Elba, from one perspective, is Corsica without Corsicans -- with laid-back Italians in the place of the fiery French. It is, in another way, Tuscany untamed -- without 600 of years of fussy high breeding.
Bed and Med
If I could design a paradise, it would look a lot like northwestern Elba (minus the mammoth motor coaches on small mountain roads and absent the Italian practice of lighting up in every dining and hotel room).
The ancient hill town of Capoliveri, on the Italian island of Elba, could make even an exiled emperor happy with its lively street scene.
(Robert V. Camuto)
|
|
Our first of three mornings on the island, we awoke in a small family-run hotel on the Capo Sant'Andrea. From the door of our room, we looked down a stone-stepped path under the umbrella pines to a natural bay made from sea-smoothed granite. The sounds of morning were the twittering of swallows from the roof above and the lapping of waves on the shore below.
After breakfast, we walked around the bay following a path carved in the rocks. Several Italian families were already installing themselves on a postage-stamp-size beach. We continued on to a point where we saw no one and slipped into the water, which in late May was just cold enough to take the breath away for half a minute.
After a swim, we sunned ourselves on the rocks and began to think about a lunch of fritto misto -- a plate of fried seafood -- in the nearby port of Marciana Marina. That afternoon we took the coastal route to the other side of the island, a little more than 90 minutes away by car. Elba is shaped something like a fish, with its head facing west, a longish body and two tail fins splaying off its eastern end. We were up at the top of the head, above the eyes, and our destination was the bottom tail fin.
As we traveled southward along the west coast, the landscape changed completely. Whereas the north side is verdant with forests of ilex and pines, the south is dry and Sardinian: rose-colored rocky earth covered with low Mediterranean flowering scrub. Off the southern coast the sea views change as well: There's Corsica, dark and mountainous off in the distance; Pianosa, an utterly flat island made from mineral deposits; and Montecristo, the conical rock crowned by a fort made famous by Alexandre Dumas's novel.
At one particularly panoramic spot along the cliffs, a pair of Guardia di Finanza officers (the Italian customs guard corps) stood on a guardrail in Mussolini-era styled uniforms, looking out to sea. Were they appreciating the same view we were? Or were they spying on the owner of a magnificent sailing yacht anchored offshore?
As we continued east along the southern coast, the terrain flattened out and the landscape became touristy to the point of tackiness. Billboards for theme restaurants included Spaghetti Western and -- no kidding -- Ristorante Mickey Mouse.
We stayed that night between the ancient hill town of Capoliveri and the lively port of Porto Azzurro. Our second hotel had a nice view of the sea, but the room was dark and cramped and too close to the rumble of trucks by the road below. We were all lamenting that we'd left the paradise on the other side of the island. A bottle of coastal Tuscan Morellino di Scansano brightened my mood, as would our discovery the next day of the Madonna of the Snow.
Following the Signs
The plan that next morning was straightforward enough: Head back west about 30 minutes to the beach of Cavoli, which we were told was Elba's most beautiful sand beach. Then we would finish the day by looping up above the capital, Portoferraio, to visit Napoleon's second residence at Villa San Martino.
