U fretu di marzu ghjentri in u corru di u boiu. (Frassetu) Le froid du mois de mars entre jusqu'aux cornes des bœufs.

I'll finish off the story of St Joseph's day...

So after not spotting Santu in the Church I went back along the costal path towards town where there were apparently people protesting about the crap economic and social situation..the same as in the whole of France. Anna told me on the phone that it was quite boring and not that anarchistic so she was going to drink a turkish coffee at Jackie's cafe. It was whilst I was on my way there that I spotted the kid's assaulting each other with foam. I carried on but then something told me to go and get a picture so I turned around and went back. After inching towards the kids I spotted mama in the doorway in a big gown, heavily pregnant. I asked in bad french and good universal hand gestures if I could take a picture and she said it was fine. After stopping momentarily to see what on earth I wanted they carried on pummeling each other with badly perfumed shaving foam. I took some pictures and went to show the mother. Her name is Samira and she is exceptionally friendly, despite looking after a handful of children with a cumbersome bump. She gave me a juice and I showed her and the kids the pictures. Three of the children were hers, a boy of 3 a girl of 6 and another girl who was 12. Mohammed, Nawal and Dalila. Samira had come to Corsica from Morocco in 1989. She first lived in Ajaccio, where her family remain, and then married and moved to Bastia. I asked if the eldest would be interested in a language swap, and she was, so we agreed that one afternoon of the weekend I would pop by learn some French and teach some English. 

In terms of my project, Thursday was pretty rubbish as a few people cancelled our meeting but 

I did take lots of pictures around Bastia (which are on me flickr). As I returned to the apartment there was a noise in the distance but I thought it was just the awful pa system in the square blarting out catholic pop. By the time I had gone upstairs, there was - what sounded like - gunfire going off outside and a choir singing. I went back outside to investigate and sure enough, the elusive procession had actually arrived at the Church at the end of my street. There was something colourful on a stretcher which was hoisted up in the air a few times before entering the church. I imagine it was St Jo? So much for the procession starting at 1pm. It was almost sunset. I should have factored in the Coriscan timekeeping....not quite as out as Mongolian style, but getting there. I like it, but from what Dorothy Carrington said in her book "Granite Island" the leisurely pace of life in Corsica has irritated many a foreigner, "Moreover (and this, I suspect, is what most infuriates office employees on holiday), there is no one to make them work all day : their land belongs to them, as does their time."

So the procession was late. Big deal! I got to see some of it and then I went to take some photos in the last light by the sea. The little bit at the end of my street must be where the teenagers go to snog at sunset.

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