The road to Corte is filled with flowers. The fragrance of the hillside rolls gently down at us, mingling with the memory of the salt scent of sea long left behind. It isn't going to be a long drive, and somehow that makes each moment just that little bit more precious. At my feet, my green cotton bag carries aniseed canistrelli cookies and a bottle of water. On my lap, the map.

When friends travelled, and asked if there were things I wanted, I'd usually asked for a wayward token like a seashell from a beach they visited, or perhaps a particularly unusual stone, or a leaf from a tree. The souvenir that comes back often bears the imprint of the one who has acquired it, their soul's pattern reflected in what they deem worthy to keep.

Or perhaps, I may have just been subconsciously wanting to impose my uncomplicated joys onto those around me. My best memories of beaches have always been the treasure hunt - looking for seashells and stones that other travellers might not have noticed; the special token, shaped just in this way, just this colour, waiting for me to eventually arrive here to find it. But the kind of shells I choose are the ones that are broken, imperfect. It seems more magical somehow, to be able to imagine what the rest of the shell and its sea creature might have once looked like.

I don't usually like cars, but this is possibly the only sensible means to get around the island. I resist the urge to count poppies - they appear like red punctuation amongst the cistus, the Corsican lavender, and numerous other little flowers I haven't yet had the privilege to be acquainted with. But poppies are not found everywhere in the world, and the surprising sight of the crimson petals make me deliriously happy. In higher altitudes, you get the occasional very large, purple poppy, and every time I catch sight of one, it is like a private, purple blessing.