Travelogue: Corsica

Marked by the Maquis

Endless blue until Sardinia (in the distance)

Almost two decades ago, I visited Corsica for the first time. My parents packed us into a car and drove all the way from Novi Sad to this island where Napoleon was born—and back. I remember the wilderness, the deep green scent, and the old stone house we rented somewhere near the beach.

The first thing that hits you as you step onto the island—this time arriving by plane—is that incredible scent of the maquis, the thick Mediterranean scrubland filled with a mix of botanical species. Goat cheese from the south of France is especially potent because the goats graze on these precious wild herbs (I learnt this from

Jennifer Greco

). In France, they say that if you want to hide from the law, you go to the maquis. The undergrowth in Corsica is so dense that you could vanish from the world forever—if you're ready to hunt boars and make wild garlic salad for food that’s it.