Eric de Compiègne & Elena Lohwasser Corsican love: Simple, classy, breathtaking

My towel was laid out on the rough golden sand. The smell of the sea and its happy flotsam was a pleasant and refreshing perfume of seaweed and cool salt water. Beyond the tattered pages of my book, a seagull perched on a jagged rock eyed me curiously. The sun was smack in the middle of the horizon, turning the pointy waves into azure, lapis lazuli peaks. The rays never burned. No matter how high or how potent, the rays caressed the skin gently like an enamored lover. Tempered by a slightly dry and cool passionate wind, one never broke a sweat. I slowly put down my book and breathed a lazy sigh of content, for the soundtrack to this beautiful setting was the rhythmic beats of the waves, cheerful chatter carried by the wind and the joyous clink of wine glasses bringing the promise of crisp rosé. This is the Mediterranean. This is Corsica.

For the past four years, I’ve spent most of my holidays visiting family and friends around Europe. Running around to weddings in dreamy locations, taking walks in the woods, exploring new cities and cultures. And, as with our recent erratic weather, summers in Europe haven’t really been all that pleasant. A sad, whimpering rain, biting winds … thank goodness for the abundance of fabulous food, gorgeous wine and a naturally majestic setting, but if you listen to all my friends who live there, they crave the sunshine. They have been for the past few years or so.

There is sunshine and there is sunshine. And while we live in one of the most paradisiacal countries on earth, a true Mediterranean summer is just unbeatable. It’s hot but not humid. You brown but don’t burn. The sea is brisk and rejuvenating. And most importantly, your wine-soaked lunches slowly fade into the bright summer evenings, when the sun only even begins to waver at 9 p.m. The golden, rocky cliffs that plummet to the bright cerulean sea, the passionate waves and angry mistral wind, the bushes that serve as a stage for the myriad of crickets, whose harmonious buzz lulls you into a nice long afternoon sleep.

Corsica is a little-known gem … and the Corsicans like it that way. It is a gorgeous island whose culture and people are both and neither French nor Italian. They are unique and proud, and frankly would rather have their beautiful island to themselves. But when the doors open for you, it’s the Mediterranean at its best. No vast, overrun tourist blocks. No beaches filled with bodies rather than sand and shells. No fancy, flashy, money-can’t-buy-class yachts with sprayed Champagne. It’s about authenticity. Understated elegance. The sheer, unadulterated beauty of purity.

We were invited to the wedding of our dear friends Eric and Elena de Compiègne. Everything was just as it should be. Simple. Classy. Breathtaking. I find that the business of weddings here have become such a production with all the crazy video presentations, flashing lights, crazy, over-the-top entertainment and themes with hosts that can painfully turn a romantic celebration into a game show. Sometimes everything is so contrived we forget the essentials. This was the exact opposite.

The ceremony was honest and solemn. Set against the backdrop of the de Compiègne country home. Simple flowers, no matchy-matchy dresses… the only thing that caught your attention was the immense love that flowed from the bride and groom. This was followed by a stunning lunch reception in the garden offering some of the most beautiful displays of food I have ever seen. Everything was organic and natural. The most beautiful charcuterie laid languidly on large planks of raw wood, baskets spilling forth freshly baked bread, cheese laid on olive leaves and a sublime table of fruits that reminded me of a renaissance still-life painting. Behind the buffet was a rotisserie, gorgeous juicy pieces of roasting lamb and pork with a pile of potatoes below greedily collecting their juices.  A group played the dramatic strains of traditional Corsican folk songs and guitar. People were barefoot, strewn about on the grass. Children ran around with no one chasing them.

We then sleepily head home for the afternoon to gear up for the evening’s festivities. Piled up with the other guests in the large bus, we ambled our way through the beautiful countryside, snaking through hills, seeing the rocky mountains in the distance. To one side jagged peaks and to the other the glittering sea with the setting sun. When we finally reached Capo di Feno, our jaws dropped. A beach just as it should be: a long stretch of beige sand, feisty waves with surfers in the distance, white candles dotting the shoreline. Champagne was poured but I happily drank some local pastis while we nibbled on simple but wonderful bites: a small square of spinach financier; a little verrine of local fresh cheese with pesto. Set against the sea was a large plancha where scallops and squid were being seared for the guests. Then, out of nowhere a large, gaping platter of mussels with spicy tomato and chorizo was set on a round table right on the beach. Men in pristine linen suits and ladies in their best boho beach chic dove right in, using their hands and the shells to pry off the juicy little orange flesh. No one asked for a plate or a fork. Where was the fun in that? The sun was setting, the wind was blowing, our toes in the sand, with good wine and beautiful food at our fingertips. Life was good.

The soft, chill music gave way to the loud, happy techno beats of Welcome to St. Tropez as the couple came in holding hands and pumping their fists in the air, their friends and family cheering them on with whistles and claps. They made their way to the dance floor as the DJ smoothly started Get Lucky.  The song would take us through the night, with funny, heartwarming speeches, fantastic food, and overflowing bubbles, leaving us dancing and hugging our most loved ones as the sky filled with fireworks, turning even the oldest of us into children.

“We’ve come too far/to give up who we are/so let’s raise the bar/and our cups to the stars.”