Seen from the clouds, the Cité du Sel offers migratory birds a breathtaking landscape, fragmented into a multitude of saltwater pools. The flamingos begin their descent toward the marshes of Portivecchju, perhaps catching sight of themselves in the reflections of the azure sky; a gray heron, a few cormorants, and even a pair of kingfishers are already basking in the shallow pools of the “Salini,” now abandoned by humans to nature.
Of course, it’s not completely peaceful. The number of visitors is growing as the weather warms up, the beaches fill up, and the city swells with the influx of vacationers…
People come here, to the salt flats of Porto-Vecchio, to enjoy birdwatching or to take a break from the excesses of beach tourism. People also come here to understand the historical—and complicated—relationship that the “City of Salt” has maintained for millennia with “white gold.”
The Salt Marshes of Corsica: An Ancient History
We could give Caesar what belongs to Caesar—or rather, give the Romans their due: they were the first to introduce the salt marsh technique to the Mediterranean basin, and to Corsica in particular—a system that allows seawater to flow across vast, shallow areas. This simple yet ingenious process promotes the gradual evaporation of the water until salt crystals form in the final basins (known as “oeillets”).
But enough about the technical details. Let’s fast-forward to the Middle Ages: for centuries now, salt has played a central role in food, food preservation, and, more broadly, in the economies of societies. One might therefore think that Corsica, like the Camargue, was able to tap into this resource to amass great wealth…
That is not the case. Yet the salt marshes were indeed in operation between the 13th and 16th centuries, according to historians Antoine-Marie Graziani and Alain Gauthier, co-authors of the book *Sel et salines en Corse*. It seems likely that the islanders harvested “white gold” for a long time near Bonifacio (in Sperone), Saint-Florent, Calvi, and even Ajaccio—in fact, a neighborhood where I personally lived is called “Les Salines.”
Then the prevailing policy was reversed: the authorities in Genoa—who were historically known to be hostile to the economic autonomy of the Corsican people—set out to stifle any attempt at exploitation, smuggling, or enrichment through salt, by imposing prohibitive taxes and then destroying the ancient saltworks at Sant’Amanza (near Bonifacio) and any other facilities that might threaten the Ligurian Republic’s commercial hegemony. All of this was therefore driven by political rather than material motives.
Thus, far from securing its prosperity through the sea’s bounty, the island found itself stripped of its expertise for nearly 300 years.
The Revival of the Porto-Vecchio Saltworks
Fortunately, the tide turned once again—for the better this time—under the short-lived Anglo-Corsican Kingdom established by Pascal Paoli. In 1795, King George III granted the de Rocca Serra family, originally from Porto-Vecchio, the right to manage salt marshes along the island’s southeastern coast. The development of the “Salini” of Portivecchju led to a rapid boom in salt production, particularly during the Napoleonic era. Covering an area of about ten hectares, between the port and the Stabiacciu estuary, the salt pans were laid out according to a plan inherited from their ancestors, creating a landscape unique to Corsica, nestled between the sea and the fortified town.
It was during this period that the city earned its nickname, “City of Salt.” At its peak, during the three summer months, the city’s salt workers harvested up to 1,000 metric tons of salt per year—a type of sea salt prized for its quality and its above-average salinity.
But true to their history of ups and downs, the salt marshes of Portivecchju experienced another, much more recent hiatus: In the 2000s, amid clan conflicts and declining profitability, the de Rocca Serra family brought an end to 200 years of salt production.
Will there be a salt museum in Porto-Vecchio tomorrow?
A blessing in disguise… Because while waiting for a hypothetical project proposed by former elected official Camille de Rocca-Serra (which would aim to create the salt marshes of the future, featuring the production of salt-derived products, a small museum, guided tours, as well as a resort and event space), the salt pans have given way to local vegetation and wildlife. The flamingos, now settled there, thrive under the watchful eyes of walkers, both locals and visitors.
Anyone can stroll through the salt marshes; there you can still see the remnants—wooden planks separating the salt pans, transport rails, pumping systems, ruins of storage buildings, and salt workers’ houses—of the industry of yesteryear, eroded by the sea and the passage of time. The site has become a peaceful place, welcoming to biodiversity and conducive to contemplation.
This raises the question: Should we hope for a rehabilitation?
