05 August 2007 - The Sunday Times - Dom Joly

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

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