Flip through the latest issue of Gulf Weekly.
When a tortoise lumbers across the patio, we raise the alarm. "We've found an escaped tortoise. Someone must have lost him. What shall we do?" I breathlessly ask our rep on the phone while my girlfriend keeps an eye on the fugitive, which actually moves surprisingly quickly.
Calmly, the rep explains that tortoises are not pets in Corsica; they roam about wild and are quite common. I feel like a visitor to England who has phoned the authorities to report a pigeon-sighting.
But then Corsica is surprisingly wild. Our villa's owner had already explained that we must never, ever leave the gate to the swimming pool open. Not for the safety of children or to stop crime, but because if we did, the wild boar would fall in. He winced as he explained that they cannot swim, and that their death throes are hideously messy in ways he couldn't quite bring himself to specify. 'It would be une grande catastrophe...'
The landscape through which the boars and tortoises roam could scarcely be wilder: most of the island is covered in dramatic mountains with pointy granite spires, which drop directly into the waters of the Mediterranean.
There's not a single straight road; they wind tortuously over the mountains and along the coastline, pressing through the maquis, a dense jungle of aromatic shrubs that smothers much of the land.
The people, too, can be a little wild. Enter any Corsican town and the first thing you notice is that the 'Welcome to...' sign is riddled with bullet-holes. This is the work of pro-independence groups, who hate the fact that signs are written in French, rather than Corsican. The island has been part of France for 239 years, but anti-French sentiment still runs deep. Which is tricky because the French adore the island. So throughout August, when the beaches and restaurants are crammed with French holidaymakers, things can get a little tetchy. Tailbacks clog the narrow roads, finding towel space on the white sand beaches becomes problematic and parking nigh on impossible.
Go in September, though, and the French will have returned en masse to the mainland, leaving the island breathing a collective sigh of relief. The locals, renowned for being almost comically rude, are so relieved that they become quite charming. Prices fall, the roads are quiet, the beaches empty, the sea is still warm. It's the Med at its very best.
We are staying near the small town of Olmeto, a cluster of tall houses clinging to the mountainside a few miles inland. To reach our villa, we head out of town on a bumpy country lane, pass a group of farmers trying to catch an escaped cow, then rev the engine to slither to the top of a steep dirt track. Two red kites wheel overhead as we pull back the wooden gate and finally come upon our creeper-covered shepherd's cottage, the Bergerie Olivella. It's rustic perfection. From the terrace, we look past olive trees down the steep hillside to the sparkling waters of the Gulf of Valinco. A hammock swings from a tree in the garden. Beyond the garden is nothing but forest.
Which isn't to say it's basic - it's anything but. We're here with Coastline, a recent offshoot of the long-running ski company Snowline, which offers a sort of hybrid of the secluded villa and fully-catered ski chalet. So, though we're alone in the villa at the end of a dirt track, surrounded by forest, boar and tortoises, we still get a daily British paper delivered.
Shopping magically appears at the door. Rather than spend your holiday in the supermarket, you order on the Coastline website (either before you leave home or using the villa's wireless connection). If you don't fancy cooking or eating out, a chef will pop round, do the honours, and wash up before he leaves. There are even massage and beauty treatments - a mobile masseuse will set up her table on the terrace, so you can take in the view while she kneads away the stress.
Our days start with a walk to the bottom of the track to collect the delivery of croissants and bread. There follows (after a few hours reading and gawping at the view) the classic Corsican decision - whether to head for beach or mountains. Within half an hour's drive are numerous swathes of white sand, many, such as Portigliolo, Tradicettu and Cupabia, without any kind of development beyond the odd beach bar. From the pretty villages of Porto Pollo or Campomoro on opposite sides of the Gulf of Valinco, even novices can hire small boats with outboard engines (for around EUR80 a day) and potter along the coast exploring the endless coves.
Head uphill and you are immediately in stunning hiking territory. The hardy can tackle sections of the fabled GR20 long-distance trail, while less energetic types drive up to the beautiful mountain villages of Zonza and Quenza, before making the pilgrimage to the Col de Bavella, one of Europe's most dramatic mountain passes.
The food is a fabulous mix of the mountain and coast. So starters might be dried mountain hams or a salad of baked brocciu, the strong local ewe's cheese, followed by grilled tuna, prawns or sea bass, and washed down with a local beverage.
Coastline has a dozen villas in southern Corsica, with loads of availability for next month, but if I were you I'd choose the Olivella.
It's available this coming Sunday. Just imagine, instead of sitting in, watching Top Gear and bemoaning the passing of another summer, you could be swinging in the hammock on that terrace, watching the sun set as the kites soar overhead. Come to think of it, I've got a week's holiday left myself...
