Corse: island of beauty

I am not sure if I knew about the existence of Corsica - at least not in any concrete way - before living in France. But every single French person has either been, or wants to go, on a summer vacation to Corse. And after months of hearing about how amazing the French island is, we also wanted to go.

August is a strange time in Paris. Parisians leave the city for the month, or a good part of it; most tourists have finished their summer sejourn in the city of lights, trying to avoid the worst of the heat; and all the shopkeepers pull down the shutters for their own time off, or to do renovations. The city becomes quiet, almost still.

And so, we joined the obligatory exodus and booked a week in Corsica during the first week of August.

Corsica has been a part of France since 1768, when Genoa officially ceded it to Louis XV as part of a repayment of debts incurred after enlisting French military help in suppressing a Corsican revolt. But it was part of Genoa (before there was Italy) for much, much longer. Given that deep connection, its food, language and culture retain a distinctive Italian flare. And if you ask a local, they are absolutely not French: they are Corsican.

We flew from Paris Orly into Figari, at the southern end of the island, which was not far from where we would be staying for two nights, just outside of Sartène, at A Mandria Di Murtoli.

We were warned in advance by the hotel that it was necessary to have a 4WD since the estate is spread out across a sprawling 2,500 hectare property with its accommodation, restaurants and other features connected by 52km of dirt tracks. We weren’t able to find any proper 4WD to rent with any car hire company, but after some inquiries with the hotel, we were assured an AWD would be suitable enough to get around. So we picked up our rental SUV Renault Symbioz at Figari airport and drove to our accommodation.

When we checked in, we weren’t told that we’d been upgraded, but when we were shown into a luxurious multi-room suite with its own swimming pool, we knew we had been. We never found out why, but it elevated our stay even further. We enjoyed the calm seclusion of our private swimming pool surrounded by native gardens and an orchard of olive trees.

We debated whether it was the most beautiful hotel we’ve ever stayed at. It certainly had some of the most beautiful features and outdoor spaces we’ve experienced, effortlessly weaving farm stay cosiness with subtle modernity. It was evocative of a small Tuscan village; the accommodations were restored stone buildings set upon a property of rolling hills, surrounded by olive and citrus trees, and linked together by winding footpaths bordered by lavender and flowering maquis. There were places for rest and enjoyment, like a little table and chairs hidden around a bend with a view over the fields, or patches of soft shadowed grass situated under large canopies of shade. At the heart of this little hamlet, was a haven of calm where meals were served alfresco on the terrasse under the shade of creamy macramé umbrellas, and plush lounges offered comfortable spaces to enjoy balmy aperitifs in tranquillity.

But perhaps the most notable feature of this secluded property was the swimming pool. Laid with terracotta tiling and surrounded by sandstone walls and timber boardwalks, with one double canopied sunbed per room, it was understated luxury. The water was cool, but not cold, and it had the impossible freshness of pure spring water.

The private pool at our suite was similarly designed, although smaller in size. After our hostess departed following her explanation of our room’s features, I wasted no time in changing to my swimmers and plunging straight into that crystalline crater.

Diving into a pool like that, on hot summer days like that, brings me a kind of giddy joy I stumble upon so rarely in adulthood. During our week in Corsica it was 33-35°C every day. Hot and dry; the perfect manifestation of the Mediterranean summers of my dreams. And the perfect weather for swimming; we swam in the morning straight after breakfast, we swam before and after lunch, we swam before and after dinner, and often took another quick dip just before bed.

And so after that first souse in the pool, we showered and dressed for dinner, which was at one of the estate’s restaurants located elsewhere on the property. We had two options to get there: to exit back out onto the main road to drive for 5 minutes and then enter via a separate driveway, or take the internal dirt road through the property for a twenty minute drive. We had nearly an hour before our reservation, so we decided to take the internal road. We made enquiries at reception, and despite her admission that it was more of an “adventure” this way, she was confident that it was easy and our car would manage just fine.

