Pining for Corsica

AT THE siege of Calvi on the north west coast of Corsica in 1794, the home side fought with customary ferocity against the British — sabre, machete, dagger and cannon all used with deadly intent.

“Hey, you’ll have somebody’s eye out like that!” the British shouted at the Corsicans, and so they did. In this instance it was Admiral Nelson’s. A plaque in the lofty citadel marks the spot from where the bullet that half-blinded Horatio was fired.

The citadel itself is fun to wander through. There are ateliers, cafes, restaurants, sleeping dogs — and a night club called Chez Tao founded in 1928 by a Russian aristocrat and his partner a local ballet dancer. I’d say they were fun, too.

The citadel is also home to one of the many houses where Christopher Columbus wasn’t born.

Nonetheless the Calvistis insist this was his birthplace. A sign guides you to the gently crumbling building.

The town of Calvi is perfect for a siege — hemmed in by the Mediterranean on one side, and the mountains of Cap Corse on the other. Perfect, also, for sitting with glass of local rosé gris in hand, and watching the magnificent drama of the setting sun illuminate the snowcapped peaks across the bay.

We were off to do a little gentle exploring ourselves —though nothing quite as daunting as a journey to the New World.

*At least there can be no argument about C. Columbus's last resting place. Definitely Havana, where, according to Mark Twain, a local museum houses two skulls of the explorer, "one when he was a boy and one when he was a man”.

CORSICA is the most mountainous island in the Mediterranean, with several heroic peaks higher than 6,500ft, (that’s more than two of your Snowdons on top of each other). The terrain provides driving conditions best described as uncompromising. Our destination, just on the other side of the jagged range, was the town of Saint-Florent. Steep, narrow, winding roads offered vertiginous views of vineyards, gorges, waterfalls, extraordinary rock formations, forests and mediaeval villages.

In between is the maquis, the Mediterranean wilderness made up of a seemingly endless catalogue of shrubs you'd want in your garden: arbutus, box, cork oak, myrtle, rosemary, thyme . . .

The scent on the breeze, as you might imagine, is intoxicating.

On roads shared with wild boar, goats and sheep — and patrolled overhead by kites and buzzards — you pass the likes of Sant’Antonino, the oldest inhabited village in Corsica, also listed as one of the most beautiful all France. A warren of narrow lanes, steep pathways and  vaulted passages, it continues to cling to the top of a substantial mountain even after twelve hundred years of very mixed history.

Of course, taking refuge in the fastness of the mountains is bred in the bone here. Covetous neighbours have included the Phoenicians, Byzantines, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Saracens, British, Pisans and the Genoese.

The crowd from Genoa finally sold the island to France in 1768. During the Second World War US troops arrived. One of the pilots, chap called Joseph Heller, would often see a dilemma develop in the operations of the Air Force, a dilemma that seemed to contradict itself. Mutually conflicting yet dependent conditions, he said to himself, nodding knowingly. A few more glasses of the local rosé and who knows, somebody might write a book about it.

The Little Corporal from  Corsica

Corsica is also the birthplace of Napoleon — unlike Columbus, no debate about this one. The Little Corporal said that the sweet-smelling maquis was one that he sorely missed the whole time he was in exile.

I was only on the island a week, and unlike Napoleon have never really had dreams of taking over Europe; but I instinctively know what he meant. 

So, Napoleon, Nelson, Christopher Columbus, Catch-22 — if you don’t know much about history, but you know what you like, Corsica’s the place.

From Calvi to Saint-Florent

WE WERE almost through the mountains now, and the reappearance of what I'm obliged by long-standing tradition to refer to as the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean, meant that the town ahead, just across the bay, was Saint-Florent, our destination.

This lovely fishing village is a bit French, a bit Italian, quite a lot Corsican. There’s a huge harbour, a bakery, a butcher’s, a citadel (quel surpris), and, even less surpris, a wrap-around, dazzling beach.

La Citaj, our accommodation, was an old traditional stone house — all ancient floorboards, exposed stonework, open fireplaces, steep staircase — transformed into a luxury villa with all modern knick-knackery. This study in rusticated refinement is one of a cluster of houses just on the outskirts of Saint-Florent; set in its own graceful grounds, it remains part of the village while still offering complete privacy. An impressive trick.

The upstairs  floor (the house ranges over three storeys) overlooks — just beyond the damson and pear trees — the Cathédrale du Nebbio. This Pisan church, dating back to 1140, is a much-admired Romanesque building, although obviously not without its issues. The bishop, until recent times, kept a loaded pistol by the altar during mass. The word vendetta, apparently, originates in Corsica.

