Why Corsica should be at the top of your European holiday wishlist

By Anna Richards

NZ Herald·

20 Mar, 2025 06:00 AM6 mins to read

Corsica's beaches range from snow-like white sand to dark shingle. Photo / Unsplash

Where sea meets summit: the Mediterranean island of Corsica is paradise for lovers of the great outdoors, writes Anna Richards

This is my third trip to Corsica, and I feel a mix of elation and freedom each time I get off the ferry. I arrive as the sun is rising, and the silhouettes of the cliffs, like cardboard cutouts, turn green and gold in the morning light as we drive.

Corsica is like a misfit jigsaw piece. The mountains that form the island’s backbone have more teeth than the blade of a saw. On my first visit, I hiked through them on the 180km GR20 trail. Like many others, I was first lured to Corsica by my innate competitiveness. The GR20 is lauded as Europe’s “toughest trek”’ — a challenge I couldn’t resist. There’s 11,000m of elevation gain and sections studded with iron staples and cords; closer to climbing than hiking.

This time our hiking is modest, half a day at most to reach beaches that oscillate between sugar-like sand and charcoal-coloured shingle. We arrive in Bastia and the road winds and climbs steeply into Cap Corse, the northernmost peninsula pointing accusingly towards France. Corsica was annexed by France in 1768, and has never fully regained its independence since. Many of the hairpin bends are decorated with discontented graffiti, A Francia fora (France get out) is a common one. My partner swears and honks at the locals’ reckless driving (why slow down for a corner when you could speed up for the thrill of it?).

Corsica briefly declared independence 270 years ago under the freedom fighter Pascal Paolí. It was short-lived, lasting 13 years, but the embers of rebellion refused to be extinguished. Even today, Corsicans are keen to tell you they’re not French. The name sounds like an island of pirates, Corsica resembling “corsair”, but it’s the Corsicans that have been pillaged, changing hands from Pisan to Genoese to French over the last 1000 years.

Once landed in Corsica, rent a car from the airport or ferry port: a 4x4 gives you more freedom. Photo / Getty Images

Most visitors arrive by plane. Corsica is highly seasonal, but from April–October regular direct flights from the UK and France arrive in four different airports: Bastia, Calvi, Figari and Ajaccio, the island’s capital. The alternative is an epic cross-continental road trip through France or northern Italy to one of the Mediterranean ports with car ferry links to Corsica. Once landed, rent a car from the airport or ferry port. A 4x4 gives you more freedom (reader, I should take my own advice. I’m driving a crackpot soapbox on wheels).

With a better car than mine, you could see the island in just over a week, but I don’t recommend it. Even short distances on Corsican roads are tiring, so I like to pick a “hemisphere”. For this 10-day trip, my “hemisphere” was north.

Northern Corsica is the wildest. It’s where the mountains are at their gnarliest, and the highest peak, Monte Cinto, rises to 2706m. The largest towns are Bastia (a port town with a history of plague and pestilence) and Calvi, which looks like a desert sandcastle in the Mediterranean. We roll up and down the coastal roads of Cap Corse, with more twists and turns than a helter-skelter, kayaking around the rocky inlets of Erbalunga, a fishing village with a wealthy trading history, and hiking along the old Customs Trail, past beaches where cows roam free. Our dog Ténor chases seagulls and wallows in every puddle and pile of seaweed he finds.

The largest towns in northern Corsica are Bastia (a port town with a history of plague and pestilence) and Calvi - pictured. Photo / Getty Images

After Cap Corse, the Désert des Agriates feels almost flat. It’s an arid scrubland rather than a desert; we catch a boat from Saint-Florent to the picture-perfect beach of Lotu, with a lagoon on one side and sand as soft as fresh snowfall. There are more cows, so we have to distract Ténor by throwing stones in the water. It’s so clear that we can see them when they settle on the bottom. The trails here are sandy and shaded by trees, and we walk a loop to another powder-snow beach, Saleccia, where Ténor makes plenty of canine friends. If we were here for longer we could walk further along the coast and camp at one of the old shepherd’s huts at Ghingu. There’s no running water or electricity, but you wake up to the sound of the waves.

Instead, we head back into the hills. From Oletta, at the foot of Cap Corse, you can see the sea on both sides. Hiking trails (which Ténor pelts up and down as we slip and slide behind him) take us past centuries-old mausoleums and the ruins of old convents. Oletta village looks Blu-tacked to the hill, as though it could succumb to gravity at any time.

Ajaccio, the island’s capital, has never enthralled me. With a population of around 75,000, it feels too much like a big metropolis for an island whose appeal lies in nature. Too many cruise ships dock here, saturating it with Corsica “day trippers”. From Ajaccio, however, you can island-hop to the morbidly named Îles Sanguinaires (Bloody Islands), all rock and seabirds, only looking bloody at the end of the day when the sun sets dramatically behind them. There are also day trips to Scandola Nature Reserve, Corsica’s only Unesco site, where rust-coloured cliffs and caves contrast starkly with the water.

Scandola Nature Reserve, a Unesco site, features striking red cliffs and unique marine life. Photo / 123RF

Southern Corsica is best for true hedonism, with Michelin-starred seaside dining, and barefoot luxury resorts. The beach and lagoon at Santa Giulia create a marbled effect of cream-coloured sand and indigo water. Bonifacio, crown-like on cliffs over 100m high, has history going back to the 8th century and views straight over the Italian island of Sardinia. Leave the 4x4 at the foot of the hill, the medieval archways weren’t made to accommodate anything larger than a well-fed horse.

We leave at sunset, from west-facing Ajaccio. The Bloody Islands are peach-coloured, and almost as fuzzy as peach skin as the light fades. Ironically, nowhere makes me feel freer than this island that has experienced so little independence.