However, by some unfortunate combination of misunderstanding, language barrier, our interpretation of “adventure”, and our previous warnings of general Corsican nonchalance, we ended up on the wrong road. Looking back, we probably should have known straight away it wasn’t right, but despite my repeated administrations that it was really unbelievable for a hotel of this nature to send you down a road like this, we continued on the wrong path. For over 1km. It was only after we we’d endured a very uncomfortable 35 minutes of steep, rocky terrain, dense scrub, and terrifying screeches along the sides of our rental car that we decided that perhaps this wasn’t the way after all, and shouldn’t we be there by now, and oh look, we are actually nowhere near the restaurant according to Google maps, and yes, perhaps a luxury hotel would not send their guests down something that looked nothing like a road after all.

So we called the hotel and they confirmed that, indeed, that was not the road but a horse riding trail that was definitely not suitable for cars and that we should immediately turn around and come back the way we came. To be honest, the signs were all there. We never passed another car; we couldn’t since the track was all of eight foot wide. There were tall plants down the centre of the track, suggesting irregular use. There were no signs (the receptionist had said there’d be black signs to guide us). It was suitable for only the most capable 4WDs. And there were piles of horse manure everywhere.

Of course, turning a car around on a narrow horse trail with dense scrub on either side was another matter entirely. There was no possible way of reversing and so we did the only thing we could think of; we got out and walked ahead. We walked until we found the best option for turning around. And we did. And we did get out. We have no idea how we didn’t get a flat tire or get stuck in a deep rut or rip the front bumper off the car entirely. I have to put it down to Dylan’s methodic calm and the skills we learnt about wheel placement during our 4WD driver training course. And luck. A lot of luck.

It would have been a piece of cake in our Defender, but after making it out with only surface scratches on the side panels, we had a new respect for this “AWD” Renault. We’re still waiting to hear back from the rental car company about the financial damage of this mistaken escapade, but at least emotionally, we’ve now recovered.

But that experience guided us a lot over the course of the week. We took no more risks and avoided all paths that gave us the slightest bit of doubt. We weren’t stupid enough to try our luck twice. Corsican roads are worse than the back roads of Tasmania or New Zealand. They are almost all a narrow, single lane, unmarked, winding nightmare of hard rock wall on one side and sheer cliff side on the other, with not a barrier in sight. The speed limit is 80km/h where you can only see five metres ahead to the next blind corner. I spent the better half of a week in a state of nervous tension when we drove from town to town through the arresting beauty of this stunning mountainous island.

After our off-roading adventure, we arrived only 15 minutes late to dinner at Table de la Ferme. I downed my cocktail in a scant few mouthfuls to arrest the nervous energy flooding my system, and then we laughed. We laughed at the improbability of not destroying the car and at the unlikely mistake that our usually conservative selves found ourselves in.

Needless to say, we drove back to the accommodation along the main road.

After the high stakes adventure of the previous day, I refused to get in a car and go anywhere the next day. Not that we needed to, or wanted to. We did nothing and completely relaxed without any guilt. We woke up late and had breakfast on the terrasse overlooking the valley. They served coffee with fresh pastries and bread, eggs and ham, yoghurt and fruits and freshly squeezed orange juice.

We then laid on a canopy bed by the communal pool, reading (or in Dylan’s case, listening to) a book, alternating between soaking up the sun’s heat and dipping into the refreshing water to cool off.

We eventually retreated back to the terrasse for an Italian lunch of pasta and a bottle of local Corsican wine, and then went to sit by our private pool for the rest of the afternoon, employing the same alternating ritual of sun absorption and swimming, on repeat.

After hours of lazy relaxation, I worked up the courage to get back in the car. We had a dinner reservation down on the coastal edge of the property at Table de la Plage.

We found the true track this time, which was still not very easy to be honest (but nothing like the horse trail), and drove down to the beach. We had a rosé while laying on a pair of sunbeds that had been tucked up into the low hanging branches of the trees, forming a strange sort of natural canopy with their horizontal branches that enveloped our secret space.

