The Med Untamed

History's embattled French annex is an off-season haven for Peter Garrison in a Land Rover LR3 HSE

Corsica has always been a turbulent place, having been successively invaded by every Mediterranean power that owned a boat. Despite its Italian-sounding name, the island has been a pair of French départements (Haute Corse and Corse du Sud) for a couple of centuries now—a sort of Wild Ouest of the serene mother country. But when I arrive in late spring, things are pretty quiet. A transparent sea the color of malachite sparkles under a cloudless sky. Spanish broom and tassel hyacinth dot the maquis, the dense carpet of scrub and forest that covers the island, and their perfume hangs in air that's brisk with the memory of a freakishly long winter.

I'm in the lofty saddle of a Land Rover LR3 HSE, heading northward along Cap Corse, a mountainous peninsula that has been interpreted as a rude digital gesture toward France. Next I'll go to the interior, where even in summer, when the island is an annex of the Côte d'Azur, tourists seldom venture.

Before Corsica developed its crowded coastal resorts, most of the action came from murderous feuds and vendettas. The island's colorful history includes a comic-opera interlude in 1736 when a German baron, Theodor von Neuhof, done up in a scarlet caftan and a scimitar, installed himself as king. Playing on historic resentments, he designed a flag depicting a blindfolded Moor in chains. Two decades later, Pascal Paoli, Corsica's George Washington, approved the removal of the Moor's chains and the conversion of his blindfold into a jaunty headband. The Moor's-head flag is seen everywhere now, and a national autonomy movement continues to simmer even today.

Day 1, 127 miles: Bastia to Calvi
I glide out of Bastia on the D80 at a leisurely pace, pulling into numerous turnouts to mollify the febrile local drivers. Nevertheless, it takes almost no time to trace the east coast of the promontory. Having cut west across the peninsula, through shady forests of oak dotted with incongruous agaves and cactuses, I find that it takes quite a bit longer to descend the west coast. The road, strung with tiny villages, is twisty and in bad repair (not that the Land Rover cares) until Nonza, a picturesque little town. A local legend involves the martyrdom of Saint Julia: Twin springs are said to have popped up where torturers tossed her severed breasts. A more plausible tale is that of the eighteenth-century militiaman Jacques Casella, who, though lame, single-handedly defended the town watchtower with a cannon and rifles he'd rigged up to fire remotely. Discouraged French attackers offered safe-conduct to what they thought was a well-defended garrison, whereupon Casella, to their astonishment, limped out alone. Movie rights may be available—get me Orlando Bloom.

After St-Florent, I turn inland toward the Balagne, a hilly region of huddled tile-roofed stone villages. Near Speloncato, I encounter an eerie spectacle: the rotted heads of wild boars displayed on fences, a warning to others who might dare to root through local gardens. Soon after, I find a family gathering asparagus along the shoulder. The gray-haired, aristocratic matriarch shows me that the wild ones are a thin, dark-purple version of the store-bought variety. "They have more flavor. You must blanch them and make them in an omelet," she commands. She puckers her lips in the traditional French gesture of imagined deliciousness.