August 2025. Four wheels, a VW bus and us – my little family – on our way to Corsica. The ferry from Genoa spits us out in Bastia, and it starts right away: the curve after the curve. Our bus, the brave old gentleman with the tired brakes, groaned its way up the hairpins as if to say: “Boy, you’ve packed me full, but I’m only doing this one more time for you.”
We headed into the central highlands, towards Castifao. Up there, where the mountains still really breathe, I sent the drone up. The aerial shots that came out of it show typical Corsica – wild, rugged and beautiful. Those jagged ridges running through the landscape like old scars, the light creeping into the valleys like liquid gold in the morning – that’s the moment you realise why you take photos in the first place. Not for likes. But because the island suddenly shows you how small and at the same time how connected you are.
During the day we hiked a lot. Narrow gorges where the echo of your steps sounds like an old song played just for you. And then swimming in the rivers. Ice-cold water that takes your breath away after the scorching August heat – a shock that feels like a fresh start.
At some point we drove down to the sea, towards Île Rousse. The pale beaches there are beautiful and invite you to chill – if it weren’t for that Corsican roughness that grounds everything. We squeezed our way through the weekly market, between fragrant stalls, loud voices and the feeling of having truly arrived. A jar of honey found its way into our bus. And another one. And then some wine, because… well, because on Corsica you simply can’t help it. The food anyway: simple, honest, and so good that afterwards all you want to do is sit and look.
August 2025, Genoa: cranes and rows of houses at the port – the ferry to Corsica leaves soon.The ferry is moored at the quay, with cranes behind it under a wide sky.The excursion boat in front of the town on the left, open sea only on the right.Calm water to the horizon, where Corsica appears.Bend after bend: a narrow mountain road beneath rock walls.Scrubland in the Corsican highlands on the left, a cow on the country road on the right.A bare summit above green slopes near Castifao – where the mountains still really breathe.Tight hairpin bends run along the wooded slope in northern Corsica.Jagged ridges like old scars above the green valley.The road loops in bends through scrubland in the Corsican highlands.A rocky crest in the Corsican highlands, a solid bank of cloud above it.A river in the wooded gorge – ice-cold water after the August heat.Rocks and dense maquis cover the slope in northern Corsica.Almonds on a branch on the left, pines on the beach near Île Rousse on the right.Ornate balconies on an old, tall façade in Île Rousse.A weathered sign with grapes on the left, patterned tiles on Corsica on the right.A lantern above the „Alimentation“ sign on a façade on Corsica.Balconies and shutters stand close together in a lane in Île Rousse.Sailing boats in the harbour on the left, people on a concrete slab in the water on the right.
Ajaccio – or: Where even the wild boars take over the curves
We had already got used to it: Corsica won’t let you drive straight. From the north coast down to the Ajaccio area it only got curvier. Our bus kept wheezing along bravely, as if it had long accepted that brakes here are more of a suggestion. And suddenly we were in the middle of a landscape that can do everything: even more beautiful beaches that reflect the light so softly you almost forget how rugged the island really is. And right behind them gorgeous forests, dense, dark green, almost a little mysterious.
The aerial shots I took here are among my favourites of the whole trip. From above, the beaches glow like bright ribbons of turquoise and gold, while the rock formations below look as if a giant with a taste for chaos had simply dropped a few boulders. Multifaceted is a weak word for it – these stones tell stories older than all of us put together.
During the day we headed out into the rough, rocky highlands. On the backs of horses and donkeys. It wasn’t a romantic postcard tour, it was real. Between cacti stretching their spines into the hot air and lichens clinging to the rocks like grey beards. Every now and then the donkey under me simply stopped and looked at me as if to say: “You really think you already know all the curves? Just wait.” The heat, the dust, the sudden shade of a tree – everything felt as if the island was testing you. And that’s exactly why you love it.
In the evenings came the running gag of the trip: wild boar families calmly crossing the bends. Not a single animal, no, whole clans. Mama boar in front, the little ones behind, as if on a family outing. Us in the bus, windows down, laughing and at the same time with a bit of respect. “They have right of way here,” my wife said dryly. And she was right. The island belongs to them as much as to us – they’ve just known the curves much longer.
In between we of course made the market in Ajaccio unsafe again. The smell of fresh bread, cheese, herbs and that incredible local honey – you simply can’t help packing the bus even fuller. Wine bottles clinked softly, bags rustled, and at some point everything was packed so tightly that you almost felt a curve just by turning your head.
Ajaccio showed us that Corsica isn’t just an island. It’s a constant interplay of soft and hard, of beach and stone, of family and wilderness. And always these curves in the middle of it. Sometimes in the bus, sometimes on a donkey, sometimes with a family of wild boar in front of the bonnet.
A sandy path between wooden fences, straight on to the beach on Corsica.A small boat in turquoise water, dark seagrass beneath it near Ajaccio.Pale sand by turquoise water on Corsica’s west coast, twice over.A sandy beach between the sea and rectangular green fields near Ajaccio.A narrow strip of sand between a green lagoon and turquoise water.The river bend on the left, sand and fields on the coast of Corsica on the right.The river mouth cuts through the sand, deep-blue sea beyond it near Ajaccio.Two old boats stand under a tree in dry grass on Corsica.Marcatu d’Aiacciu with colourful bunting – among fragrant stalls and loud voices.A monument on the square on the left, a pink façade in Ajaccio on the right.Colourful bunting over the street, with palm trees in between, in Ajaccio.A Genoese watchtower on the pale sandy beach on Corsica.The road runs beneath red rocks through the hinterland of Ajaccio.Two people walk the dirt track between pines in the Corsican highlands.Lichens on the branches on the left, ripe prickly pears on Corsica on the right.The stone arch of an old bridge over the stream, forest all around on Corsica.Granite boulders lie in the scrub forest of the rocky highlands on Corsica.A statue menhir with a face worked into the stone, twice, on Corsica.In the shade, an insect sits on a tree trunk on Corsica.A fig leaf against the light, its veins bright in front of the Corsican forest.A narrow path cuts through the green maquis in the Corsican highlands.Reddish rock and a mountain road in the hinterland of Ajaccio, twice over.The road curves around a reddish rocky mountain in southern Corsica.Jagged granite with green maquis in between, in the hinterland of Ajaccio.Striped granite among green bushes, grooves running across the rock.Granite with deep grooves and shrubs in southern Corsica, twice over.A dirt track across a dry plain, with scattered trees in between.Washing hangs on the balconies of an old stone house on Corsica.The „Maison de la Presse“ sign on the left, an old tractor in the field on the right.
