There can be few things more soothing to the shattered soul than sitting on
the Quai Landry in Calvi, a glass of local rosé gris in hand, watching the
setting sun turn the snowcapped peaks across the bay a complete discord of
pinks. Light like this only really ever occurs in certain places just after
the sun disappears below the horizon. My television friends tell me that
it’s known as “bounce light”. The last two times I saw some this beautiful
was in Syria and India. Corsica, for that is where I am, is in fine company.
I’ve always wanted to visit Corsica.
It sounded so romantic – like some wilder, cooler cousin of the Côte d’Azur. I
spent most of my summers growing up in the south of France and I would watch
the ferries leaving Nice for Corsica. I longed to hop onto one and check out
“the island of beauty” (not the most catchy of nicknames, but totally
appropriate), but I never did. Not until now.
Bristol airport is usually one of my favourite departure points – it’s so
compact and you get through very quickly. Not that day, however – the
terminal was packed with endless queues of gormless, multi-tattooed families
in matching football shirts stretching away as far as the eye could see. My
heart sank. Then I spotted the check-in for Bastia – it was an orderly queue
of six or seven civilised-looking people, a couple of them even wearing
panama hats and holding BOOKS, serious books, not Ben Elton or Being Jordan.
I knew instantly that I would love Corsica.
One of the reasons for the island not being on the normal package-holiday
radar is because “it’s reassuringly expensive”, as a well-heeled friend of
mine put it. It’s not outrageous, but the prices are just enough to push the
island into the safety zone.
CORSICA IS the fourth-largest island in the Mediterranean and has more than
600 miles of coastline. In my humble opinion, it has some of the best
beaches in the world, and my home for a week, Calvi, was a serious contender
for the top spot. As I rounded the final bend and saw the town’s citadel in
the distance, it took my breath away. A white, white beach curves gently
along the whole length of the bay, with only pine trees and the occasional
restaurant as a backdrop. Out on the water, expensive yachts bob smugly up
and down, as the occasional day-tripper stares jealously out at the tanned
wealth brazenly displayed on their gleaming rosewood decks. Balzac described
Corsica as “a French island basking in the Italian sun”.
I drove past the port and up through the narrow alleys of the citadel to my
flat with a big smile on my face. My balcony had pretty much the best view
in town. I put down my bags and sat for a moment, gazing over the roof of a
house where Napoleon had once taken refuge, past contented fishermen to the
deep blue waters of the bay in which Nelson had lost his eye while trying to
conquer the town. From my rear window I could just make out the house where
it is claimed Columbus was born. If you like your history, then this place
hits the jackpot. I, however, was more interested in those deep blue waters.
I went scuba-diving for my first time ever in the Mediterranean.
The water was gorgeous and the visibility superb. I dived down to a B-17
bomber that had crash-landed in the bay in 1944, after taking a Luftwaffe
hit on a bombing run to Italy. It was a beautiful sight. Apart from the
tail, the plane was intact, sitting forlornly on the sea bed, just like in
one of those Bermuda Triangle documentaries.
NOT EVERYTHING was perfect on my island. Not yet, anyway. I realised that I
might not leave alive if I had to ascend the endless medieval steps from the
port to my flat more than a couple of times a day. I decided to rent a
moped. And then I discovered the coastal train. The locals call it the TGV (
train à grande vibration) – it’s quite a boneshaker and it gets very hot in
the middle of the day, but it’s a fabulous way of seeing the coast and
getting to and from some secluded beaches.
I got off at a small restaurant nestled in a forest of pine trees, downed yet
another vat of gorgeous rosé gris (this is a very, very dry type of rosé,
almost grey in colour, hence the name), wolfed down some huge langoustines
and promptly fell asleep on the beach. I woke up to find that I’d turned
into a langoustine and burnt my eyelids to a crisp. This made blinking
pretty tricky for the rest of the week.
Back in town, I decided to rest my weary lids at a portside cafe on the Quai
Landry – the hub of all action in Calvi. I cruised up in what I fancied to
be a relaxed Mediterranean manner and parked my bike on the seafront. I felt
a little like Cary Grant. Immediately, an irate Corsican restaurant-owner,
followed by his aggressive-looking wife and violent daughter, started laying
into me and demanding that I move my bike, as it ruined their view. There
were other bikes parked nearby and Cary Grant might have argued his case.
But I remembered something from the adventures of Asterix the Gaul, when he
was in Corsica – a strong storyline about vendettas that lasted for
generations. And some Corsicans like to blow up foreign-owned holiday homes
(they even have a word for it: plastiquer, to plastic-explode something). I
decided not to pick an argument with this charming local family as it could
possibly affect my grandchildren’s reception in the town, should they decide
to retrace their celebrated grandfather’s travels and visit Calvi in 2098.
I’m nice like that. Their restaurant, however, gave me food poisoning.
