Notes from a small island

I first visited Corsica last summer, spending a week lounging with friends near Porto-Vecchio on the island's southeast coast, where we idled the days away on glorious beaches, hiring sun beds and eating huge lunches of fresh seafood and woodfired pizza at groovy beach bars. We marvelled at how little impact tourism has had on the island's wild beauty. There are no vast resort complexes, no flashy hotels - in fact, little development of any kind. Bobbing in the gin-clear water we would gaze back at the shore to see little but thickly wooded hillsides and the occasional terracotta rooftop.

So this year, keen to discover more of this unspoilt haven, we returned and headed to Cap Corse, the peninsula that stretches up like an index finger from the top of the island. Corsica's north is less developed (and that's saying something) than the south and wonderfully peaceful. We stayed in the tiny village of Patrimonio, in the heart of the wine region. Much of the town is given over to caves (where you can taste the local speciality, sweet, golden muscat), small family-run restaurants and vineyards, and the views are heavenly. It was all we could do to tear ourselves away from our villa, with its little bridged pool, olive trees, petanque pitch and views across neatly tended vines to distant hills, and beyond them, the sea. From our sun beds we admired the neighbouring 16th-century church of St Martin, whose pretty, much-photographed bell tower dominates the landscape for miles around.

Driving in Corsica is not for the faint-hearted. Wherever you want to get to, the sharply winding, cliff-hugging, steeply climbing, precipitously descending mountain roads are unavoidable - and as awful as they sound. But there's no question that it's worth it. The scenery is spectacular, and each and every view of the sparkling Mediterranean, framed by the island's craggy peaks, is a treat. With the windows down, the sharp scent of the maquis - the scrubby, impenetrable bush that covers every hillside - is warm and intoxicating. If you have the stomach for it, I might go so far as to suggest packing yourself into a campervan and taking the island on wheels-first but for those of a more delicate constitution, short journeys are surely a better bet.

The northern landscape lends itself more to spectacular cliffs than sandy coves so there are few beaches in the area but one or two are certainly worth visiting. We headed first to the vast black pebble sweep at Nonza, a 15-minute drive hugging the coast and overtaking lines of (frankly, mad) cyclists clumped together in neat snaking lines like obedient ducklings, from our villa. The village occupies a spec-tacular clifftop position and gazing down from the road to the beach far below, we wondered why it remained deserted in the middle of a glorious sunny day. The climb down swiftly brought the answer into focus: this was mountaineering in flip-flops. We clambered down until we finally made it to the deserted shore where I couldn't help thinking ruefully of the beach bars of the south - a cool drink and a plate of freshly caught langoustines would have been welcome - but the lack of any such luxury seemed a small price to pay for such remarkable isolation.

But the ultimate seaside spot in this corner of Corsica is the white ribbon of Saleccia, reached only on foot or by boat. Several water-taxi companies run regular routes from the fishing port of St Florent, a pretty little town with a circular citadel standing sentry over the coastline, a few appealing boutiques and many restaurants (of every standard and price bracket) catering to the visitors who arrive on sleek motoryachts and moor up for a night before roaring off to their next picturesque destination. Saleccia, with its powdery sand and glorious water, is a mecca for every beach-loving, sun-worshipping body in the area and pretty busy, even early in the season. It's also on a popular route for hikers, along the coast of the untamed Desert des Agriates, leading to the incongruous experience of walkers in heavy boots and rucksacks passing along the sand like trails of ants as you bask on your towel in the sunshine.

Another of Corsica's biggest draws is its fantastic food, and the locals take it very seriously - even sausage has a season (spring, since you're wondering). Much of the island's history involves a three-way tug of war between France, Italy and the fiercely independent Corsicans, and as a result, although Corsica is currently - although often openly reluctant to be - a French collectivité territoriale, strong Italian influences are clear in its language, place names, architecture and food. We never had a disappointing meal, from the pizzas at our local pizzeria, to the little Osteria San Martino at the end of the dusty lane leading to the church and our house, where we ate wonderfully succulent lamb and decadent dark chocolate mousse, and La Gaffe on the quayside in St Florent where we devoured moules gratin and fresh prawns and argued over whether the spaghetti with langoustines or the linguine with scallops won the day.

On our final night we braved the road over the mountains to Bastia, on the east coast of Cap Corse, and then headed north to the tiny fishing village of Erbalunga. We arrived as the sun was setting and strolled around the ramshackle little harbour, lanes and squares, past buildings draped in vibrant bourgainvillea and blousy hydrangeas, before settling for dinner beneath the palm trees at a twinkling restaurant, A Piazzetta. We ate yet more fresh seafood, including some of the best moules frites I've ever tasted. Above us the palms rustled softly and the gentle rhythm of musicians playing in a nearby bar floated across the square; the sounds of a perfect summer evening. ES

Getting there

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