Monday, June 3, 2019

Corse. Of course.

Charm is too soft a word.  Rough. Wild. Stunningly beautiful.  Small stone villages tumbling down hillsides, more stairs than streets.  Old fishing villages with seaside restaurants - open air, of course.  Squat towers built by the Genovese, and lighthouses.

Glorious skies.

Funny little cars...

And ancient fortified towns like Bonifacio, perched on white chalk cliffs, being undercut by the sea.

The walls aand cliffs protected from pirates, but how do you defend against the sea?

A few tourists, more locals.  That all changes in July and August - an Island of 300 thousand residents gets 3 million tourists a year.  You do the math.  And come.  Just not in July and August.

Corse, they call it.  We call it Corsica,    Rosé...

and tasty pig parts.  A local version of prosciutto but less fatty, salty and sweet.  Bacon rubbed with myrtle and black pepper and wild herbs from the hills.  Those beautiful green and purple hills. It was sliced as thinly as paper and served raw.  Sounded scary, melt in your mouth delicious.   Best charcuterie I have ever tasted.

A jewel of a  small hotel.  Like being a guest in someone's villa.  Someone's fabulous villa, where every person you meet is charming and wants to make your dreams come true.

Miramar Boutique Hotel in Propriano.  Come and stay.  Anything is possible.  We didn't want to leave.  We're going back.  The pool is calling...

And there are still some fish left to try.

Come for dinner, come for a week.  Choose your dinner.  Just arrived, caught by a Corsican character who has fished every day for 45 years.  Not the guy in the suit - that is Anthony Iglesias, the dapper and charming hotel manager.  He's in charge if making your dreams come true.  As are Ghislaiane and Nathan. Your job is to know what your dreams are.  And to ask.

Watch the sun go down.  Breathe.  Sleep like a baby to the sound of the sea.  Breakfast on your terrace overlooking the beach.  Nap.  Relax.  Sigh.

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