We left Split on the overnight ferry and arrived in Ancona the following morning after a reasonable night’s sleep on a bench on the deck. Miraculously there was a direct train from Ancona, on the east coast of Italy, to Orte, a not-very-big town on the west coast. We had a four hour wait in the station yet very nearly missed our train due to the ingenious platform numbering system: there are two of every platform. To cut a long story short, (there’s a first time for everything!) we were waiting on platform 3 on one side of the station whereas our train was at platform 3 ovest on the other side of the station. Apparently ovest means ‘west’ which doesn’t make much sense since there isn’t any other direction you can go by train from Ancona. So anyway we made it to Orte where we were met by a lovely young lady who simply said “Sonica? This way!” and guided us to a waiting coach. Neat.

Sonica was nice. Much more like a real festival than EXIT. Tents were pitched haphazardly around the site among variously decorated hippie buses, vans and lorries. The food was decent and there were lots of those stalls selling the kinds of things people buy at festivals but don’t remember why. Lisa and Tom met us at the gates and took us to their camp site on top of the hill with a nice view of the festival and the surrounding countryside.

What made the festival for me was the lake. About 20 minutes walk from the site was Bolsena lake - a huge volcanic crater filled with fresh water. We were on the south shore where a long line of trees provided a wonderful strip of shady grass to sleep on. Then one could either hop over the burning black sandy beach and dip into the cool waters or venture in the other direction for an ice cream, coffee or clean toilet… wonderful!

Rob and Erica left early on Monday morning in order to get back in time for Rob’s rescheduled job interview on Tuesday. Tom, Lisa & I spent Monday, like every other day, on the beach. In the afternoon a storm started brewing up on the other side of the lake. We watched as the sky darkened and the wind rose, wipping up waves on the previously placid lake. The beach cleared out as the rain approached until only the three of us and Ernesto, an Italian guy camped near us at the festival, remained.

Eventually the storm hit us and we all, somehow, became cavemen - jumping around, screaming, falling over, diving into the water and worshipping the elements as seemed appropriate. The lightning was striking all around us and the waves grew to almost surfable proportions. I can’t adequately describe it but it was the highlight of my holiday.

When we got back to the camp I found that my tent had unpegged itself and half collapsed. At first I couldn’t understand why everything was still dry until I realised that Tom’s sleeping bag, which he had stored in my tent that morning, had simply soaked up all the water. No such luck for Ernesto’s tent which had entirely collapsed into a small heap and was wetter inside than out.

Both stages had to stop during the storm meaning that Shpongle and Eat Static - the only two acts I had actually heard of - were unable to play. But as soon as the rain stopped, all the renegade sound-systems sprung up - including one in the Ayurvedic massage tent and another in some 60 year-old’s caravan - and the party continued. A lot of people had already left the site by this time and the remaining crowd were noticeably older: probably stall-holders and other crew who were getting their first chance to relax. The music in the massage tent was great and the atmosphere was amazing. There was dancing and prancing around the candle-lit Buddha and strange monkey-inspired hand-holding running-circles. It made sense at the time.

The following day I left Tom & Lisa by the side of the road with a white board on which they were yet to decide which destination to write and I began to make my way towards Civitavechia where I had been reliably informed I could catch a ferry to Corsica. Two bus rides and several hours later (one of the buses was free because the driver had run out of tickets to sell) I arrived at the port only to be told that all the ferries to Corsica leave from Livorno, hundreds of miles north of Civitavecchia. I sat a while and considered this.

I couldn’t face the thought of another bus journey so I decided to get a ferry to Sardinia and hope for the best. Like all ferry ports, Civitavecchia is a maze of badly marked roads with signs that lead you in great tortuous circles but this one is especially bad as they haven’t made any provisions for foot passengers. The ferry I was on was about a 40 minute walk from the ticket office which isn’t much fun in the humid heat with a big bag and a tent. Having to walk on the road while dodging articulated lorries and motorbikes doesn’t make it any better. Fortunately I got a lift part of the way from a pair of very friendly Argentineans in a beautiful 30 year old wood-paneled truck carrying a whole load of horses to some race in Sardinia.

I got to Olbia in the early morning and there was a bus waiting right outside the ferry terminal which went direct to the port of Santa Theresa where I knew the boats to Corsica left from. Wooo! It’s really exciting when things work.

I got to Santa Theresa and jumped on a ferry to Bonifacio where I could get another bus to Ajaccio. “Nearly there,” I thought, “Now I can just sit back, listen to some tunes and watch the beautiful Coriscan countryside roll by.” No such luck. As soon as we set off, the driver put on a tape of the most chillingly bland lift music I have ever heard. I cranked my iPod up as far as it would go but, as I have previously mentioned, that’s not very far and the evil sounds filtered through. It actually made me go slightly mad. I was very, very angry. I wanted to break things. I managed to wedge my hat into the speaker nearest to me which helped a bit but wasn’t enough. I tried various other techniques involving seat covers, more hats, camera straps and tissue paper but it seemed every time I invented some new way of blocking out the offensive noise, the driver turned the volume up. I would have stuck parsley in my ears but I didn’t have any. Eventually I put on the loudest drum and bass I could find (DJ Hype’s FabricLive) and managed to get a bit of sleep. Jack Kerouac never had to put up with this kind of thing when he was On the Road. Incidentally I forgot to properly thank Lisa for lending me that book, I’m loving it and it has come in very useful with all the waiting around I’ve had to do.

So here I finally am in Corsica. I had my first shower in two weeks and I feel wonderful.

I’d like to leave you with a tally of the items I have lost and those I have found in the past three weeks.

Lost

• 3 lighters
• 6 pairs of boxer shorts
• 1 tshirt

Found

• 4 lighters
• 1 badge
• 1 pair of shorts
• 1 watch
• 1 earring
• 1 hammer

My iPod was also stolen and returned although I wasn’t aware of it at the time. I left it at the beach bar on Vis to charge. When I went back for it a few hours later the barman had changed and the new guy couldn’t find it. I eventually got it back the following evening and saw that someone had been using it cos it wasn’t fully charged and the last played song wasn’t played by me but I assumed the barman had just taken it home for safe-keeping. It turned out that he had ‘assumed I had forgotten it’ and thought he might like to keep it. Apparently he got fired. Oops. He liked Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings though so he can’t have been all bad.