We strolled along the now empty evening beach, and after weighing up the upside of swimming against the downsides of being salty for dinner and having to change on the beach, we finally decided to go for a swim. It would have been worth it anyway, but it was a pleasant surprise when we discovered there was a black water pipe running down to the beach after seeing someone pulling it up to hose off. We imitated him before covertly redressing in our secret canopy and then walked across the sand to the restaurant’s beachside entrance.

We could see a few tables from the beach, but as we entered the restaurant, it revealed itself to be much more. We climbed timber steps that were built around trees, creating a layered effect of tables at different heights along the natural hillside. It was basically a giant tree house where each table had its own platform connected only to others by the timbered stairs and pathways.

We were first taken to two seats at the edge of a larger platform playing host to a bar where we had a cocktail overlooking the ocean.

When we were taken to our table, it was down on the main ground level of the restaurant near the kitchen, so unfortunately we lost our view, but we enjoyed our meal: I had fish with fennel puree and Dylan ordered crayfish pasta. However, we got a shock when it arrived as a whole crayfish served alongside an enormous bowl of pasta that could easily serve four people.

And then we got even more of a shock when we received a bill of over €500, with Dylan’s crayfish pasta making up over half the cost. Turns out you should probably ask when your dish is displayed as a cost per 100g. But also, a good establishment should probably warn you that’s what your dish involves. It was a whole one kilo crayfish served as part of a dish that was clearly meant to be shared, which was not explained to us. We had assumed it would be 200g, maybe 300g, of crayfish cut up into a bowl of pasta. We never ordered seafood by the gram again after that.

The next day, we enjoyed our breakfast on the terrasse, and a final swim, before we reluctantly checked out and left our little pocket of paradise behind. It was nearly midday by the time we commenced the drive towards our second location, and so Dylan researched options for lunch and a swim along the way while I concentrated very carefully on my driving.

We took a small detour from our planned route to the town of Campomoro.

However, despite the relatively sleepy town vibe, we couldn’t find a park when we arrived. This turned out to be a recurring issue across Corsica (and in France in general during the summer). Navigating the tight turns around tiny towns with endless winding one-way streets trying to find parks became a part of the pastime of our European summer.

But we eventually found a park at the top of the hill and enjoyed exerting a bit of huff and puff for the walk down and back.

And it was worth the hassle. The beach was beautiful and the lunch we had at Bar Restaurant Des Amis turned out to be very good. We fed our hungry bellies first, changed in the restaurant toilet, and then walked down to the golden beach for a swim.

The water was that exacting shade of turquoise that sparkles clear as the sun hits it and begs you to get in. The sand was soft and there was no seaweed. It was beautiful; the kind of place you hope to find during a Mediterranean summer road trip.

After lunch we continued our drive and arrived early in the evening at the Sofitel, located just outside the town of Porticcio, which is a little south of the largest town in Corsica, Ajaccio. We made use of the salt water pool before having dinner at the hotel restaurant, which was located on the end of the small peninsula and aptly named, La Table de la Pointe. We enjoyed our Mediterranean dinner, with a glass of local wine, as we watched the golden sun sink below the horizon from our poolside location.

We returned there each morning for breakfast, enjoying our eggs and pastries, experiencing a true sense of being in some faraway seaside town.

During dinner on that first night we researched boat tours for the following day, but given our last minute planning, the only option left was a sunset cruise leaving from Porticcio at 6.30pm.

So the next morning we decided to go for a drive during the day, choosing for our destination a small lake up in the mountains. When we arrived, parking was impossible and the road was so narrow going in to the area that there was barely room for two cars to pass on the steep, winding road. To avoid the chaos, we drove a kilometre back up the mountain, and parked under a tree on a bare patch of dirt on the side of the road. Once more, we took the hilly climb from our barely legal parking spot to our destination as a good excuse for some exercise.

Overall, the lake was fairly underwhelming and the food at the restaurant even more so. It’s quite incredible how many restaurants we’ve eaten at in France that have a 4.9 star rating while leaving a lot to be desired.