The cathedral is likely to be standing on the site of the ancient Roman city of Nebbio. The building, officially known today as the Église Sta-Maria-Assunta, houses a glass shrine containing the relics of Saint Flor, a Roman soldier martyred in the 3rd century.

The swimming pool is secluded from the rest of the houses round about, surrounded on all sides by box hedge and ivy-clad walls, and shaded by acacia trees. Big enough to swim a comfortable length or two, it’s well-equipped with loungers, parasols, and swallows spectacularly swooping over the water. They seem to have thought of everything.

Although Saint-Florent is restaurant-rich, some nights you'll certainly forego eating out, if you’re self-catering somewhere like La Citaj. Have a squint at the daily shopping list:

— crusty bread

— rosé wine

— cheese

— big tomatoes

— something for the cat.

Yep, a cat. One is sure to adopt you. The average Corsican cat isn’t too pushy, but appreciates a little charcuterie if you can spare it.

Of a Friday, market stalls heavy with produce from the mountains and farms set up shop in the main square in the town. The prisutu – the local smoked ham (from pigs fed with chestnuts) goes well with the local hooch, acquavita. This is 45 per cent alcohol, 55 per cent aircraft de-icing fuel.

I jest — but it's strong alright. The correct way to sample this muscular drink is at the end of a meal. You don’t glug it down — vendettas have been started over less. Instead, pour a few drops over the sugar cubes you’ll have been served.

The other necessary purchase from the local boulangerie are croissants, packed with almonds and chocolate, so heavy they probably have their own gravitational field.

Meanwhile, at the check-outerie, prices appear to be marginally keener than those in the UK; particularly the local wine, Patromonio — made literally up the road past our lodgings, first on the left, you can’t miss it. Their vineyards stretch up the mountain, as far as the bloodshot eye can see.

If you fancy seeing more of the island, head for the single-track Corsican rail network that connects the main towns of the island. So demanding is the terrain that while being built they called on the top man of the day, Gustave Eiffel, to help out. With strict instructions to forget about fancy towers, he set about designing the Vecchio viaduct near the town of Corte. I can anorakly confirm that it is 96 metres high, and exceptionally impressive.

Like the mountain roads, Le Chemins de Fer de la Corse provides thrills, spectacular views, and lovely old carriages — some dating back to Napoleon’s time.

Saint-Florent is well served by several restaurants — from sea-front pizza parlours to haute cuisine establishments. Prepare for fish, wild boar stew, and twinkly views across the harbour

Inland you’ll regularly come across auberges that specialise in the rustic fare of the island. One to take in if you’re feeling adventurous is Auberge A Magina in the little mountain village of Oletta.

Advice: sit outside on the terrace. 

As the swallows and swifts swoop below you along the steep, narrow laneways, you can take in breathtaking views down to the Gulf of Saint-Florent.

You'll need a drink after the climb to the top of the town, and you can have one. A wine, no less, that’s been made under your very feet — mais oui, underneath the restaurant is the winery and bodega. This is what we call drinking locally. If you’re a fan of fermentation there could not possibly be anywhere more satisfactory on the whole of the island.

The food — vernacular fare with a very sophisticated twist — is flavoured with herbs from the maquis scrubland.

But your daily log here could read: “Got up, mucked about, wandered down to the bakery, stopped in the square, had a glass of wine while watching the locals play petanque. Back home to sit by the pool and drink cocktails for the rest of the day. End of.”

Nobody would blame you for totally lazing about, not a bit of it, especially not the Corsicans — for this has to be one of the most relaxing spots in the Med. Arrive here and somehow, deep down, you feel you’ve arrived somewhere you were definitely meant to be.

Where to stay

La Citaj

Book with Corsican Places

7 night package from £639pp (based on 8 sharing)

www.corsica.co.uk

Hotel La Roya

Route la Plage, Saint-Florent

00 33 4 95 37 00 40

www.hoteldelaroya.com

The clue is in the address — basically Beach Street. And right enough, other than actually sleeping on the sand, you won’t get closer to the glittering waters of the Med. Not cheap — from around €220 per room a night

Hotel Bellevue

Route Principale, 20217 Saint-Florent, France

00 33 4 95 37 00 06

www.bellevue.com.fr

Set within a 1-hectare park with direct beach access, Hotel Bellevue also offers sea views, a Salon de Thé and a swimming pool.

Double rooms from €90 to €155 per night

Mal Rogers was a guest of Corsican Places www.corsica.co.uk

0845 330 2345