Bonifacio – or: When someone glued two postcards together
Bonifacio is the moment when Corsica stops negotiating and simply shows what it can do.
White cliffs plunging steeply into the sea, below them beaches so bright they’re almost dazzling. It looks as if someone had taken a postcard of a Caribbean beach and glued it seamlessly onto a cliff landscape from Brittany. Absurdly beautiful. And absolutely real.
From above with the drone it almost becomes unfair. The white beaches glow as if freshly washed, the old town clings to the rocks like a bird’s nest, and in between those jagged limestone formations that look as if the island itself had decided to bring a little drama into the landscape.
We just stood there, looked and said little. Sometimes that’s enough. Plus the pleasant sea breeze in our hair and the sand that makes the bus’s sliding door creak chronically.
Colourful chairs and yellow umbrellas in front of „Café Niçois“ in Bonifacio.The limestone cliffs of Bonifacio on the left, a wooden fence in the scrub on the right.Limestone cliffs near Bonifacio, a single rock in the sea standing against the light.A large blue „Café Niçois“ sign on a house wall in Bonifacio.A crumbling wall on the left, a palm tree in front of the house in Bonifacio on the right.Signs for souvenirs and beach towels hang on a wall in Bonifacio.The white cliffs of Bonifacio, the sea lying directly below the rocks.White limestone cliffs in clear water near Bonifacio, twice over.Eroded white rocks with holes along the coast of Bonifacio.The old town of Bonifacio sits packed on the cliffs above the sea.Houses of Bonifacio’s old town stand right on the edge of the cliff.White rocky coast and turquoise water meet near Bonifacio.Deep-blue sea along the cliffs on the left, turquoise water over pale rock near Bonifacio on the right.White rocks and reefs lie in the clear water on the coast of Bonifacio.A sandy swimming cove with a few boats in turquoise water in southern Corsica.Tracks through the maquis on a rocky coast in southern Corsica.A dirt track leads through the scrub to a rocky cove in southern Corsica.The long sandy beach stretches through a wide bay in southern Corsica.A long pale stretch of sand between turquoise water and green maquis.Red rocks and pines lie between two bays in southern Corsica.Pale granite boulders and dark seagrass lie in the turquoise water.A semicircular bay, several boats in the shallow turquoise water in southern Corsica.A reddish salt pond lies behind the sandy beach in southern Corsica.Boats off the sand, with dark seagrass beneath them in the clear water.Pines stand on a red rocky headland between two swimming coves.A narrow strip of sand between the sea and a red pond in the forest.A red pond behind the beach, turquoise sea in front of it, in southern Corsica.A pale, dried-out pond behind the sandy beach in southern Corsica.
Aiguilles de Bavella – or: The rugged farewell Corsica deserves
The last stage took us back to Bastia – via Zonza and the Aiguilles de Bavella. Wild, angular, rugged. Exactly the way the island had shown itself all along.
In just one hour the landscape changes from white beaches to these impressive mountain formations that look as if someone had rammed giant granite needles into the sky. The drone caught it: craggy peaks, deep valleys, light breaking hard on the rocks, right through the clouds. Unrivalled. Simple.
In Bastia itself I then photographed the old town from above. The moss has coloured the old slate roof tiles so beautifully – a soft green against the rough grey. One last, quiet play of contrasts before it was really over.
The bus rolled onto the ferry full of wine, honey and lasting impressions. And with noticeably less brake than at the start. But somehow that fitted. Corsica takes nothing from you without giving you something. And sometimes it just takes a bit of brake lining.
Thank you, Corsica. Until the next curve.
The country road runs straight between stone walls and forest in southern Corsica.A gnarled tree stands in front of pale granite boulders in southern Corsica.Granite boulders above bushes and red grass in southern Corsica.A rusty van behind the fence, half in the bushes on Corsica.Dried flowers on the left, an old tree in the forest near Bavella on the right.A pine leans among the trees in the forest near Bavella.Silvery leaves, small and dense, in half shade on Corsica.Tree stumps in front of the Bavella mountains on the left, a stump with stones on the right.Rock needles of Bavella rise above the dark pine forest.The Aiguilles de Bavella: granite peaks above densely wooded slopes.Jagged rock needles of Bavella, only half clear in the haze.The peaks of Bavella twice, clouds resting on the wooded ridges.Wisps of mist hang between the rock needles of Bavella.Sharp rocky ridges of Bavella twice, clouds standing in the gaps.Granite walls of the Aiguilles de Bavella sit deep in a sea of cloud.The rock spires of Bavella push through the thick cloud cover.The old harbour of Bastia: lighthouses on the mole, the old town behind.The mole with a lighthouse in Bastia on the left, a neoclassical building on the right.Boats lie packed in the old harbour of Bastia, houses all around.Bastia’s harbour full of boats on the left, the old town on the coast on the right.Between the rooftops of Bastia lies a square full of trees.Bastia to finish: house after house in the old town before the ferry goes back.