We drove back to the hotel and spent the remaining part of the afternoon in our happy place: swimming at the beach.

Our tour that evening took us to the largest of the islands forming part of the Îles Sanguinaires (Bloodthirsty Islands), which is a small archipelago off the west coast of Corsica.

It was a wild ride out in our 900hp speedboat, the driver doing water donuts and blasting the latest pop hits through the speakers, adding a thrill to the ride. It had been a while since I had done something so adrenaline inducing.

We spent a little over an hour exploring the island and having a swim before heading back. But on the return trip, we stopped to watch the sunset from our boat and have a swim in the open sea.

When we arrived back at the hotel, we freshened up and then had a truly Mediterranean summer dinner, sitting down at 9.30pm to start our evening meal.

To reach our final destination for the week, we drove up through the middle of the island for a two night stay in Calvi, on the north west coast. Over the course of a few hours, we wound around and traversed the mountainous terrain that forms much of the island of Corsica, dipping in and out of the shadows of the craggy peaks. Corsica is often referred to as “a mountain in the sea” given the island consists of its highest peak at 2,706m and around 120 other summits of more than 2,000m.

On the way, we stopped at Clos Venturi, a small mountain vineyard in the northern part of the island. We tasted some wine, navigating our way through the conversation in French, talking about life in Paris, Corsica, Australia and, of course, wine.

We reached our hotel late in the afternoon and spent the evening walking through the town and climbing the spiralling footpaths and cobbled lane ways at the centre of the old town’s fort.

We found a little restaurant hidden in a shaded courtyard at the end of a cobbled pathway but despite its location and charm, the lasagne was cold in the centre. But on the upside, I discovered Corsican mandarin soda, which was delicious.

The next day, our final day of holidays, we spent the morning by the hotel pool, and while I was deep into my second book of the week, Dylan found a retired French guy offering tours out into the bay on his sail boat. Dylan organised a tour over WhatsApp and we went down to the dock at 3.30pm to meet.

We were joined by a French family on vacation from Marseille - the parents and three kids - and spent the day out on the water with them, learning a raft of sailing terminology in French and being reminded that, no matter where in the world you are, kids are all kids; begging for chips, asking a hundred questions, pretending they’re not scared when they really are a bit nervous about that jump off the boat, and loving to swim with foam noodles in the sea (which the French adorably call frites).

Our skipper, Christophe, had us all helping out, collecting fenders, raising and lowering the sail, opening and closing the genoa, tying and untying ropes, and taking the wheel. I know next to nothing about sailing and undertaking our first tack - in Franglish - with Dylan at the helm and me on the genoa, was an experience. Christophe nonchalantly pronounced it an échec but smiled serenely, adjusted course, and once more the wind was at our backs.

We sailed to a calm cove at the edge of the bay of Calvi and then spent a rather perfect hour or so swimming off the back of the boat and drinking rosé while we watched the sun starting to set behind the surrounding hills dotted with slow-spinning wind turbines.

We returned the way we came, the sun now eclipsed by the hills, and the town illuminated in a soft glow. This time, it really was too late for dinner by the time we returned and washed the sea spray off our salty sticky skin. In the high summer heat of this Mediterranean island, dinner doesn’t properly start until the sun is down, after 9.30pm. But we had an early flight, and so instead, we grabbed a take away snack (a crepe for me, which is always better than any quick and dirty snack option you could get at 10.00pm in Australia) and then returned to the hotel to pack our bags.

On our final morning, we rose early, too early for hotel breakfast, loaded the suitcases in the car and vaguely attempted to clean out the remnants of our offroading adventure before heading to the airport.

We dropped the car off, and to no one’s surprise, the attendant noticed the large scratches running down both sides of the vehicle. We admitted it was us (a few bushes here and there on narrow roads we said), he took photos, and we are still waiting for the news on how much our little adventure really cost us.

We found bad coffee and slightly less bad, warm out of the oven croissants, for breakfast at the airport terminal, and then boarded our flight back to Paris, already missing our daily swims and the salty, balmy summer air of this special French island.