Dark mountains loom over the centre of the island as you approach Corsica across the strait from Sardinia. Behind, the pink and yellow houses of Santa Theresa Gallura tumble down to the small beach. Ahead, high cliffs topped with the double-cream ramparts of Bonifacio and then the hills.

It was these mountains we’d come to walk. We’d taken the slow, but interesting, route to Corsica. Flying to Cagliari (Caggers) in the south of Sardinia, bussing it up to the north, then getting the hour-long ferry over the Strait of Bonifacio, before a final bus to Propriano on the western coast of Corsica.

We’d decided to walk the Maré a Maré Sud, which winds its way from the seaside town of Propriano in the west to the Porto Vechio on the east coast. Corsica is criss-crossed with hiking paths, including the hardest in Europe, the fearsome, 180 km GR20. Our five-day amble through the wooded hills sounded slightly more manageable than the other 15-day slog across the bare mountains tops.

To make things easy the path is marked with orange flashes painted on rocks and trees so walkers shouldn’t get lost. Even better, there’s no need to take a tent or cumbersome and heavy camping equipment, because there are Gîtes d’Etape, or lodges, after every days’ journey. The gîtes provide dinner and breakfast, as well as a bed, for a quite modest price.

The orange flashes are visible from either direction. Most French guidebooks seemed to prefer walking from the east to west, but we went in the other direction, following the path taken by a journalist in The Times last year.

It was nine years since I’d last my last trek, when I dragged my younger sister on a six-day walk up the precarious path to the Milam Glacier in the Himalayas. Before that I’d done a post-GCSE trek in North Wales. It was also a school trip when Autumn last did any trekking. So, neither of us were terribly experienced, but then how difficult can trekking be? After all, we could both spend the day wandering around London no problem.

I’ll admit that visiting Corsica was my idea; and Autumn would end up paying the price. I had my first inkling of the island’s natural splendour and it being a good place for a walking holiday when my dad was still alive. One night when visiting him down in Languedoc, a show came on the telly featuring a group of youngsters hiking through spectacular grey mountains. There was a murder, but as it was all in French so I couldn’t really follow it. Still, it looked like a great place for a summer holiday, as long as you could avoid being bumped off. Later, when the tumour felt its way around the inside of his skull and he became delirious, my dad would repeat his idea that we’d all go on holiday ‘en Corse’ when he got better. Unfortunately the tumour won out. Still, Corsica had lodged itself in my head. Plus, after last year’s trip to Rhodes, a cheapo bucket-shop package holiday, something more adventurous was called for.

Starting at Propriano gave us the chance to make some final preparations. I got out a final handful of Euros to pay for the Gîtes, and finally bought a map of the route, while Autumn picked up a bag of dried prunes. We soon came to realise why a prune company sponsors both a female cycling team and Le Club Alpin Français.

We started walking the seven kilometres to the first gîte around 5 pm. After 20 minutes down a busy road, you turn off onto a quieter road through yellow fields for the walk to the head of the valley. The long white gîte sits high on the valley side, and we heard voices spilling from the terrace long before we wind our way up to the front door. Dinner was about to be served by the time we arrive.

U Fracintu is a ‘Gîte – Hotel’ so has both rooms and a dormitory. We opted for a room, but as all guests share tables at dinner we couldn’t entirely cocoon ourselves in our own company. Sharing tables and dormitories, stories and advice soon became a habit. Food was served on the long terrace hanging above the valley side.

Our first new acquaintance was Nicholas, who at the age of 29 was working in a campsite on the east coast of the island. Brought up in Grenoble, he’d studied International Relations in Italy and was now unsure what to do with his life. Lucky for us, he spoke flawless English, mastered over a couple of summers in Australia and New Zealand.

Over wine, Autumn and I talked about life in London and Nicholas of the short comings of capitalism. On the one hand he didn’t want a meaningless corporate job, but he still hadn’t struck on anything that he felt he could devote himself to. I could sympathise. Finally we said goodnight and headed to bed, hoping for a good night’s sleep before our first day of real trekking.

Pizza Elena

Prepare the pizza base, cover with passata and mozarella and cook.
Once cooked, top with finely chopped celery and tomato.
Sprinkle liberally with rocket.

Turn the heating on and forget the chill winds blowing in from all quarters.

Sunday afternoon Autumn and I got back to Luton after our fortnight in Sardinia and Corsica. It was an interesting holiday and the first couple of hours set its unpredictable tone.

Cagliari, pronounced ‘cally – ah – ree’,  is the capital city of Sardinia; we soon nicknamed it ‘Caggers’. The airport seemed modern enough, but there’s a problem with its cash machines. The first one spat back out both Autumn’s and my cards. Luckily we found another one, Autumn put her card in… and that was the last we saw of it. None of the other two or three machines would give money to my card. Eventually we had to borrow €3 for the bus to get us into the town centre from the kind people at the Tourist Information desk.

The bus had been driving for about 20 minutes when we came to a halt, stopped by a large crowd of people and stationary vehicles. The driver told us to get out, not too far from the town centre we all hoped.

The pavement was abuzz with excitement. Families jostled, people darted and laughed excitedly. Four priests in long black tunics with fuchsia belts and scull caps strode down the other side of the road. Police stood about.

A crowd filled a square further up the road. A small, white car roof poked out of the top of the crowd. “Hmm, looks like a Popemobile” I thought, “I wonder who else uses a Popemobile?” Just then the crowd parted, and it was the pope! The brown-skinned young woman behind me started crying. I scrambled for the camera in my bag. The damn thing was out of power. The Popemobile slid past, smiling and waving as he went. He looked surprisingly brown and cheery, not the gloomy hollowed-eyed figurehead seen in the newspapers. In a moment he was gone and we went off to continue our hunt for money.

Later, when we were on our trek in the hills of Corsica, Autumn had a dream about the pope:

The pope came round to our house for tea. In the dream he was a really nice and chatty chap, hip almost. He just engaged in pleasant chit chat about boyfriends, films etc rather than heavy theological debates.

Autumn asked him what we should call him and he said “Call me Pope Vatican.” [which is really where he lives, rather than his name]. She thought this was too long, so introduced him to people at the party as PV [yes, it was now a party…in dream logic] Before he left he invited us to visit him the next time we were in the Vatican City. His invitation was sincere; he really wanted to be sure that we would turn up if we were around.

Later Autumn remarked to a woman about how we’d met the pope and he was actually a really pleasant chap and had invited us to drop in on him. She said we shouldn’t go to visit him, and you’ve got to watch out as the clergy will use him as a spy. They just want to know more about what young people think, so he can tailor his message better to them and then the church can brainwash them. If you hang around with him more, he’ll come on stronger and try and convert you.

We defended PV against the accusations, saying that he wouldn’t do that and that he’s actually really nice etc.

After trying two more cash machines to no avail, I phoned my bank and they managed to sort the problem out. Apparently one of the machines in the airport had messed things up. Finally it was sorted, but for the rest of the trip I had to pay for everything.