The access track ends in a copse of tamarisk and eucalyptus whose leaves scatter silver-green light onto the sand. You step out onto a shore that feels provisional, as though the coast here hasn't yet decided whether to become a resort or remain a local secret. A handful of families have spread blankets near the tree line; a fisherman casts into the low surf from a spit of rounded stones.
“One of the few Costa Verde beaches still bordered by eucalyptus groves instead of holiday apartments, offering shade and silence in equal measure.”
Credit: UnsplashLong-tail boats moored in clear water
The water is cooler than Balagne's western bays, fed by currents that sweep down from Cap Corse, and it carries a faint scent of seaweed and pine resin. You wade in over ribbed sand, feeling the gentle tug of the tide against your shins. No jetskis carve the offshore blue, no parasailers dangle overhead—just gulls working the breeze and the rhythmic collapse of small waves.
By afternoon the beach empties further. You walk south along the tideline, past driftwood bleached bone-white and shells crushed to gravel. The hills behind are covered in maquis, their green darkening toward the ridgeline, and the only sounds are surf, wind in the branches, and the occasional bark of a dog from the village road.
