“Ibiza? So you’re going clubbing then?” was the standard response to the news we would be continuing the 40th birthday celebrations in the Balearics. I was quick to point out that we would not be joining the pilled-up party people of Sant Antonio – sourcing drugs and dancing till 6am is just far too much of an effort. Instead we stayed near Ibiza Town for a slothful sun-bathing, tapas-stuffing, Rioja-slurping extravaganza.
The old town has an easygoing, inclusive vibe, with ice-cream slurping families mingling with shaven headed gay Germans. The medieval fortress with its narrow helter skelter roads was charming, but the sense of history was balanced by modern innovations such as the sex club. Every meal was a delight, in particular I got carried away with the local goats cheese, and many a poor Spanish duck was sacrificed for my personal pleasure last week.
On the downside, the Hotel Ebeso was basic, with nasty bar food and surly staff a clear contradiction to the gastronomic treats and warm welcome we received elsewhere. The locals and visitors from the mainland all seemed to have gorgeous pedigree dogs in tow, but there didn’t seem to be a poop-scoop policy, causing pavement games of doggy-do hopscotch.
All in all, if you really can’t be bothered to join the chundering Chlamydia-ridden chavs of Sant Antonio, a trip to Ibiza Town is a must for any sloth. Well, if it’s good enough for Will Young – who walked past our cafe one lunchtime – then it’s good enough for you…
Note: Wherever I go in the world, a big black rain cloud follows – and Ibiza was no exception. Last Wednesday, while London baked, it rained all day in Ibiza. Apparently, this is unusual for the time of year – a sentiment that echoed local comment about the monsoon in Barbados, the gale in Gran Canaria, and the floods in Sitges. Which just goes to show you don’t need a PhD in meteorology to understand how the climate is changing – just a passport.
