BONIFACIO
19-22 September 2022
After a couple of years of lockdown keeping our feet on the ground, we were both eager and anxious to get back to our formerly regular adventures in the world.
Being a bit out of practice, it took the prompt of a business trip for Chris to get us plotting and planning again.
He had some work to do in Paris and London at the beginning of September so the thinking was that it would be ideal to tag a couple of weeks leisure travel onto that. We’d been working on our French on the Duolingo app throughout lockdown so the French connection prompted us to consider Corsica, a French island to the south of the Côté d’Azur.
Engulfed in the zeal of holiday planning, Sardinia (an Italian island) was soon latched onto the itinerary when we realised that the two islands were connected by a short ferry ride. A two-for-one road trip? Yes please!
This now required at least a two week stay; impractical as an extension on Chris’s business trip which was already 10 days. But too good to put off for much longer, so pegged for September nonetheless. Chris would just have to go and come back, only to go again.
Tickets were booked, routes planned and hotels reserved. All systems go.
It was quite a trek to get there: drive to OR Tambo airport, 8 hour flight to Dubai, 3 long hours from midnight to 3am (thank heavens for free lounge access!) in Dubai Airport for our connecting 6 hour flight to Paris, with 3 hours to get our luggage, cross terminals and catch our 2 hour connecting EasyJet flight to Bastia, in the north of Corsica.
But then we were there. Picking up our little Fiat 500 to hit the open road!
Bravely, we had made the decision upfront to suck up the driving on the first day while we were in motion anyway, so to speak, which meant that first order of business was to drive the length of Corsica to our first home for the holiday, Bonifacio.
Although traversing Corsica was little more than 150km and a single road, it was national road at best so speed limit varied from 70kmph (mostly) to 110kmph (best case) and 50kmph through the towns dotted along the route.
Even though we were tired, the drive was still enjoyable. It was easy to see how Corsica is fondly dubbed L’Ile Beauté (the beautiful island) as we moved through fields and hills and tropical vegetation, with the azure ocean popping up on our left every now and then. We also passed a few vineyards offering tastings and sales rooms and noted to visit a few on our return journey, when we had more time.
On the outskirts of Bonifacio, you’d be forgiven for thinking you were in Cappadocia in Turkey. The road we were travelling on seemed as if snaking through a valley that it had outgrown and consequently there were cave-like single garages cut into the high walls of sandy-coloured rock, presumably to service the shops opposite or unseen residences above.
We would need to have a closer look later; for now the mission was to get to our destination while still light.
Bonifacio took us a bit by surprise as we rounded a corner and were met with a marina heaving with fancy yachts and catamarans, twinkling lights along the promenade from the row of waterfront bars and restaurants servicing their sunset trade and big, brown and ancient citadel standing proudly on the hilltop backdrop, filling the horizon as it had for as long as it had.
Of course we took a wrong turn and ended up in the citadel itself, holding our breath as our tiny Fiat 500 squeezed along the tight roads never meant for cars and wheezed up the steep hills that one can’t imagine having to do daily without a car!
At the tippedy-top of the hill and suspecting our hotel to be down below on the promenade, we quit the confusing GPS, negotiated the twists, turns and tourists on instinct alone and sought solace in the parking lot of the Spar we’d noted on our way in.
The security man, knowing exactly how precious parking real estate was on the cramped peninsula, was wise to our game and rattled off some French that was clearly “Oi! Customers Only!” or similar.
Tag-teaming the mission, I slipped into the Spar to buy <anything> while Chris set off on foot to find our hotel.
The upside of the cramped town was that nothing was far, so he was soon back with a hotel room key, a simple touristy illustrated map and a parking card for a lot nearby, circled on the map.
I had bought a simple bottle of red wine purely for the label which illustrated in pretty watercolour that it was from our current locale. From the entire aisle of local wines, not a one had a screw top lid so it was very possible this souvenir may make it home for tasting if we couldn’t get it opened!
Our hotel, the Best Western Hotel du Roy d’Aragon, was no more than 100m from our Spar parking lot base station; located conveniently at the near end of the marina and at the base of the (steep) road that led up to the citadel.
