First time Corsica

Did I meet a Corsican whilst visiting the Mediterranean island for the first time? I'm not sure. The taxi driver at Bastia airport came from the French mainland, as did all the friends at the pied-a-l'eau house in Ajaccio, from which I so seldom ventured away. Maybe reading that comic strip about these apparently slightly off islanders is some form of getting to know. In comic exaggeration, they are portrayed as permanently fighting French state domination in chaotic, inter-warring factions, when not hiding in the Macquis (underbrush), being pursued by a similarly feuding set of French government agencies, getting no closer to Corsican independence, which the majority of the island does not care for, anyway.

When flying to Corsica for the first time, I wholeheartedly recommend taking the train cross-island. My route was the 4-hour Bastia (Northern Corsican province) to Ajaccio (Southern Corsican province) one; other routes are on offer. In those never boring 4 hours you will get a feel for the 2,000+ meters mountains, the all-enveloping macquis, the sheep, the gorges and the mostly Italian, German or Dutch 'wanderer' tourists. On my train we had a little Napoleon who engaged several groups of people in highly gesticulating conversation about what-not (didn't hear), which seemed to perturb some and amuse others. Maybe he was agitating for Corsican independence?

The train descends into a valley to reach Ajaccio on the western coast, transversing the main road into town several times before terminating at the station, which, from an urbanistic perspective, seems entirely mis-placed. A great way to arrive, though.

One settled, you can then proceed to go on extensive hikes, swim in the rivulets, which flow through the gorges and eat super-stinky or mild varieties of sheep (or goat) milk cheese. Oh, I forgot the asses (donkeys) and wild boars, which are the source for excellent saucissons. I did not see any through the train windows. 

I regret to admit that I did not hike at all. Instead, I swam and kajaked around on the mostly quiet waters of Ajaccio bay, when not eating or reading. The sun always shone, fabulous! Of the trips away from the perfectly beachy house filled with French people, I remember this: Buying langoustines at the fishmonger's, which involved the usual chatting about food and giving it the respect it deserves. Of course, such a pleasurable experience is not confined to Corsica. Another time, I borrowed the wonderful open-deck beach car to drive into the hills above Ajaccio. Following spur-of-the-moment decisions about which direction to take, I ended up in the village of Alata, most definitely populated by dogs and cars, but with no people to be seen, at mid-day. It felt terribly conspiratorial, this place - I had read the comic strip by that time! Maybe the inhabitants were hatching out another bombing plan. I felt so uncomfortable that instead of walking around a little I turned the Simca around, the village being a dead-end, to return to the coast. Doing so, I noted a huge maison de maitre, perhaps 4 stories tall, plonked all alone on the steep slopes of an otherwise macquied mountain. Who had put this house there and why?

The train journey back was just as enjoyable, though half of it was to be completed by coach. I recommend you find out at which times the train does the complete 4-hour route.