Sea, then sun, then sand: the view as my horse and I became separated. The horse moving in a downward direction and me sent skywards in a forward somersault.
Sand. The soft landing was harder than I thought. Peeling myself off the beach, I wondered about the wisdom of the riding school owner, Cathie - a fortysomething Bardot-esque blonde with aubergine jodhpurs and bosoms that could prove troublesome at a trot - who had matched myself, 'professional' rider (amateur was the only other category), and Prune, the horse that trips a lot.
There were only four of us on the half-day trek: Arlette (a nervous beginner), myself, my partner Vicente and our guide, Stéphane, who looked like a bronzed Peter Fonda with a pony-tail (yeah, it is spooky how everyone in Corsica looks like a movie star).
Partial to riding forward while facing backwards, Stéphane led us out from the stables, across a tiny airfield and along a spectacular sandy beach, the so-blue sea patting gently at the shore, not an umbrella in sight and only a few human-shaped shadows shimmering in the distant heat.
It was here that Prune fell and I flew. After checking that the bones of both rider and mount were where they ought to be, we headed uphill and into the dense jungle of maquis, the fragrant bushes that choke the island.
The horses were working harder now and even Prune had become sure-footed as we rode up higher, scrambling over rocks, scratched by the maquis and bitten by the sun. Stéphane, still facing backwards, signalled when to duck for dangerously low branches. (Alas, Arlette was not very flexible.)
After almost two hours (including injury time) we reached the lost village. For the first time since arriving in Corsica I was sure where I was.
We had started badly: after driving for more than an hour round Propriano, a small port, we still hadn't found the apartment. Then we spotted another rental car doing circles.
Mark and Sarah were looking for the same block and had been told, helpfully, that it had a white gate. We decided to join forces, stopping locals to ask for directions. Of course, no one knew where it was. Here the streets have no signposts, the apartment blocks no names. Finding a 'tourist attraction' is a challenge; even getting to the beach is difficult.
The southern tip of the island has not yet discovered tourism but, thankfully, it has spawned tour reps, one of whom finally led us, tired and hungry, to the pearly gates.
It doesn't help to have a guide book. I was armed with the Rough Guide and Lonely Planet but still managed to miss my target every time. They both suggested: 'to get to the Alignement de Pagliajo (with 258 menhirs - megalithic statues - it's the largest collection of its kind in the Mediterranean) park your car at the wine-tasting warehouse, then follow a dirt track behind it for about 1km'. We had wandered about 300m down a dirt track (there were several) when a man in a four-wheel-drive kindly pointed out that we were going the wrong way.
We got back in the car and drove about another kilometre down the main road to find a gate (as promised) on our right with a small sign saying: 'Menhirs. Please keep the gate closed.'
It was another two kilometres on foot to the site. I had been expecting a spectacular prehistoric version of China's rows of terracotta warriors, but was greeted by about 30 tombstone-like menhirs, jammed upright in scattered rows of six or so. I don't know what had become of the other 228. Perhaps they had been swallowed whole by the creeping, omnipresent maquis - or maybe someone had just left the gate open.
Not far away is Cauria, which has two alignements and a dolmen (stone burial site). The small sign marking the turn-off can be seen only if you are travelling the wrong way; you then follow the road until, as one guidebook instructs, you reach a sign riddled with bullet holes.
Another two-kilometre hike from there and you come across the Alignement de Stantari: a single row of nine standing menhirs, one of which has a sword carved into its chest and another with a face frozen in a scream. On the other side of this menhir, you can see the sculpted back of his head, shoulder blades and a spine.
Across yet another field, over and under several fences, is the Alignement de Renaggiu, an anarchic arrangement of stones and menhirs, some of which seem to form a path leading into a small wood, thought to have been sacred.
I was halfway up a cork tree, trying to negotiate the steps straddling another fence on my way to the burial site, when I realised just how clever our Sartenais cousins were. Not only had they carved and carted these stones here, around 2,500 years ago, using the most primitive of equipment, but they had a real purpose. They had chosen these sites for safety and the statues - thought to represent gods, the dead or even enemies - stood guard over them. So successful were they that even today they stand largely undisturbed, with only the most persistent travellers finding them.
The island's most famous prehistoric site, Filitosa, about an hour's drive north of Propriano, is in the middle of a town. There are lavatories, bars and souvenirs and postcards. You buy a ticket (and a guide book, whether you want it or not) to get in.
Here are the kings of menhirs: some tall, square and well-armed, some small with pointy noses and chiselled chins. They have been rearranged by their minders: no explanation is given, although the tourists who queue up to be photographed hugging one don't seem to mind.
But I missed the challenge. The feeling of breaking through the maquis to discover something special, mysterious.
The horses knew the way to the lost Genoese village well. Stéphane had made the place his own and led us from house to house, telling us the story of the stone shells that still stood.
Above the door of a wealthy man's house, the date 1719 was etched in stone; inside there were surprisingly good wash-basins built into a wall. There was a church, several small huts and a tower which still looked out to sea for enemy boats that had turned to dust long ago.
He told us how he had come to Corsica from mainland France on holiday, but 'couldn't get it out of his head'. He had subsequently travelled around the island four times. It doesn't surprise me: he was probably lost.
Corsica facts
Kathryn Whitfield travelled with Corsican Places in mid-season, flying from Stansted airport with European Air and staying in a self-catering apartment at the Residence Dominica, Propriano. The holiday includes a hire car and costs £598pp for one week, based on two people sharing.
Half-day riding trek along the beach and to the lost village with Les Ecuries de Tavaria, Route de Campomoro, Propriano (061 309 2510): Fr250 per person. Filitosa: Fr22 per person and about Fr30 for the (compulsory) guide book.
