
Grove Koger
Today’s post originally appeared as part of a longer article in the Spring 2010 issue Boise magazine, edited by Christine Dodd.
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On our visit to the Mediterranean island of Corsica in 2008, Maggie and I stayed several days on the outskirts of the port of Calvi on the northwestern coast of the island. Those in the know claim that Corsica’s 200 or so beaches are the best in France, and that the Gulf of Calvi’s is the best of the lot. Broad and sandy, backed by dense stands of umbrella pine, it follows the voluptuous curve of the gulf’s shoreline for almost four miles, and, like the gulf itself, is dominated by the thirteenth century Genoese citadelle that overlooks the city.

Our little hotel lay only ten minutes’ walk from the beach, and between the two stood a little open-air market, so when the afternoons grew too hot, we shopped for dinner before taking our siesta. Out front, tubs of olives and golden lupini beans glistened in the sun like jewels, while inside was a tantalizing array of individual focaccias and pizzas. Coolers at the back held white wines and bottles of Pietra, Corsica’s chestnut-based beer.

One of the high points of any trip to Corsica is a visit to Scandola, a nature reserve a few miles down the coast. Access to the reserve is limited, so the only practical means of seeing the area is by boat. Our excursion started early one morning in Calvi’s harbor and took us down a coastline that grew progressively wilder and more desolate. Here and there, Genoan watchtowers stared mutely out to sea—reminders that Corsica was part of the far-flung Genoese Empire for five long centuries. Eventually we found ourselves passing along dark grottoes and rusty red rhyolite pinnacles that towered dizzyingly, frighteningly overhead. Gulls shrieked resentfully at our intrusion. The trip had started so early, we realized, so that the little boat could take its time weaving in and out of the phantasmagoria.

After a long, lazy lunch at the tiny fishing village of Girolata, we returned to the boat for a quick trip back to Calvi, where we make a stop at “our” market before settling in for the evening. The spectacular, inhuman beauty of Scandola loomed large in our minds, but we knew that another, reassuringly unspectacular pleasure awaited us. Our room lay at the back of the hotel, and while the immediate prospect from our balcony wasn’t especially noteworthy—a patch of lawn and a pine grove sheltering a campground—we had learned that a canal along the edge of the property was home to dozens and dozens of frogs. That evening, as the light faded and we ate our dinner, we were serenaded by a throaty, sonorous chorus warming up for the busy night of love that lay ahead.

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