After a big plate of Corsican charcuterie (at a better, lovely restaurant) and
a couple of hours of people-watching (little, old, nut-brown men in sailor
caps escorting huge-breasted, tall, nut-brown women from their yachts to
dinner and back again), I retreated to the Citadel. As I was struggling to
find my key, I heard some extraordinary music coming from the nearby
Cathédrale St-Jean-Baptiste. I wandered up the old stone steps and entered
the world of Corsican polyphonic singing.
It was magical – a cross between Arcade Fire (for those of you hot on your
Quebec music) and Tuareg singers. Their echoing laments sounded almost
Levantine and were a clear reminder of just what a Mediterranean melting pot
this island is. I even bought the CD. ON MY last day, I decided to head for
the interior. I drove high up into the hills behind Calvi, towards the Forêt
de Bonifatu, a gorgeous river valley where you can drink water from the rock
pools. I’d bought some local dried ham, tomatoes, bread and, of course, a
bottle of local rosé gris in the lovely market of Ile Rousse. It was sheer
heaven. I spent the whole day reading Dumas, munching on my picnic and
dipping in and out of the river like some wild man of Borneo. I didn’t see a
soul.
I sometimes feel that, just as you shouldn’t meet your heroes, lest they
disappoint, you shouldn’t visit places that you’ve lusted after, in case
they don’t live up to your hype. Corsica did, though. Easily. I’m in the
garden as I write this – under a sun lamp, rosé in hand, listening to my
polyphonic chants – “The French complain of everything, and always,” said
Corsica’s most famous son, Napoleon Bonaparte. Not even they could grumble
about Corsica.
Dom Joly travelled as a guest of Corsican Places
The smart guide to Corsica
CORSICA HAS a trio of tourist focal points: in the southeast (Porto-Vecchio),
the west (Ajaccio) and the north (Calvi). The beau monde has discovered
Porto-Vecchio, a Genoese port surrounded by some of the island’s best (and
busiest) stretches of sand. The likes of Jean Reno and Laetitia Casta (who
is half-Corsican) are regulars and such celebs and their sucker-fish friends
can be found staying at the sleek, modernist, 31-room Casadelmar (00 33-4 95 72
34 34, www.casadelmar.fr ; doubles
from £229, B&B) and drinking at Via Notte (Route de Porras). The
best dining is at Belvedere (Route de Palombaggia; 4 95 70 54 13), a
Michelin-starred fish temple on the outskirts of Bonifacio.
More rustic is the mountainous northwest corner, the Balagne, where hillside
villages have been restored and ancient crafts rediscovered.
Here, in the golden-stone village of Pigna, eat grilled seafood and pasta on
the terrace at the Casa Musicale (4 95 61 77 31, www.casa-musicale.org
), a small hotel-restaurant.
Like Dom Joly, base yourself in Calvi, Corsica’s most attractive town, famous
for its jazz festival in June and for the restaurants along the marina, such
as L’Abri Côtier (4 95 65 12 76, www.abri-cotier-calvi.com
), serving excellent seafood for which you’ll pay handsomely. If you are on
a budget, head for the backstreets, where U Minellu (4 95 65 05 52; 3
Boulevard Wilson, next to the Ste-Marie-Majeure church) will feed you
wild-boar sauce with pulenta.
Napoleon’s home town, Ajaccio, the west coast’s tourist nexus, is less
appealing than Calvi, but has some truly spectacular beaches within easy
reach, and lots of fine coastal walks. Close the day on the poolside terrace
at L’Arbousier (4 95 25 05 55) in Porticcio, about 11 miles south of
Ajaccio; decent French food and magical views at sunset.
GETTING THERE
British Airways (0870 850 9850, www.ba.com) flies from Gatwick to Ajaccio and
Bastia; Thomsonfly (0870 190 0737, www.thomsonfly.com
) flies from Gatwick to Ajaccio, from Gatwick and Manchester to Calvi and
Figari, and from Edinburgh, Birmingham, Bristol and Gatwick to Bastia; and
XL (0870 320 7777, www.xl.com ) flies from
Gatwick to Bastia.
GETTING AROUND
A week’s car hire is from £134 from Opodo (0871 277 0090, www.opodo.co.uk
). Or try Holiday Autos (0870 400 4461, www.holidayautos.co.uk
) or Carrentals.co.uk.
TOUR OPERATORS
Corsican Places (0845 330 2113, www.corsica.co.uk
) offers self-catering and hotel accommodation throughout the island. A week
at Apartment Carla in Calvi costs from £456pp, based on four sharing, and
including return flights from Gatwick to Calvi and transfers. Or try Simpson
Travel (0845 811 6501, www.simpsontravel.com
), Holiday Options (0844 477 0451, www.holidayoptions.co.uk
), VFB Holidays (01452 716830, www.vfbholidays.co.uk
) or Voyages Ilena (020 7924 4440, www.
voyagesilena.co.uk ). Also www.directCorsica.com
