Corsica
by Russell Grant
Hold out your right hand, palm upwards: scrunch your fingers and thumb but keep your index finger pointing out. There, you have your own portable map of Corsica, so off we go.
We are landing at Figari airport in the far south of the island (near your wrist) and heading for Propriano (at the base of your little finger).
The journey from the airport is through typically wild southern European terrain: scorched earth, parched, sun-bleached shrubs, sharp windy B roads and tail-gating from locals. They drive like they've entered the Corsican Grand Prix (there actually was one but it was stopped some years ago as it became far too dangerous; try telling the locals, they are still doing time circuits).
But there is something different to this journey, breathe in – ah, it is the aromatically intoxicating smell of the maquis - no not Marquis, that's a French aristocrat or marquee which is a big tent or even Marquez, a Mexican footballer. The maquis covers much of the island and is an impenetrable, tangled mass of the most fabulous smelling: the perfume wafting up my nostrils is most definitely rosemary: Glade never smelt quite as fresh as this. The maquis is where local patriots have hidden for centuries and in WW2 it was the name given to the secret army of Corsican and French resistance.
Now view your hand again as we approach Propriano. Flex your index finger for it is pointing to the two colonial powers that has most influenced the life, culture and history of this earthy island; Genoa (then an Italian maritime republic) and France . Corsicans still continue to give these two the finger! Did you know Corsica was even part of the United Kingdom from 1794-6. But mad old King George III never made it to sit on his throne; it can still to be found waiting for someone to claim it in Corsica's main industrial city, Bastia.
Corsica is an island apart but has incredible parallels to Cymru, our Wales ; they both have their own language, both have dual lingo road signs, both are known for male voice choirs and both have lamb as their chief meat. The similarities are spooky. The local Corsican freedom fighters would still like independence as the graffiti on the rocks and walls declare and, of course, the same goes for the land west of England . But have no fear the FNLC (Fronte di Liberazione Naziunale di a Corsica) will not be blowing you or anyone else up, for much of their ‘work' is now based in Marseilles on mainland France , the biggest Corsican city in the world.
Back to the finger, when a plague of bad things from famine to malaria hit the island France did little to aid Corsica . So emigrants, especially from the area your index finger covers, Cape Corse , left en bloc to seek their fortune, they went west, hence the strong Latin American connexion now. The greatest concentration of Corsicans can be found in places like Puerto Rico , Venezuela has even had two part-Corsican presidents.
Now you would have thought that with the island's most famous son, Napoleon, at one time ruling all of France and much of Europe , the Corsicans would have had their day in the sun with Napoleonic nepotism, special treatment and imperial prestige. Don't you believe it! If you are expecting to find Corsica's cult of Napoleon on a par with say Salzburg 's for Mozart with his name plastered on everything from chocolate to condoms then you'd be so wrong. Old Napoleon is seen as anything but the conquering hero, he is seen as a turncoat, a traitor even who turned his back on his where he came from, ashamed of his roots. When he fell out with the real hero of Corsica, Pascal Paoli, he flit from his homeland with family and belongings bundled them onto a ship and headed for Toulon . In fact the only good thing N did when he became the all-conquering dictator was move the capital from Bastia to his home-town, the delightfully, bright city of Ajaccio-by-the-sea. That's about it.
In fact give your finger another wiggle because the Corsicans gave that to President De Gaulle. It was he who added a fuel to the Corsican fire when he declared that he wanted to bomb Corsica to test France 's nuclear warheads! Can you believe it and that was in the 1970's in the area where your little finger covers your palm. Now you can see why Corsica and French politicians aren't that crazy for one another.
History lesson over for we have now arrived at Propriano – Prupia to the locals. It is basically a very large village that owes much of its prosperity to its precious coastal bay-side location, ferries but no fishing boats – quayside creperies, hosts of bistros and pizzerias and roadside souvenir shops mixed with food shops and supermarkets. This is a clumsy mix of holiday resort and ferry port. The view across the bay is stunning with white villas dotted in the wooded mountains; forests walks and sandy coves to entice us to chill-out, relax and enjoy.
Stern looking Corsican mature matrons guard their shop fronts like Cerberus at the door of Hades – but don't be put off, for there are many less frightening locals, including an Italian noblewoman who runs a delicious patisserie, Le Petit Mignon, I parked there for breakfast daily sampling all-butter croissant, creamy quiche fresh baked from the oven and coffee that tastes like, well, real coffee.
Evening time head for Mr and Mrs Bischoff for as butchers by day they transform their wares into tasty brochettes, soups, grills and more besides by night. Mrs B, a honey-blond flick-up ‘stunner', glitters in gold and black lam é from behind the cash register. Hit the promenade and head for Chez Parenti for top nosh but leave the menu to serious Stefan as he knows what you want - and you don't want to argue after all this is the land of the vendetta! I jest, vendettas and bombs pass us tourists by; it is strictly for the locals.
