St. Florent

Shortly after dawn, the ferry docked at Bastia, on the northeastern shore of Corsica. Geared up for the day's ride, we pedaled off the ship and found breakfast at an open-air café on the edge of a park. Workers were busy setting up canopies for a sports festival; cycling did not seem to be represented.

We had ample time to reach our destination on the other side of the island, our hotel in St. Florent. Once we were on the route, I relaxed and slipped behind the group to enjoy the spectacular views. Armed with data (a paper map, and Google Maps on my GPS-savvy smartphone), I was not concerned about getting lost.

I caught up with the group at a roundabout, where they had stopped at a salon de thé. I chose a juicy pear galette, and surprised myself by requesting une serviette. With my pathetically limited vocabulary, how did I remember that word?

At this crossroads, the group was divided. Some wished to follow the planned route, along D62; others wanted to cut it short, following the more direct D82. One rider pointed authoritatively toward another road (D5), saying that was the way to follow the long route. A glance at the map showed a turn from D5 onto D62.

I exited the roundabout straight onto D62. Thinking I had mistakenly followed the "direct route" riders, I turned back and chose D5. I should have (but did not) study my map.

Merrily I rolled along, stopping to admire the distinctive 12th-century Église Saint-Michel in Murato (currently under restoration). Had I studied my map, I would have turned here to return to D62.

I did not study my map.

D5 followed the ridge line, heading ever-so-gently toward a summit. The wide vistas were stunning. I paused to let a small herd of shaggy sheep pass, as they headed for an opening in the fence along the road. The large and vocal males were in charge; the rest trotted dutifully along. Unlike me, they knew where they were going.

At the top, I found an elderly couple enjoying a picnic—complete with table and chairs. They were eager to offer me some water, and happily snapped a photo of me when I asked. They heralded the descent ahead; I replied that I loved descents.

The road on the other side of the summit was a bit steeper, and in poor condition; I descended cautiously. I passed a cluster of houses at a crossroads, continued along D5, and (finally) thought it might be a good idea to look at my map.

At this point, I was about seven miles off-course. And downhill, having summited at the Col de Bigorno.

Uh-oh.

I returned to the summit and retraced my path to Murato. On the climb, some passing motorcyclists saluted me with a thumbs-up. I was not concerned about being alone, or being lost; but I was concerned that the rest of the group would fret about my whereabouts, since I was now lagging more than an hour behind any expected arrival time.

According to my excellent IGN map (No. 175), I was looking for D162. Back at the church, I was convinced I was standing at the intersection—but there were no signs.

There was, however, a middle-aged French couple picnicking (you guessed it, with table and chairs) under a tree. "Bonjour, excusez-moi," I approached them. I pointed to the map, and to the various roads. "Ici?" They confirmed my hunch. "Merci, merci beaucoup!"

Having learned my lesson, at each subsequent intersection I studied the map for good measure. I rolled into St. Florent before anyone got seriously worried. My route covered about 52 miles, with some 4,720 feet of climbing.

A day to practice orienteering, to be forced to communicate in French (however primitively), to be self-reliant.

I am glad I got lost.