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When the Scots diarist James Boswell travelled to Corsica in 1765, he was warned that he would be killed instantly if he so much as attempted ‘to debauch any of their women’. Happily, given the locals’ reputation for banditry and bloody vendettas and Boswell’s penchant for the ladies, he behaved impeccably and quickly fell in love with this ‘wild, mountainous rocky country’. Today, visitors to Corsica are assured of an altogether warmer welcome, although the landscape still has the same untamed beauty that it did in Boswell’s day.

We discover just how wild Corsica is, only a few minutes after leaving Bastia airport, when we leave the main road to drive to St Florent. It only looked a short distance on the map but, as the road climbs into the mountains, the hair-pin bends become tighter and more frequent, and the drops more vertiginous. The journey is further enlivened by local drivers, who all appear to have a death wish, and the occasional stray cow grazing by the roadside. Although I was map reading, I can’t stop my foot hitting an imaginary brake every few minutes and the atmosphere in the car is soon far from harmonious.

It is a relief to reach St Florent, a little fishing village with few sights but plenty of charm. It is dominated by a 15th century citadel, built by the Genoese who once ruled this area, and partly destroyed by Nelson’s fleet several hundred years later. It feels very much like the South of France, with a picturesque marina filled with gleaming, gin splashed yachts and surrounded by bars and restaurants. The shops are still open and we calm our nerves by taking advantage of the free tastings of wine on offer. It turns out to be rather good, particularly the muscats from the Patrimonio region, and after several samplings, friendly relations are restored.

Corsica is French – just. Strategically situated in the Mediterranean, the island has attracted an endless succession of invaders, from the Etruscans and the Saracens to the Pisans and the Genoese. Early in the 18th century Corsicans began to defy their Genoese rulers and a long struggle for independence began, the Genoese eventually enlisting the support of the French to quell the rebellious islanders. The French were happy to help – for they also had their eye on this desirable little island.

Dorothy Carrington’s acclaimed book ‘Granite Island’, gives a fascinating insight into Corsica’s turbulent history. I manage to pick up a copy and discover that James Boswell played a major part in bringing the islanders’ struggle for independence to international attention. When he visited the island – a trip he made, for his ‘amusement, instruction and curiosity’, he met the Corsican patriotic leader Pasquale Paoli. He was so impressed with the man’s dignity and statesmanship that he agreed to do all he could to help his cause. On his return to Britain he wrote a book about the island and repeatedly petitioned the government to back the Corsican rebellion. He even raised £700 in Scotland, which he used to send cannon to Paoli, helping him to resist a French invasion.

Corsica’s terrain is ideally suited to rebellion. The coast is rugged, it has thick forests and at its heart is a savage core of mountains - an area that was once described as ‘like Scotland but with a fine climate’. It’s an island where isolated villages cling precariously to crags; wild boar snuffle for food, and bees grow drunk on the nectar from the maquis – the fragrant scrub that cloaks the island’s ancient bones. The maquis is central to island life: a heady, often impenetrable, mix of shrubs, herbs and wild flowers, such as lavender, myrtle, marjoram and thyme. Its elusive scent permeates everything from the wine to the honey. It also provides perfect cover for those on the run from the law – like patriot fighters and bandits. In WW11, when the island was occupied by over 80,000 Italian troops alone, resistance fighters also took refuge in it. They were so successful that the term Maquis soon became a generic term for an underground movement.

Show the slightest interest in the local culture and you soon discover that the islanders, who initially seem reserved, are extremely friendly and hospitable. After a couple of days at St Florent, we brave the roads again and drive further into the mountains, stopping to explore the isolated villages that hide the soul of the island. As soon as we make an effort to talk to people (they don’t seem to mind lousy French) they offer us aperitifs, show us the best places to take photographs, or pick juicy cherries for us from their trees.

The island’s reputation for banditry stretches back centuries and tales of these outlaws are wreathed in romance. The most potent figure is the bandit d’honneur, a man hiding from the law after a vendetta killing – undertaken to uphold the honour of his family. Vendettas used to last for generations and could arise from something quite trivial – the last vendetta on the island, in 1954, started with a dispute over a stray donkey. “Men could hide in the maquis for months – or even years,” someone told me. “Villagers would protect them, often putting them up in secret rooms in their houses.” Not that people had much choice in the matter – bandits were ruthless and bloodthirsty.