We checked in and wasted no time getting out to get our bearings while it was still light. We were able to get a few sunset pics in and survey the meal options.
As much as we had planned to have a local favourite for our welcome meal, we succumbed when a man with a large pizza box passed us and the delicious aroma emanating from the box drew us to the place a few doors up where he must have bought it. The allure of the melting cheese gave us the courage to negotiate a menu and an order in French, which we decided made the entire experience perfectly authentic.
Despite the economical proportions of our hotel room (in stark contrast to the price!) we slept like the dead after a very long travel to get to this wonderful destination.
WEDNESDAY
We had chosen our hotel for a combination of the location (rated 9.9! Fabulous!) and free parking (reviewed as a must across booking sites and, if anything, was understated since parking was so scarce and so so expensive), but hadn’t extended to the inclusive breakfast feeling that any continental couldn’t justify the charge.
Although the foyer smelt good enough to eat as we left for our morning run (combining exercise and sightseeing, some sweaty photos indeed!) we didn’t regret our choice as we sized up the numerous bakeries and supermarkets on our route.
Feeling justified, we grabbed a fresh pain au chocolat on our way back in to snack on while we were making ourselves presentable for the day.
Hopped up on sugar, we decided to take a walk to the beaches to the north of the town. We’d spotted the signage on our run so knew where to go.
We negotiated the pebbly path in our flip-flops and trekked to the farthest beach first, Plage de Paraguan; a cove with a spongy beach of sodden leaves – unusual but not unpleasant – underfoot. The water was streaks of colour from transparent to turquoise to a deep navy blue and was cool and welcoming to our journeyed feet.
There were only 2 other couples on the beach and a few small boats bobbing close to the inlet of the cove.
Rested and refreshed, we turned to make our way back, skipping the second beach and stopping and the beach closest to town, La Plage Cayenne.
With little more than a sliver of light soft sand, we went straight into the water which was again worthy of a postcard with the depth of shades of blue and smooth as glass.
Having worked up an appetite, we returned to the marina and settled on a Croque Monsieur for lunch. Essentially a toasted sarmie with ham on the inside and cheese and creamy sauce melted on the outside, what was not to love?!
We had been propositioned a cruise as we passed through the marina for our beach walk earlier. Now, at 2pm, with nothing but time on our hands, a cruise seemed like a swell idea.
Negotiating the ticket purchase in French (not necessary but well done us anyway!), we were soon aboard the bateau and headed off to sea.
Our prior exploration of the citadel and our beach walk added to the tour since we were able to match the view of the land with the mirrored view we’d experienced from the land. The boat also took us into a few caves, with the bluest of blue waters. Hard to get decent photos though, with all the other passengers having the same agenda.
The perspective of the citadel from the open sea side showed it to be even more impressive than that on the side of the marina. I’d love to share the dimensions and history that our tour guide narrated as we sailed, but I think it would be close to fiction with my limited French and the story I patched together from the intermittent words I knew.
Arriving back at the marina with renewed interest in the citadel from some of the things we’d seen from our ocean-side vantage point, we headed up the hill.
Instead of entering the citadel on the right, we took the pathway to the left which provided a close-up view of the high craggy limestone cliffs and hints of the caves etched into their base.
Touristing being thirsty work, we celebrated our accomplishments with a couple of cold cans of Pietra from a little Spar (there really is a friendly one wherever you are) and a large bag of Bolognaise flavour crisps, inhaling the carbs after a very active day and enjoying the pause on a bench overlooking the sea.
We slowed the pace considerably, ambling through the rest of the citadel, all the way to the cemetery at the end, and then wound our way slowly back down to the now-familiar Bar du Quai at end of the promenade that ran in front of our hotel.
With an hour or so to kill before our intended dinner time, we took a breather on the promenade to do some people-watching and then procured some local tinnies which we enjoyed at the end of one of the jetties; dangling our feet off the edge, basking in the last slice of sunlight and the shadow of the opulent luxury yachts (and super yachts and mega-super yachts) marvelling on how The Other Half live.
Quite by contrast, we’d nailed our dinner choice quite early on as modest but mouthwatering kebab galettes. Life was still pretty awesome for This Half as were chomped away on the delicious wraps washed down with ice-cold Serena lager.