The day starts good with warmth and sunshine, but as we continue weaving our way west along the blissful D420, the sky becomes overcast with dark clouds sweeping over the peaks ahead. It's hard to say what'll happen. We have a bad feeling about it though.

Quaint Aullène is a village at a crossroads with attractive-looking routes winding east, southesast, as well as our D 420 and the route we're going to take - the north-bound D 69. 

We sit in its tiny square with a fountain and picnic on the stuff we bought this morning in Zonza's grocery store and just as it's time to set off, the Dutch couple from yesterday drive by, so we invite them for coffee at a little place across the road and then talk about travel, jobs and the weather: they're more optimistic than us on the latter topic. The sky looks menacing.

We adopt their positiveness and keep going. 

As we climb the air becomes damp and carries that familiar feeling of rain on the way. We stop at a remote abandoned house, planning to use its porch as a shelter if it starts throwing it down. That doesn't happen and so we continue up after about 20 minutes looking at the grey sky. There's a haze and it feels close. 

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I'd read that many hikers get killed by lightening as they walk Corsica's famous GR20 trail and the exposed, high slope make you feel vulnerable. We don't want to be fried. It comes to nothing and the sun makes a surprise reappearance after a while.

The road has become singletrack. There's zilch traffic. It's wonderful. We didn't expect this part of Corsica to be this good, more perhaps an anti-climax after our fantastic coastline ride. It's just different - equally enjoyable. A cycle tourist's heaven, really. Maybe in July and August it's manic, but right now there's just Dave and myself; we do see fat pigs roaming about and I try to get some photos, but the closer I try to snap them, the more they grunt and run away. I must look a twit.

The road passes picturesque spots - small streams that babble away under stone bridges, with mossy rocks and trees eminating calmness - a waterfall cascades above an expanse of slickrock. These little gems make welcome excuses to stop and chat and use up some more memory card space, but slow our average speed. No worries. We drop down to the junction straddled by sleepy Zicavo in the early afternoon, unsure about what to do next.

From here Route D69 undulates north to Ghisoni - a good ride away, maybe 60km. 

We ask at an auberge and decide to take a 50-euro room. You wouldn't be this lucky in mid-summer. There are tables outside and that's where we sit, enjoying a delicious dinner once it gets to 5-ish. 

A man at a nearby table asks about the GR20, wondering if we saw any signs. I recall spotting one up the hill as we dropped down and he reckons he'll check it out. He's Irish and has lost the trail, but says that yesterday he was high up on this famed hiking route and saw people skiing. 

It's sweltering here in Zicavo; some contrast. 

Dave and I share a nice bottle of red. Just for a change