Propriano
    In the morning the role of exploratory vehicle falls to us for this day, while the others stay at the beach and evidently intend to bathe. Equipped with maps we head up the valley right to the town of Olmeto. The pleasant waitress at the local bar knows only the English phrase of, "I do not know", and sends us to the "Information Office", four houses away. The lady at the "Information Office" speaks English superbly, but keeps repeating that is no place in the valley to fly and she is "sure" about that. We don't believe a word she says, kindly thank her for the piles of colorful advertising brochures depicting options for the comfortable accommodations with ocean views and continue directly to the southwest slope on this side of the valley.

    Following a thorough search of the scrub-covered slope, we declare this area, "unsuitable for flying hang-gliders", and drive across the valley to the more faceted opposite side. Although it looks quite hopeful from a distance, the opposite is true. In an hour we are all the way high up in the back of the valley, but find only a few terrible places where only a pilot without any instincts of self-preservation might hurl himself. Cliffs, high bushes, wire fences and private property.



    We even try asking the locals, but it's not at all easy. Attempts at English conversation always end in refusal. Corsicans are tooth and nail nationalists and consider themselves an independent people. They hate Americans and everything, which reminds them of Americans. For example, on the entire island there is not one McDonald's. The same goes for the Italians and French, even though an entire two-thirds of Corsican words are of Italian origin, every Corsican knows French and they have a French government. Or maybe it's just for that reason. Corsican nationalism and separatism goes so far in fact that names of cities on road signs are always shown in two languages, of which the French is often sprayed over with black spray paint. Other locals don't bother with lugging cans of spray paint up to the mountains and just shoot at the signs from their cars.



    These all however are the milder expressions of Corsican separatism. A much worse fate befell the governor of the French government here last year, who was taken out with a bombing attack. Different land, different morality.



    It has just turned noon and the temperature at this relatively high-altitude , sunny valley climbs to 25°C. We cool off with water from a clear mountain spring and ask the others by radio how the water at the beach is. I vaguely recall the words of the lady at Olmeto and feel a bit sore.

    In the nearby pasture we meet a pleasant girl in a beat-up car loaded with milk canisters. She's hesitant at first to speak English. She keeps saying something in French and pointing at our car's license plate. After several minutes she begins speaking Czech and with an Ostrava accent to boot! We both fall to our knees and can't believe our own ears. Bohunka is from Havirov and two years ago, after finishing high school, packed up and came to Corsica with her Czech boyfriend, Martin. They both work for a local farmer and are responsible for a herd of 110 sheep. They live in a house right on the pasture in the mountains, milk sheep and make cheese. It's not a road to riches of course, but it's peaceful, easy going and a perfect escape from the horrific civilization of the turn of the 20th century.




    Bohunka, not batting an eyelash, leaves her car and the milk canisters in the middle of the pasture and gets in the car with us. We drive to the television transmitter on the neighboring hill which might just be the last possible place to fly around here. The slope faces in the right direction, but the high growth of bushes doesn't leave a chance for taking off. That's that then. There's just no place, really, to fly around here.



    "So this used to be an excellent Pizzeria", says Bohunka, pointing to some ruins of something up on the slope. "But one day the Corsican owner Stephane Rotili Forcioli de la Punta had an argument with his Russian wife Natasha and Turned the place to rubble.", explains our Corsican guide from Havirov, smiling at us, while she nervously brushes away locks of hair that keep falling into her face. She's still a bit unsettled at having met fellow Czechs up here. Well, it's a small world ...



    Following an unsuccessful scout and driving a total of 120km, we meet up with the others and the consternation at our situation is resolved by democratic vote. The exploration section of our expedition is over-ruled by the more numerous remainder and other starting grounds further south will not be sought. So the convoy of four Czech cars heads across the towns of Sartene and Porto Vecchio along the entire eastern shore of the island back to the north to the place of our first camp, not far from the port of Bastia. Even though the entire eastern shore is not at all mountainous, but rather flat like our Hana, and the road goes quickly, we build our tents in the dark again. The moon is almost full and its diffused light through the clouds lights at least a little of the beach and shore. And the wind picks up as if a weather front were moving in.