior.
We had lunch at a beach cafe near the Roman port of Aleria, and then made our way north - diverting into a tiny steep valley ornamented with two tiny villages dedicated to Santa Lucia and San Nicolao.  Here the roads are tiny, and the land apparently abandoned to scrub. On my arm I found the smallest ant I have ever seen, no bigger than a money spider.  We saw three ladies sitting on a bridge in the woods, far from anywhere, with a fabulous river cannonading below them. These I am sure we're the three washerwomen of antiquity, heralding a death - and indeed, this very day, I heard that one of my lovely uncles has not very long to live. These three Ladies were dark and serene, and returned our respectful greeting as we passed by.  There, the rocks have changed to the schists which mark the east of the island, and there was wild water mint growing in the gullies, and stately little orchids.
Our hotel is so strikingly modern and clean, right on the beach at Plage de la Marana - near Bastia airport but you would never know it - anyway, we had booked in for one night and decided to stay for three. The room has its own west-facing terrace. The beach has creamy grey sand, and a colossal assortment of logs and trees washed up all along the sand.  It is all quiet.  Large black ants patrol but do not nip. The birds are singing their hearts out. There are great swathes of flowers growing along the fields.  I feel we could be in the past..... Maybe twenty or thirty years ago.  Magic.