Where To Wander Next

“Mon Dieu!” shouts my taxi driver, shaking his head, as a car turns in front of him. He floors it, and the other driver, clearly a tourist, slams to a stop. Not completely satisfied with his win, my taxi driver inches forward within a hair of the other car’s bumper, forcing the other driver to reverse before he drives off. I’ve been in Corsica for five minutes and already love it.

My destination, Calvi, is a town on Corsica’s northwest coast in the Balagne region, perched seaside in a spectacular half-moon bay on the Mediterranean sea. The area is famous for hiking and beaches—and impatient taxi drivers—and still feels untamed and untouched by mass tourism. Towering above the harbor is a massive medieval citadel, built in the 13th century. From almost anywhere in town, you can see it rising dramatically. Restaurants, bakeries and boutiques line the waterfront. No matter where you look, the views are spectacular. 

My taxi driver is taking me to a beach down the coast. My intention is to hike back to town on a coastal path. After winding through a bunch of tiny residential streets, he stops abruptly and motions for me to get out. “Beach,” he says, pointing to a dirt lane. I glance at Google Maps and can see I’m still pretty far from my destination. “Uh, are you sure?” I ask. He says he can’t drive any farther and that I owe him 30 euros. There is clearly not going to be any discussion, so I hop out, and he disappears in a cloud of dust.

As I make my way to the ocean, a mini-jungle of honeysuckle, bougainvillea, pink and red oleanders and bamboo line sprouts up on both sides of the dusty trail. I am suddenly overwhelmed with a pungent scent. It’s in my lungs, in my nose. My brain is working overtime to decipher what I’m smelling — eucalyptus, mint, lavender, tobacco, musk, floral, sea salt? It’s an intoxicating mix that is undeniably unique. I had read about the famous scent that locals call the Maquis. Is this it? It is supposed to include immortelle, a flowering perennial with healing qualities that blankets much of the island. I stop to look for it and, sure enough, see yellow buds all around me.

The trail twists and turns, up and down, as I cross over flat rocks and scale small boulders that make up the path. Yellow posts mark the trail, which I am grateful for because it is taking a lot longer than I anticipated. I spot a lone sunbather on a flat rock down by the sea. I run across a friendly, solo female backpacker soaking her feet in the cool water. Other than that, I have the trail all to myself.

Back in town, I head to the waterfront bistro the concierge recommended, Le Comptoir. In broken French, I manage to get a table for one, order a glass of rose, ice and a carafe of water. My server is sweet and talks loudly to me in French, as if that is going to help. So far, the Corsicans I’ve encountered are definitely effusive than typical French, even yelling at each other from far away. The island belonged to Italy for many years, so it’s very much a mix of Italian and French. They also serve olive oil with your bread—not butter!

Across the harbor, I can see mountains in the distance that still have snow on them. Apparently, last week was freezing cold and rainy. I guess I lucked out because today Calvi is beautiful, warm and inviting. A random guy shows up and starts playing on accordion. Everyone applauds and gives him a couple of euros. 

The next morning, I wake up super early and decide to hike to the famous Notre-Dame de la Serra church that AllTrails says is nearby. I ask the clerk at the front desk for directions; he points out the front door and motions left. “Go up that way. It’s easy.” Well, it’s anything but easy! The street has an incline that is something out of San Francisco. Then it abruptly ends, and I’m scrambling over rocks on my hands and knees and then making my way up a drainage ditch.

I start to wonder if I should turn around, but the church appears in the skyline high on the hill and I forge on.

At the summit, I have the place to myself and enjoy an incredibly rewarding 360-degree view of Calvi. The blues of the sky usually pale in comparison to the Mediterranean sea, but today it holds its own.   

The following day, I walk to the citadel. Constructed by the Genoa empire at the behest of the locals to ward off invading barbarians, the citadel is a maze of winding staircases and cobble-stone streets lined with salmon-colored stucco buildings whose faded blue shutters keep out the blazing sun. It’s already super warm (at 10 AM). Luckily, there are shaded passageways between the buildings and alleys where you can feel a cool breeze coming from the sea. The ocean is never far away in Corsica. 

Plaques with QR codes mark important buildings like the house of Napoleon’s godfather. I scan another one and learn that Christopher Colombus was born here, but, due to the bad reputation of the islanders, he apparently disavowed his birthplace. 

The next day, I take the local commuter train to L’Île-Rousse, another seaside town. The train ride is an adventure itself. There are no seats, so everyone is standing or leaning, looking out the windows. Our conductor seems to have gotten his training driving a taxi because when it’s time to stop, he slams on the brakes and we go flying, smashing into one another. We shrug it off as part of the fun because the journey is breathtaking, and it’s a beautiful day.

As the train winds through a remote area, we pass by an affluent-looking beach town. I look on Google maps and see a Club Med. 

During the four days I am here, the only other Americans I spot are a group of bikers on a Butterfield & Robinson tour. Most tourists are French, German or British. Everyone asks me where I am from. When I tell them Texas, they seem shocked and say, “long flight.”  One restaurant owner tells me, “We need MORE Americans. Americans are good tourists.” I protest, “What? Your restaurant is completely full with a line out the door.” He shakes his head and laughs. “Of course it is! It’s Sunday after church.”  

Calvi is a hidden gem. “You may not post anything about Corsica,” warns my best friend, whose father was Corsican. She grew up spending the summers in the southern part of the island. “And I can’t believe you went to the north. The south is better!” I laugh and say, “I can’t believe on an island this small, you’ve never gone to the north!” She retorts, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in the north.”  

The feud between the north and south is legendary and goes back centuries. To this day, you really can’t get from the north to the south very easily. There are few buses, no ferries, and no intra-island flights even though they have four airports! Corsicans clearly have no interest in connecting the two regions.

My last day, Francois at Wild Machka bike store rents me a mountain e-bike. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve got mountain biking but I head over to the Revellata Peninsula. Once I’m there, I bike around and take various trails some a bit scarier than others. The views are spectaular. I see sailboats, hikes, people snorkeling. Corsica is an outdoor paradise.

My home away from home is a one-bedroom suite at the five star hotel, La Villa. The resort is about a mile out of town with breath-taking views, wonderful staff and great amenities. They have a shuttle that takes you to town on demand, a fantastic breakfast and gorgeous spa. I got a detox massage, and it was fantastic!

The secret is out. Corsica is a great place to wander. To inquire about Lillian planning and booking your next trip with VIP amenties and service, click here.