Breaking bread with a brigand

SARDINIA and Corsica are physically similar.

Both are islands in the Mediterranean. Sardinia, about the size and shape of Leinster is Italian; Corsica is French, and smaller. Both islands have beautiful beaches and high mountainous.

We flew into Alghero in Sardinia from Dublin; the fare was cheap and car rental reasonable. After five days on Sardinia, we took the ferry to Corsica — an hour’s voyage — and spent four days there. Vive le différence, as the French-speaking Corsicans might say. However it seems that a small minority of the islanders prefer to use their own language. Town names and signposts are displayed in French and Corsican. The French is often spray-painted over.

We noticed that Napoleon, their most famous son, was little honoured, but he had left Corsica behind and joined the French army. Later, he decreed that Corsicans spoke Italian, which perhaps suited them better, with Italian-sounding town names, family names, and enduring Italian affinities.

Another eccentricity of Corsican road signs is that distances are rarely posted. The capital, Aiacciu, (Ajaccio in the French, although the name is Italian) may be 10km or 100km away. One is given no clue. Perhaps they wish to confuse invaders who.

French holidaymakers flock to Corsica in July and August, and the prices go sky-high. They swarm over the beaches. They occupy every hotel, B&B and hostel; even in the remote fastness of the mountains, they are to be found. One afternoon all accommodation on our route was booked out and signed up for a room at a riding stables. The price, which included dinner and breakfast, was double what we had been paying in Sardinia but, having no option, we agreed.

Finding the stables was the first challenge. We were told it was a short distance “outside the village”; the road would climb and then we would find it. The road did indeed climb and soon became a deeply-gullied, pista track. The forest darkened around us; it thinned, and then gave out.

On the bald scalp of a hill, we saw corral fencing, horses in a paddock, a couple of cars and some low buildings. At a field gate stood a very small man with a very large beard and a battered baseball cap. He signalled to us to stop. It was himself, the proprietor.

Inside the single storey building, a long wooden table was laid out. Twelve guests sat on each side, the proprietor and two girls, perhaps granddaughters, at one end. Those around us greeted us — French, Belgians, Dutch, there for a riding holiday. Some had children. Riding, walking or cycling the length and breadth of Corsica on waymarked routes and over-nighting at such wayside venues is a popular holiday. The atmosphere was convivial, everybody in good form. Two-litre carafes of red wine stood in rows; each time one was emptied, another appeared.

The food was rustic. First, dried ham and bread. Then, a large cauldron of cabbage and potato soup arrived on the table. Pans of spaghetti and salt pork followed; the pork had the thick, stubbly skin still attached. The diners hailed it with great gusto (the nearby couples told us they were direct from Brussels and Paris and this was a great thrill for them) although much pork skin was left uneaten. The wine flowed. I regretted not being able to speak French.

Our host sat at the table end, breaking bread with dark, gnarled hands with broken nails. He smiled affably and exchanged remarks with those nearby. Photos of him adorned the walls. In one, he was the image of a miniature Fidel Castro, sitting on horseback and wearing a wide-brimmed hat. I commented on this. “Oh,” said a French woman, “He is more famous than Fidel!”

At bedtime, Fidel issued us with a torch and pointed the way. Our room, reached by a earthen path, was large, basic and clean. It was pleasant to sleep and wake in the Corsican mountains.

When I paid the bill, he gave me change from a fat wad of notes in his pocket. Last week, I wrote that, in boyhood, I had wanted to go to Corsica to meet the brigands and bandits. I knew that my wish was, at last, fulfilled.