Think of Corsica, and you might picture the glitzy marina of Calvi, with its megayachts and glamorous five-star hotels—and, perhaps, its four-mile beach, a crescent of powdery white sand with a historic citadel perched on a rocky outcrop at the end. It might be the dramatic landscape of the Calanques de Piana on the western coast, jagged spears of red granite rising up out of the earth or plunging down into the Mediterranean waters. Or, if you’ve visited before, it might be the scent of the maquis that springs to mind: the herbaceous perfume of the island’s scrubland—honeysuckle, lavender, myrtle, and mint—that clings to the salt air. As the island’s most famous son, Napoleon Bonaparte, who was born and raised in the then-sleepy fishing town of Ajaccio, once said of the place: “Everything there was better, even the smell of the ground. I would know it with my eyes closed.”
When I visited in early October, I actually didn’t have much of a picture in mind. A few months earlier, I read The Bombshell, a novel set in 1990s Corsica that made the place sound like a kind of fever dream; newly determined to visit, I reasoned that perhaps, after a week there, I would feel the same way about it that Napoleon once did. While I’d visited Corsica once before as a teenager, my memories of it were a little hazy, and in truth, I wasn’t sure what to expect at all.
But I had heard wonderful things about the corner of the island I was heading to: the stretch of coastline that extends along Corsica’s southernmost tip, from the idyllic medieval haute-ville of Bonifacio, which perilously perched on the edge of a dramatic limestone cliff, to the shallow turquoise waters of Piantarella Bay, whose picture-postcard beaches could be mistaken for those of a Caribbean island.
What I had also heard, however, was that this particular region was fiercely guarded by locals and (predominantly French) long-time holidaygoers alike, the majority of whom descend on the area every summer for at least a month from Paris or one of the other major Gallic cities. One particular phrase had been relayed to be in hushed tones by more than one person, in fact: “It’s one of France’s best-kept secrets.”
I didn’t necessarily want to blow up said holidaygoers’ spot, but I did want to find out more. So I headed with a couple of friends to Domaine de Spérone, a sprawling, 120-hectare private estate of holiday homes, restaurants, and a world-class golf course, with the intention of discovering what all the fuss was about. And to do so, I also made sure to enlist the help from a team that I could rely on to be truly in the know: in this case, Le Collectionist, the design-forward villa rental platform known for its rigorous selection process—only around 3% of houses inspected by their team are accepted into the collection—as well as its emphasis on services for the genuinely curious traveller, such as a dedicated concierge for each booking that helps craft a personalized itinerary.
It just so happens that Corsica contains their most robust offering: within Le Collectionist’s portfolio, there are nearly 100 villas scattered across the island, from waterfront glass villas with infinity pools to traditional bergeries, or restored shepherd’s villages. Plus, partly thanks to its well-connected co-founder and CEO, Max Aniort—who is based in Paris, and has close ties to the worlds of fashion and interiors—the company has become known as an insider’s favorite for design-conscious vacationers, especially those keen to get under the skin of the destination they’re visiting. Basically, it couldn’t have sounded more perfect.
So it was that, on a mild Saturday afternoon—it might have been October, but the temperatures were still warm and the weather pleasantly breezy—we snaked our way down the winding coastal roads and through a series of electric gates to Villa Rezza. From the road, the deliberately low-key entrance was easy to miss, as just an unmarked gap in a hedge. But after stepping down the stone pathway and walking up a flight of stairs, the scale of the place revealed itself—and to immediate laughter from the friend trailing behind me, as I stepped into the enormous open-plan kitchen, I audibly gasped.
Apparently, I’d found myself in a slick Malibu mansion, magically transported all the way over to the south of Corsica. Mammoth floor-to-ceiling glass doors wrapped around the entire sea-facing wall, framing the layers of silvery weathered cedar decking that cascaded down the side of the hill, towards a 33-meter pool that sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. Further beyond, towering pines and wild olive trees were neatly clustered on either side of the scrub, like curtains being drawn to reveal the star of the show: eye-popping views of the Tyrrhenian sea, the kind of deep, lustrous blue I thought I’d only ever really seen in Dolce & Gabanna perfume adverts, and in the distance, through a haze, you could just about glimpse the ragged topography of Sardinia’s northern coastline.
