Serra du Pignu for the last time
    Following a cold and damp night the morning sky is blue and in the unstable air following the front the first white clouds pop up early in the morning. We move to the port of Bastia and study the crest above the city with curiosity. Even though the relatively thick cloudiness forms far beneath the level of the starting ground, we drive up. From the sunny East side we can't see a thing for the clouds, while the western , wind-blown starting ground is cloudless. All around on the surrounding slopes, clumps of clouds are forming at relatively low elevations and it's clear that it's going to require several more hours of waiting for the temperature to go up and the humidity to go down. And even then who knows what to expect. I volunteer as driver and Milan joins me. We are both commended in front of the expedition and the rest leave for the western side to build their wings.



    While the cloud base very grudgingly lifts to the level of the crest, while the already strong wind increases. With difficulty, Zaboj steps up to the start with his wing, and gets to it. Two steps and it's in the air. The wind in the space out in front of the starting ground is even a bit stronger and its direction is more northwesterly then it appeared from the starting ground. Several seconds of non-concentration is enough to flush the pilot behind the southwest rib, costing him much altitude as he fights through against the wind, back to the side with the right wind direction. After a while he loses his nerve and turns back along with the wind into the saddle. Right before the saddle though he finds out that to fly through to the east side of the crest to the sea over the beach , he doesn't have enough altitude and in the fast streaming in the narrow saddle he turns back against the wind to the West. Now there's nothing left for him but to rely on the properties of the wing and try to glide to the landing ground on the western shore by the town of St. Florent. With lessening altitude, turbulence increases without a decrease in wind and the wing slowly battles through, thrashing above the vineyards to the shore. Above the big green meadow before the landing ground it looks like shortening manoeuvres, but as we later learn, it was only an attempt at a direct flight in strong turbulence. Another few hundred meters and the wing, amidst wild rocking, stops on the landing ground. No damages to materials or losses of life.



    A nervous wipe of sweat off the forehead and Honza goes for it. Right after the start he hangs a right and pushes along the slope towards the North. The slope streaming at this speed of wind works reliably and Honza's wing quickly lifts to the dark bases that are starting to form in front of the take off ground.



    After demonstrating a no problem start nothing is left to the others than to quickly jump into the strengthening wind and after a while everyone is chasing around the windward sides of the forming clouds. After three meager days of flying it is apparent they'll be hanging up there today for minimally three hours. Milan and I drive down over the saddle to the eastern shore to see the city of Bastia. It's windy even in the wind-shielded streets of Bastia beneath the high crests, and while Milan stets out to spend his excess Francs on souvenirs in the small shops, I put a teleconverter on my lens and head out to the huge central town square.

    The narrow streets of the city are literally clogged with parked cars and walking is really the quickest form of movement. The expanse of the center square is truly grand. The locals sit all around on the benches surrounding the square and gab about the upcoming elections, while loosely formed groups of people hurrying nowhere move across the wide-open space.



    I quickly make a few more shots and hurry back to catch the landing of the boys on the beach on the south edge of town. Milan in the neighboring street has finished his shopping and we rush back to our parked car at the port.




    We make the beach on time, the wings are still turning around the transmitters. The clouds have markedly lessened and above the crest they're flying in the clear. The ocean is still turbulent from yesterday's passing front. North of the shore the Citadel juts out to sea from the city of Bastia and a mild southern win blows across the beach. Landing should be no problem today.



    After a while the first hangglider breaks away from the crest and heads to shore. We really did get back just in time, - no one was able to take three hours in the strong wind and turbulence. After several wild handstands high above the beach Milan lands, having had enough. In a few minutes the others land from a great height as well. Vlada in strong kick demonstrates an unwanted candle perpendicular to the sky, followed by a headfirst fall. It makes me sick. Five more minutes of gymnastics and they're all down. That's enough for today.







    A local Corsican woman, following our questions, talks us out of trying the local fish. According to her they are evidently tasteless and too expensive. We should rather have some goat cheese. We pack up and head about ten kilometers south of the city, where this time, still in the light we build our tents in seclusion from civilization under cork oaks, at co-ordinates N42°35.106' E009°30.521. The nearby dump smells and the mosquitoes attack us, but the mood is excellent. The temperature this night drops to 6°C though.