Campervan Therapy

Biguglia – Dian’Arte

On our way to St. Florent, we detour – just because we can – to the Dian’Arte sculpture museum, showcasing the work of Gabriel Diana.

We stroll around bronzes of Corsica’s emblematic moor’s head, men and women, stretched as if elastic, a rusting globe topped with a tree of human figures, a globe of interlocking humans, a woman reading a book, a slender deer amongst the shrubbery – the interlocking globes, animals, trees and humans reminding us of our connectivity.

Col de Teghime

We drive from the moribund heat of the lagoon area, through Serra di Pigno’s green schist mountains. Mist weaves into the hollows and swallows up the mountain tops, thunder rolls. We picnic up at the col, looking down on both bays, east and west.

A forestry track takes us into air that’s so scented by the maquis that even Himself, whose olfactory system isn’t the best, can smell the citrusy, pungent air – think wild thyme, rosemary, lavender, mastic, juniper, oregano.

The spikey maquis is so dense you can see how the Maquisards (Corsican Resistance) were able to hide so successfully. Today, though, it’s the Corsican warbler that’s hiding out. I get the merest hint of wings but their fluting arpeggios surround me.

View from Col de Teghime

Driving down through Patrimonio, a slender church spire rises above pines, olives, oleanders and vineyards. This is Muscat country of the amber nectar fame.

La Plage du Roya

Acqua Dolce Campsite’s name says it all. Italian and Corsican culture crosses over here. Roma, Napoli and Bastia’s football stripes decorate the bar. We dine the bay-side terrace, again sampling the cross cultural cuisine: goat’s cheese salad followed by Corsican pink veal, olive and mushroom ragu. As the TV chef, Gennaro, advises that Ricotta is the slimming lady’s cheese, I have to try the Corsican version – brocciu – baked with sugar and lemon and it’s glorious.

Walking Trails and Swimming

We set out to follow the intermittently signed Sentier Littoral, to the old custom officer’s path, through the evocatively named Desert Agriates, a maquis-dense headland where there are no roads at all. But at the end of the beach we’re at a loss until we see a couple disappearing into the scrub.

“Follow that couple,” I cry, scuttling after them.

Seán has no choice but to follow, pretending he’s not with me.

At risk of being accused of stalking, following the locals is always the best way to find hidden footpaths, local treasures and the best food.

The footpath follows the contours of the bay by clear waters and its fields of Poseidon – the under-water meadows that are so important for the health of the sea. Sea pears wash up on the small coves.

 Of course, Seán has to check where the multi-storey yacht is registered on his Marine Traffic Website… one of Himself’s favourite hobbies. The gangster-looking yacht is registered in the Cayman Islands – so maybe there’s a Bond villain on deck, stroking a cat and planning world domination or a smiling politician.

We explore the deserted stone harbour, the green and white striped lighthouse, the Martello Tower and meet only a few walkers. The emptiness makes it a treasure indeed.