Local foody delights are worth the time and taste: plates of smoked meats for starters - try the wild boar which lurk in the mountains - quaffed with robust course Corsican vino. Sweet masala wines wash down high-cal chestnut puddings from the Castagniccia region (below your index and thumb) - a forest of chestnut trees planted by the Genoese and still going strong. Lamb is more plentiful than organic fish and take care as some of the catch (as opposed to the seafood) posing on the display fridge is pure codswallop as it may be farmed and not free range at all. Corsicans are meat eaters (it is a Taurean island after all!) and unlike most island races only go down to the sea when they really have to. There are specialist Corsican cafes everywhere, there are about four in Propriano alone.
Time to sleep. I am staying in two places booked by my super-organised hosts www.directcorsica.com . The beaming and welcoming Gemini, Claire Hall, a British gal who is my Corsican hostess with the mostess, greets me with a bisous (kisses on the cheek) and whisks me off to the Piazza Ronda, just outside the ancient mountain village of Olmeto . The Piazza is a massive round ex-wine tower with views across to the little port (you can see Mrs Bischoff glittering if you look carefully) and the view of the Bay of Valinco is superb. Here is an ideal spot for those of you who want to read, walk and swim in your own pool or make merry with friends and family. It has eight bed rooms, top floor suite and the décor is about as near to spending time in the Tate Modern as possible: the owner's daughter lives in Miami and is an artist, before leaving home she covered every nook and cranny and crevice with her works.
After three relaxing days here and picnic lunches where I sampled the local pate de sanglier (yes it's the wild boar again!), golden honey labelled with each of the seasons as the taste strikingly differs in each, and deep purple myrtle comfiture – a seedless jam with a taste all of its own spread liberally on fresh, crusty bread.
The final part of the week I am transferred to the Residence Marie-Diane. It is run by Suzie from Sussex who married Charles, a little Corsican bank manager (when I met him I declared he looked like De Gaulle, actually he looked like Napoleon but realising they didn't much care for N, I quickly said De Gaulle but this was before I realised they didn't care for old Big Nose much either). Anyway they have the most comfy bijou cottages overlooking the pool and perfect if you are not too mobile. Brit Suzie is on call and speaks the lingo and her brother-in-law is the local doctor to give the kind of set-up if you want all round security and safety – good for total peace of mind. I have booked my mum in for next year.
Corsica 's surprise gift to travellers is the mountains. Flying over the snow-capped peaks in June a landscape is revealed fit for the visitor who loves Alpine terrain, fast flowing crystal rivers and walking and trekking in the sun. And like all good romantic stories it is here you come across the kind of village outposts that haven't changed in centuries.
I planned three days out. A visit to the capital, Ajaccio , about an hour from Propriano was worth the road hassle; it has a faded, gilded charm reminiscent of the south of France - but my gripe? That everything including museums and galleries close from 12 to 3 (not like Wales !) now there is siesta and there is manyana but this was OTT and was most frustrating and annoying. It meant I had just two hours to pack in everything – surely the museums should stay open at least? Even more galling was that the Musée Fesch houses the best collection of early Renaissance paintings outside the Louvre. I never saw them.
Just 15 minutes away by car from base is the rocky hilltop city of Sartène (Sarte). Said to be the most Corsican of Corsican towns it is a stunner, I fully expected El Cid to come charging out that was the feel, Andalusia . Hanging on the walls of a local church is the weighty cross, shackles and chain for the annual Good Friday stations of the cross starring a hooded, remorseful ex-con playing Christ. Down the steps is a delightful wooded square with cafes and music to watch boys and girls go by and shops! Simon Giacomini, p robably my most favourite shop during my trip, no actually it was my favourite, featuring a bazaar of bizarre baubles, bangles and beads, paintings, lamps, statues, water features, elegant and chic perfect for Leos and Libras hitting the town.
Then down to the southern tip (where your hand meets your wrist) as Corsica reaches out to Sardinia via its own Gibraltar the ancient city of Bonifacio (Bonifaziu). Go up to the citadel and park on the rock and walk through the quiet cemetery at the end of the promontory, no go on. It's not morbid, local families have little houses for their ancestors to RIP – there is an elegant marble memorial to the Foreign Legion, which, incidentally are now fortressed in Corsica at Calvi, a honeymoon home for celebs (this city is where your wee pinky bends).
Teetering Bonifacio is a maze of walkways and pavements with shops and cafes. Being high-up above its harbour, the roads to it and within it are steep and hilly so if you find it hard to get around catch.
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| Russell Grant interviews Claire Hall, Director of www.directcorsica.com to find out the facts about Corsica. Please feel free to download the audio files for your MP3 player or to listen to on your PC: |
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