The Corsicans are proud, independent people, with a strong sense of history. They feel a great affinity with the Scots, partly because of Boswell, and also because they feel that Scottish people understand their need to assert their distinct identity. It has not been easy for them. The patriots Boswell tried to help were defeated by 1768 and Genoa sold the island to the French. Pasquale Paoli fled to Britain, where Boswell introduced him to Dr Johnson. Corsica became part of France and although sporadic resistance continued, often with British assistance (the island was declared an Anglo-Corsican kingdom for a while) uprisings were eventually stamped out – ironically by Napoleon, Corsica’s most famous son.

Older people in particular often feel more comfortable speaking Corsican than French. It’s a melodic language that owes much to Italian. “The French used to forbid us from speaking Corsican in school,” says one man we meet. “But now it is compulsory and there is increasing interest in the language. Many of us would like our own parliament like you have in Scotland. Scotland is our sister, I think.” There is certainly much anti- French feeling. We see road signs sprayed with nationalist graffiti – particularly the letters FLNC (Front de Liberation Nationale de la Corse) -and some are peppered with bullet holes as a finishing touch.

The great thing about Corsica is that so much of it is still unspoilt. Over a third of the island is designated as a nature reserve and the wildlife warrants a visit from David Attenborough. There are mouflon, a type of wild sheep, and birds like the golden eagle, alpine chough and Corsican nuthatch. It is paradise for botanists with everything from olive, cork and strawberry trees to eglantine, sea daffodils and wild orchids. Such rich wildlife means that you can expect some surprises when you’re driving. One day we have to stop for a tortoise crossing the road.

The best way to appreciate this untamed country is to walk, though pick your route carefully. The tough terrain means that many routes are graded ‘challenging’, a term I translate as ‘forget it unless you’re really fit’. When we were there some hikers had to be airlifted off the mountains, a not uncommon occurrence. The hardest route is the GR20, which runs 200km from north to south. There are several other long distance footpaths, as well as easier day walks if you don’t have much time – or energy.

Although it’s a small island, Corsica is extremely varied. It’s a bit like having several holidays all in one place. The best beaches are in the south and are a favourite with Italians. We spent a couple of days happily slumped on creamy yellow sand in Porto-Vecchio, reading and just gazing at the sea. We stir only to visit Bonifacio, an old Italianate town that rises dramatically out of the cliffs. It’s beautiful, though more commercialised than other places we visit. Restaurants sell Corsican pizza, signs claimed ‘Italian spoken’ and gift shops displayed knives of every shape and size – many rather tastelessly inscribed with the word ‘vendetta’. The grey mountain villages seemed hundreds of miles away.

From Porto-Vecchio we drive back up towards Bastia, where we are to spend a day or so exploring the ancient port. We follow the coast road, stopping for coffee at Aleria - which has an excellent museum full of artefacts from ancient Greek and Roman sites. A few miles before we reach Bastia we turn off the main road onto the intricate backways of the areas known as the Castagniccia and the Casinca. Immediately we are absorbed by the thick, green shade of chestnut trees (‘castagna’ means chestnut in Corsican). Chestnuts were once central to island life, forming a major part of the peasant diet and feeding the islanders during WW11.

In this area, time seems to have stood still. The roads are narrower and more tortuous than ever, and wild pigs waddle past, seemingly oblivious to our presence. It is mid afternoon and the villages seem to be asleep at first. But make no mistake, strangers are always observed in Corsica. Elderly men watch us carefully from cafes, while shutters close quietly as we walk past people’s houses, protecting the owners from the prying eyes of tourists. In Loreto-di-Casinca, a remarkably unlined elderly lady kindly gives us the key to the village church. She has such a lovely smile that I ask whether she would mind me taking her photograph. “No” she replies, but adds fiercely as I snap away “but I wouldn’t have let you if you were French.” No wonder Boswell behaved himself. Even the grannies are to be reckoned with in Corsica.

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