We're up early and take a shower and then pack up our tents and cruise back down to the quay, through the now quiet streets. Most people are still asleep. 

It's a nice sunny morning and we hand over our euros and get our tickets and have just enough time to grab a quick coffee and a sweet pain au chocolate from a street cafe that's right next to the water's edge. I'm surprised they are already open. 

Our bikes get carefully loaded at the small bow of the boat and we sit inside. Rows of small yachts with tall white masts line Ajaccio's wharf and the array of red-roofed buildings look graceful and serene in the morning light. They soon drop out of sight as we sail away.

It's a nice ride. There are 20-odd other tourists on board and there's seating up on top, but a gusting wind makes outside a bracing experience. Dave and I pop up and down. 

I take some photos of seals that we pass, plus a few other sights on land. Most get deleted. They serve free coffee.It's just help yourself. We do just that.

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Bonifacio's famous sight comes up on the horizon and the boat cruises beneath the tall cliffs supporting the houses precariously lining the top. 

Once we dock, Dave and I find a small grocery shop where we buy some bread and cheese and tomatoes and sit and have a quayside picnic in the sunshine. After, we ride up to the citadel and wander around Bonifacio's narrow alleys, which are full of fellow visitors. This place is a mega attraction; an icon of Corsica, but two hours is enough.

We go back down the cobbled alleys and find the main route heading north - the N196. 

This isn't too busy and in fact turns out to be better than we'd expected. After a short climb, we freewheel across the windswept Golfe de Ventlegne and ascend a hill to get to the junction with the D322, which takes us to Figari - the airport. 

There's a Spar in the town and we have yogurt and fruit then continue riding northeast towards Porto-Vecchio, which is another 20-odd kilometres away. 

Porto-Vecchio - or Porti Vechju in the local lingo - is a compact place with a population of about 13,000, which in peak summer season rockets to 50,000. Italians flock here and the tight streets are crammed with cars. 

The few guesthouses we call at are full already and it takes us an hour of asking around before we get a cheap deal for a simple room. 

Later we walk around the streets and gravitate to the old square - Place de la République - and look at the Église Saint Jean Baptiste.

The streets have become empty and waiters stand around looking underworked and bored. 

We choose an Italian place and sit at a table outside. Dave is disgusted when we get the bill. The Pietra is six euros a bottle. That makes it the most expensive beer he's ever had.