The peninsula of Cap Corse is celebrated for its red and white wines, which even in the sixteenth century, we are told by the native historian Fillipini, were exported to the Continent and much thought of.
In some particulars, this northern district of Cap Corse bears a stamp of its own, apart from the customary Corsican character. It is one of the most fertile districts in the island. Oranges and lemons, and the fruit called the cédrat, which is neither orange nor lemon, but something between the two, and is much preserved, grow here luxuriantly; whilst vineyards flourish in every direction.
The valleys all along the coast, and especially the Vale of Luri, are green and cultivated; and the population is thicker and more well-to-do than in the other parts of the island. The land certainly is rich and peculiarly friendly to the growth of vines, but the secret perhaps lies in the superior energy of the Cap Corse people.
For several centuries they have manifested an industry truly unpatriotic, and a corresponding neglect of warlike pursuits. Among the gentler inhabitants of this district it was, too, that Christianity found its first converts on the island, from them gradually spreading to the sterner tribes southward; and tradition asserts that St. Paul, amongst his many perils by sea, braved the dangers of this rocky coast, and landed somewhere on Cap Corse as its first missionary.
Sisco also, Gregorovius tells us, possesses a marine church dedicated to St. Catherine, and containing some very remarkable relics, such as the rod with which Moses smote the Red Sea, almonds from the garden of Eden, and even a piece of the lump of earth from which Adam was modelled!
I saw no church in or near Sisco during my short stay there; but, had I then been aware of the reputed possession of these treasures, I should certainly have made some efforts to discover its whereabouts.
We were still struggling with the sour bread when the landlord re-entered. He had rather a triumphant smile upon his countenance, as he remarked quietly, "You cannot go back to Bastia; you must stay here. Your carriage is all broken to pieces."
"That is unfortunate," said we; "but we could not stop here, quand même; we could walk back to Bastia, it is not ten miles." And, leaving the happy family, we walked outside to see the truth of the assertion.
A little crowd of about a dozen people, constituting, I fancy, all the population of the village of Sisco, had gathered round the inn, watching the course of events with a sort of phlegmatic interest.
Our carriage was gone from its original position in the middle of the road, and stood by the wall of the inn yard, with one red pony standing quietly beside it, and the other enjoying a canter on his own account about a quarter of a mile off, and rapidly becoming a speck in the distance.