Long and winding roads
Corsica is a treasure trove of citadels, coves and beaches with lush, green interiors; but be prepared to never (quite) get into top gear, writes Laura Millar
The crunching sound of gears, as I hastily throw my car from third back down into first, echoes harshly across the undulating green landscape around us. My boyfriend and I are undertaking a road trip around the fourth-largest island in the Med, and what an undertaking it is; two thirds of Corsica is made up of a single mountain range, and craggy peaks – the highest rising to just over 2,700m – and dizzyingly steep drops are a common feature. Not to mention the rather narrow roads, which climb, windingly, tortuously and relentlessly, through the maquis – the dense, scented shrubbery which carpets Corsica’s topography.
Occasionally, a hairpin bend will rear its ugly, precipitous head, resulting in the kind of aforementioned, swift gear change we never quite get used to.
No-one, however, can say we weren’t warned; every former visitor had the same reaction when I mentioned I was going: ‘Ooh, watch out for the roads!’. Well, we are, and they’re…challenging. An automatic car will be your best friend, but we’re making do with a good oldfashioned manual, and every bend and straight is severely testing my driving competence – that’s without even getting started on the alwaysimpatient-to-overtake locals. But, oh my lord, the travails are worth it; this is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.
Squabbled over for centuries by Italy and France (it sits just north of Sardinia, south of Genoa – who ruled it for several hundred years – and roughly southwest of the Cote d’azur), it’s now firmly French but with its fair share of attributes and influences from both countries, as well as a few from others. The countryside changes from sprawling and Tuscan, peppered with tall cypress trees, to rolling and English, with fields full of Constable-style hay bales. The cuisine is a mix of Italian – with an emphasis on pasta – and French, embracing ripe cheeses and hearty charcuterie. And, of course, it feels Swiss, with its sheer mountain passes, pretty hilltop towns, ambling brown cows and shaggy-fleeced goats.
After flying into Bastia, one of the island’s main towns, we’re making our way to its capital, Ajaccio. The most direct route is through the interior, including the Regional National Park of Corsica, which covers nearly 40 per cent of the land.
There is much to admire along the way, from the tranquillity, as you pass through a sleepy village where the only signs of life might be a dog, dozing in the shade of a church, or a handful of old men enjoying a prelunch beer; to the vivid greenery – Corsica has more than 22,500 species of plants, trees and flowers, from olive and eucalyptus trees, to honeysuckle and myrtle, and herbs such as rosemary, mint, thyme and lavender, which all contribute to its nickname, “the scented isle”.
Handfuls of tiny villages, clinging on the sides of the mountains, are scattered along the way. As we pass, we take in the saffron-yellow belltower of Vivario, and the pastelpink buildings of Venaco.
We stop for lunch in Corte, a university town with a citadel perched on a clifftop which leads down to a lively square, the Place D’armes, and a selection of cafés and restaurants. It’s in one of those that I have my first encounter with two of Corsica’s most famous delicacies: brocciu, the tangy, local ewe’s cheese, and figatellu, a rustic, flavourful
Tributes to Napoleon Bonaparte abound all over the island
sausage made from pork liver, ham and pig’s blood.
Served in a buckwheat crepe, it’s so delicious I nearly don’t have room for an ice cream made with local honey and chestnut afterwards. Chestnuts grow plentifully here, used to make flour for cakes, bread and biscuits, and even in the local beer, Pietra – which my non-driving boyfriend assures me is pretty good.
When we finally reach Ajaccio, it’s a welcome surprise, with a small, picturesque old town backing onto the harbour. And it’s here that one of history’s most controversial figures – Napoleon Bonaparte – was born, in August, 1769. Tributes to the military strategist abound all over the island, in the form of streets, bars and hotels bearing his name, but his story starts in La Maison Bonaparte, a handsome townhouse just off Ajaccio’s main square, Place Foch.
Today, you can see original rooms and furniture used by the Bonaparte family, historical documents, maps, correspondence and more. After we visit, we dive back into the crowded Place Foch, which hosts a food market every day, inhaling the smell of pungent cheeses and meats, and debating whether to buy one litre or more of local olive oil.
Next on our itinerary is another port town, Bonifacio, which sits right at the very southern tip of the island. It attracts crowds in high season, and rightly so; our first glimpse, on approaching, is of a hulking, thick stone fortress looming over the harbour, looking very much like something out of Game of Thrones.
Dating from the 9th century, this citadel houses the “haute ville”, or upper town, a maze of narrow, winding, slippery stone streets. Before we explore it, we take an hourlong boat trip which sails around the promontory on which it sits, offering incredible views not just of the citadel, but of the intricate granite and limestone cliffs which have had myriad grottoes and inlets carved into them over the centuries (some of which hid pirates).
Half an hour’s drive away is another little seafront town, Porto Vecchio; its citadel’s not as dramatic, but the network of lanes and pathways around its old centre is pleasant to stroll around, and its main square is full of cafes just begging for one to take a table and get down to some serious people-watching.
The Corsican character, it has to be said, is quite feisty; it has had to be, considering the people have been governed by many different rulers in the past. Corsica may be part of France today, but for centuries it was ruled by Genoa, and today it wants nothing more than its independence. Road signs are written both in French, and in the local language, and it’s not uncommon to see the French version painted over.
However, to visitors, they are friendliness itself, like the restaurant owner in our next stop, Calvi, who brings out a raised map of the island after we order, to better show us what our onward route looks like.
Calvi is a smart, slick resort town, reminiscent of a miniature St Tropez, with the boutiques, and the prices, to match. Substantially-sized yachts bob up and down in the port across from Quai Landry, lined with bars and restaurants. Our new acquaintance advises us that the coastal road to our last destination, Bastia, is going to be winding – even by locals’ standards – but because much of it hugs the coast, it will (obviously) be beautiful.
Bastia doesn’t disappoint in terms of looks, either; home to yet another citadel, which contains a wellpreserved, medieval old town, it also has a vast main square, the Place St Nicolas, where the ubiquitous Napoleon statue is this time rendered in the dress of a Roman senator, and a charming, horseshoe-shaped harbour, above which the pale beige facade of the 17th Church of Saint John the Baptist looms. We park up, and leave our long-suffering car behind, in search of more local delicacies. There’s still so much more to explore here, and we’ll definitely have to come back – next time, though, in an automatic.
Air Corsica (aircorsica.com) flies direct from London Stansted (fly here from Edinburgh or Glasgow with easyjet.com) to Ajaccio, Bastia, Calvi or Figari from £49 one-way. Air Corsica’s ‘Drive +’ package, where you can arrange preferential car hire with Hertz, is also bookable through their website. Double rooms at the 4 star Best Western Plus Ajaccio (bestwestern. co.uk) start from £114 per night.