Fly, Camp, Feast: France and Corsica by Private Plane

Ever dreamed of flying across France in your own plane? Not a jet. Not luxury. Just you, a friend, and a four-seater with nothing but sky and wild plans ahead.

Forget the tourist bus. Forget the train. This is the adventure you never knew you needed.

Ready to Get Lost?

Start in a Swiss village. Grindel. Population: 500. Air so clean it stings your lungs. Locals pressing apples for juice, not because they have to, but because they love it. You meet Andy, your pilot. He’s not a millionaire. He’s a regular guy with a license and a passion for the sky.

You rent a Robin 400. Four seats. No fancy electronics. Just cables, flaps, and a stick that feels like a handbrake. You pay by the hour—only when the engine’s running. No wasted cash. No wasted time.

Pack light. There’s barely room for your tent, let alone your dreams. But you make it work. You always do.

The Part Nobody Tells You

Flying low is a rush. You see every vineyard, every castle, every twist of the river. Sometimes you’re lower than the church steeples. Sometimes you’re racing the cars on the highway below. And you’re always faster. Three times faster, in fact.

First stop: Burgundy. Land at a tiny aerodrome. Vineyards at the end of the runway. A 16th-century château just 300 meters away. You can sleep there if you’ve got the cash. If not, the local aeroclub will find you a bed. Maybe even a bottle of wine.

Next, Avignon. Lavender fields. Or at least, what’s left of them in August. Missed the bloom? Doesn’t matter. The abbey is still there, stone and silent, waiting for your footsteps.

Camp Wild, Eat Local

You land, you camp. Sometimes right at the edge of the runway. Sometimes in a hangar, thanks to the kindness of strangers. Showers? Maybe. Cold beer? Always. The aviation brotherhood is real. They’ll hand you a drink and a story, no questions asked.

Food? Forget the tourist menus. Eat where the pilots eat. Tiny restaurants at the airfields. Fresh bread, local cheese, wine that tastes like the sun. In Provence, you drink at lunch. It’s the law. Or it should be.

Corsica: The Island That Bites Back

Strap on a life vest. Cross the sea. Watch the water turn from navy to turquoise as the mountains of Corsica rise up like a dare. Land at Propriano. Camp with the sea in your ears. Wake up to wind and salt and the promise of another wild day.

Rent a car. Explore. Napoleonic statues, mafia legends, villages frozen in time. Penta di Casinca—3,000 souls, all of them stubborn, proud, and fiercely local. You get invited into a family home. Nothing’s changed in fifty years. The calendar on the wall still says 1973.

Mountains? Try the Aiguilles de Bavella. Red granite spires. Hikers and climbers chasing the sky. Beaches? Think Maldives, but wilder. Water so blue it hurts your eyes. Bonifacio—perched on a cliff, daring you to look down. The only way to see it all? From the air. Or a boat. Or maybe a drone, if you’re lucky.

The Sky Is Not the Limit

Time to head north. The Alps are calling. You climb to 4,000 meters, riding thermals like a hawk. The Matterhorn appears—sharp, impossible, legendary. You’re eye-to-eye with the mountain. Thirty minutes at this altitude is all you get before the air gets thin. Heart pounding. Head spinning. Worth every second.

You land in Annecy, just outside Geneva. The trip is over. Six days. 2,000 euros for the plane, split between two. Four people? Even cheaper. You’ve seen more in a week than most see in a lifetime.

Don't Miss

The sunrise flight over the Matterhorn. Camping wild at Propriano’s airstrip. A meal with locals in a Corsican mountain village. The lavender fields of Provence—if you time it right.

Your Move

Think you know France? Think again. Skip the lines. Skip the crowds. Rent a plane. Find a pilot. Or get your own license. Camp where you land. Eat what the locals eat. See the world from above.

Adventure is waiting. Are you?