Not a man to twiddle his thumbs, Napoleon
Bonaparte spent his year-long exile on the
island of Elba compiling crossword clues
and planning a range of branded luxury
goods. Of the former the only memorable
example is the rather neat palindrome ‘Able I
was ere I saw Elba’ and of the latter all that
survives is the modish logo that adorns the
gates of his villa.
Sadly, the range of quality high heels and
handbags for the WAGs of his favourite
generals never made it to the production line
because, after a year on the island, the little
general decided to escape and go double-orquits
with one last fling at Waterloo.
Italy’s third-largest island, Elba is a craggy
volcanic outcrop off the Tuscan coast,
covered in lush, almost tropical, vegetation.
It’s a little like the Caribbean, but without
the bananas, and is a perfect getaway from
the hustle of the mainland.
The Emperor’s villa on Elba is now a
museum (€6 to enter and closed on Mondays)
and the fancy wrought-iron gates are
still topped off with the rather stylish
Napoleonic logo of an ‘N’ in a crown of
laurel leaves. He obviously liked to remind
himself who was boss. But you can’t help
wondering, as you walk up the impressive
cobbled drive, past bamboo stands, sprigs of
wild flowers and the odd eucalyptus, quite
why he wasn’t happy just to put his feet up
and settle down here. A more modest man
would almost certainly have stayed put.
Napoleon wasn’t the first wanderer to land
on Elba. Legend has it that Jason and the
Argonauts stopped off for a bit of shore
leave back in the mists of time. And you’ll be
quite happy to have made landfall here, too.
From the picturesque town of Portoferraio
you can head up west into the volcanic
highlands, east towards the hilltop town
of Capoliveri or south, over the shoulder of
the hills towards Lacona, where you’ll come
across the quiet little bay that Camping
Stella Mare overlooks.
The bay’s water is only knee-deep (waistdeep
if you happen to be as short as
Napoleon) and perfect for kids to splash
about in whilst you keep a weather-eye on
them from the narrow strip of beach. There’s
a host of bars and restaurants to choose
from right by the water. Round the back
of the site there’s also what is effectively
a private beach (and one where it seems
occasionally people ‘forget’ their swimming
cozzies). This can be reached by some steep
steps from the campsite.
And when you’re done sunning yourself
for the day, it’s only a short stroll up
to the campsite, where the pitches are
alphabetised, and the further you go beyond
ABC, the higher you climb up the cliff. The
‘A’s are down near the beach, if you don’t
want to have to walk too far, and can’t be
bothered with the climb. By the time you
get to the far reaches of the alphabet –
particularly the ‘S’s and the ‘U’s – you’re
into pitches that are raked into steep
terraces overlooking the water and dotted
with dinner-plate-sized cactus plants and
all manner of different trees. Most of these
pitches are inaccessible to caravans and
camper vans; you have to park your car up
top and carry your gear down the steps to
your pitch. But it’s worth it.
And so if you were Napoleon, surely you’d
be quite happy to retire from all that
gallivanting about in stiff breeches and a
bicorn hat. You’d lie back, let Josephine feed
you sculpted melon balls for breakfast on
the sun terrace of your lavish villa, and think
to yourself, yep, Elba will suit me just fine.
