|
|
|
As we approached the Corsican coast I became overwhelmed by a sudden attack of sneezing. It was a still, hot summers day and my brow was covered in sweat. There was a pungent sweet flagrance in the air which tickled my throat and brought tears to my eyes. Ah cest le maquis! A short, squat and rather swarthy young man offered me a handkerchief and explained that more than a quarter of the island is overgrown by an often impenetrable thicket of grasses, trees and ferns including an abundance of herbs such as lavender, rosemary and myrrh. Apparently in order to avoid being parched under the mid-day sun, the leaves of these plants release moisturising oils which partially vaporize producing a sweet-smelling haze known as the maquis. My new friend, Jerome, told me that he could find his way around Corsica with his eyes shut simply by gauging the density of the scent. He also told me that in recent years the maquis had reconquered vast tracts of the island as yet more people emigrated to France and the countryside became increasingly deserted. Certainly once we had left the tiny town of Calvi, the landscape did appear wild, overgrown and unkempt. I had intended to catch the train to Ajaccio, but having seen the narrow gauge railway and the rather ancient rolling stock I was easily persuaded by Jerome to hire a car instead. However, I quickly learned that whereas magnificent bridges and impressive tunnels snake their way through the mountain passes of the Italian and Swiss Alps, the Corsican roads rarely avoid the islands mountainous terrain reducing much of the journey to a crawl in first gear. I told Jerome that I was interested in seeing Napoleons birthplace, but he just spat out of the window and told me that he was sick of people going on about Napoleon. Didnt I realise that the Corsicans were a proud race with their own language and culture? Napoleon to him was just another traitor whod sided with the pied-noirs against his own homeland. He pointed to some steep stone terraces shored up against the side of a gigantic mountain and told me that this was the true Corsica of the peasant farmer, noble and proud, whose ranks had been decimated by the arrogant and vainglorious Bonaparte who had dragged thousands of his countrymen to die in wars which were not their concern. We have never recovered. Never! he cried, slamming the dashboard. As we drove on to Jeromes village, twelve kilometres east of Ajaccio, I began to see what he meant. A lot of the places we travelled through were ghost towns. The mostly neglected houses were built of rough grey stone while many of the facades were overgrown with weeds and brambles. Wild scrub and bushes had invaded former pastures and it seemed like the maquis was expanding everywhere at an alarming rate. The famous Corsican red deer were visible all over the place although I only saw one or two moufats, a rare breed of Corsican horned sheep. There are less than five people per square mile in Corsica! Jerome explained as he excitedly told me how the island would regain its freedom. I was alarmed to learn that Corsican nationalists sometimes burn down holiday homes. In fact extortion and violence appear to be epidemic. Property is extraordinarily cheap but outsiders may have to budget for protection money! Despite the apparent absence of life in the villages and on the road, the isolated little pub where we stopped for refreshments was packed to the brim. I got chatting to a Frenchman, Pierre, who confirmed most of what Jerome had told me. Corsica did not encourage mass tourism. Most of the coastline was unspoilt with very little development and extremely strict planning laws. In fact the sixty forts and watchtowers which had guarded the islands shores since the 15th century still remained the only significant coastal development. But is the place really full of gangsters and terrorists? I asked nervously. Pierre assured me that the majority of Corsicans are perfectly law-abiding and would prefer to promote the islands identity through its famous chestnuts and abundant honey rather than by throwing bombs and indulging in mindless hate. The majority thought that Corsicas identity should be reinforced through the islands culture, language and produce, particularly its cuisine. In fact, the people had rejected greater autonomy in a referendum held in 2005. They now wanted to be French for life, but Corsican for eternity. Pierre told me that the locals proudly boast that their island has never been subdued despite having been invaded on numerous occasions. The world may admire Napoleon but according to Pierre the true hero of Corsica is Pasquale Paoli, who struggled for the islands independence against both Genoa and France during the 18th century. After finishing a glass of Corsican branded cola, I looked around for Jerome but he was already knocking back the local brew, Coloumbe, with a couple of his mates and after dodging a wild pig scratching around the pub door, I drove on to Ajaccio. |
加入最爱