My bedroom was just off to one side of the kitchen, decorated in the same style as the rest of the villa: beachy bones—whitewashed wooden beamed ceilings, raw surfaces, hand-painted tiles in the bathrooms—with some sleeker designer flourishes, like the bright yellow globular sidetables and springy modular peacock blue sofas in the cathedral-like double-height living area, or the eclectic contemporary artworks on the walls, which ranged from black-and-white Robert Mapplethorpe photographs of dancers to abstract paintings that echoed the jewel-like colors of the landscape sitting just behind them. Clearly, it belonged to a family and was actually used for their own vacations, which had the immediate effect of making you feel like you’d just stopped in at a friend’s holiday home. (Well, if you happen to have lots of friends within a certain tax bracket, anyway.)
That immediate feeling of ease meant, of course, one felt at liberty to explore the place from top to toe. First, by heading down to the bowels of the building, and discovering a rabbit warren of corridors in the basement leading to a host of uber-luxurious amenities: a well-equipped gym with doors that could be opened to let in the briny air; a gargantuan cinema room with rows of plush daybeds to eat popcorn on; even a sauna outfitted with patterned tiles, that was just the right distance to be able to run straight to the pool for a cold dip afterwards. Despite everyone I was with being very far into their 30s, it was only a matter of hours before we all reverted to being kids again: splashing for hours in the pool, cooking burgers on the outdoor grill, and later that evening, curling up in the living room to watch a horror film on the widescreen TV. (Oh, and then a spot of stargazing on the outdoor pool beds, which reminds me: pack your mosquito spray.)
But the whole point of Le Collectionist, I had learned, isn’t necessarily about staying in a lovely villa and remaining entirely sealed off from the place you’re staying in. (Though it would have been very easy to do just that.) First, there was an extensive guide to the region assembled by their team of local experts to peruse, followed by recommendations tailored specifically to the interests I’d flagged ahead of time: history, food, the prettiest beaches within an hour or so’s drive.
First, we needed a good two days to luxuriate in the fabulous place we’d found ourselves, but by day three, we were ready to venture out. There was a visit to the prehistoric stones of Filitosa, with the Bronze Age monoliths carved with eerie humanoid faces, as well as multiple long afternoons spent getting lost in the tangled cobbled streets of Bonifacio’s haute-ville, stopping for ice cream in front of the pretty Romanesque loggia of the 13th-century Église Sainte-Marie-Majeure. (Then heading down to the marina to window shop the homewares boutiques and stock up on French pharmacy lotions and potions.)
And whatever you do, don’t miss the opportunity to jump on a boat and spend a morning or afternoon lazily weaving your way down the shoreline to reach coves and swimming holes that are inaccessible by land. With the help of local company Nautic Adventures, we were whisked away to the Lavezzi Isles—nicknamed the “Seychelles of the Mediterranean” for their funky geography, formed from clusters of imposing granite boulders—for a few delightful hours, snorkelling to spot peacock wrasse and sea urchins in the astonishingly clear waters, then jumping back on the rib for ice-cold beers served with boxes of fig and cheese tartlets.
Finally, on our last night, we gathered on the decking for the biggest indulgence of all: a six-course Corsican meal whipped up by the local chef Meryl Giordano. It began with a plate of charcuterie sourced from the celebrated pig farmer and butchery whizz Maxence Finidori—glossy, ruby-colored cured salamis and translucent slivers of dry-cured ham—though it was the seafood that was the standout: slow-cooked octopus that had been lightly charred at the edges, then gleaming Bonifacio mackerel served with fennel and apple. Oh, and wine—lots and lots of wine. While I stuck to Badoit sparkling water that evening, my friends woke up the following morning with raging hangovers and memories of singing YouTube karaoke into the early hours. What did I say? It’s the kind of place that makes you a kid again.
It would be remiss not to mention that the costs are very much adult-sized, of course. But when you break it down between the number of people the villa is capable of hosting—in this case, up to 16—it’s actually not as eye-watering as you might initially think. And as someone who is ferociously Type A, with a tendency to overplan every aspect of my holiday, I felt like the pressure was entirely off; I was able to feel, for the first time in many months, really, truly relaxed.
But perhaps I’m just trying to find a reason to go back. After spending a week exploring the region, I fell in love with the place. Departing for the airport on my final day, with my car window wound down so that the breeze could flap through and carry in the scent of the maquis, I could relate to Napoleon’s observations completely: Everything here was better, even the smell of the ground. Some may have said southern Corsica is one of France’s best-kept secrets, and quite frankly, I’d have loved to keep it a secret too, though that would have involved not writing this story at all. And that just wouldn’t be fair.