he last time I went to Ibiza, I checked into a ridiculously expensive villa, stayed out partying for two days straight, and made it to my beautiful, boho-chic bedroom just as the flight I’d booked home was taking off. My weekend consisted of over-the-top kaftans, overpriced rosé and overhyped DJs, but I thought it was the best holiday I’d ever had. A decade on, I was ready for a rematch, but something had changed. I’d grown up. This time, I’d be going with my husband, Nat, and two other travel companions — our kids, Amelie (four) and Sonny (two). As parents, we were slightly hesitant. To us, Ibiza represented the thumping belly of super-clubs, and erratic binges on dodgy tapas. But we’d seen our most sensible friends holiday on the island with kids in tow, and read a string of newspaper articles proclaiming that Ibizan clubs were over, anyway (ruined by a clientele who would rather take selfies outside the gates than actually hit the dance floor). With the loss of the island’s hard-partying reputation, family bookings are soaring — up 125% from 2013. But could trading big-name DJs for early-night PJs really make for a fun holiday on this island? We were about to find out. We touched down early in the morning, driving towards our hotel through countryside ticker-taped with sudden glimpses of neon-blue sea. As we passed the kind of villas I’d rented on my previous visit — rustic-luxe restored farmhouses made for floating on giant inflatable unicorns — I could only wave them a forlorn farewell. This year, we were making the ultimate kid-friendly sacrifice: an all-inclusive behemoth in the far west of the island. The behemoth (also known as Sensatori Resort) promised a kids’ club, kids’ pools — even a kids’ cabaret after dinner. What it didn’t promise was thrilling evenings for us, since we were all sharing one room. Nat and I assumed we’d spend each night sitting silently in the dark until they started snoring. Our reasons for choosing it weren’t entirely altruistic, though. Round-the-clock ice creams and free ‘ AT DUSK WE SWADDLED OURSELVES IN TOWELS FOR AN IBIZAN CLASSIC - WATCHING A FLAMING SUN DRIP LIKE SYRUP INTO THE OPALESCENT SEA ’ buckets and spades would buy us the bargaining power needed for some adult-friendly, nostalgia-stirring excursions during the holiday. It was a bonus to find that the hotel was quite nice. Built behind the craggy bay at Cala Tarida (home to the best sunsets on the island), it felt more like a quasi boutique hotel. With 402 rooms, it was undeniably humongous, but with little touches such as a sunset bar and posh spa to soften its edges. For some, it is a kind of Hotel California: I met a couple who hadn’t left it for their entire fortnight, not even for the postcardworthy beach just beyond its gates. But I knew better. It takes 50 minutes max to get anywhere on Ibiza and, kids or no kids, I couldn't make my comeback without returning to places I'd been when I was too young to appreciate them. First stop, IbizaTown. After rotating our hire car into a space the size of a saucer, the whole family jumped out and made straight for the cobbled, pastel-washed centre. In my party days, it had felt like the epitome of chic. We mooched past touristy boutiques (some jewelled skulls and embellished beach bags catching Amelie’s eye) and searched out bougainvillea-laced squares off narrowalley mazes. But, after a quick lunch of salads on a terrace on the cobbles, Amelie had something to say. ‘Boring, boring, boring,’ she muttered. Frankly, she was right. Without my rosé-tinted specs, the whole place seemed cynically touristy. Luckily, the kids had an idea: we should take a boat trip. Many Ibiza visitors splurge on this part of the holiday, spending hundreds on private charters to the neighbouring island of Formentera. We considered this, but ruled it out on the grounds that our two-year-old might launch himself off the side if it went on too long, rendering it poor value. Instead, we opted for the shortest boat trip available — the $5 return from Ibiza Town's Dalt Vila area to the glitzy marina next door. It might not have been my personal dream boat, but the rusty old ferry that ploughs this route was manned by a proper old sea dog in a captain’s hat (much to the kids’ delight). And it was worth it to see Sonny’s face as he pointed out passing mega-yachts and seagulls, while Amelie gleefully scanned the water ‘for sharks’. From across the bay, I photographed Ibiza Town rising from the sea in a whitewashed haze. It looked as it must have before the souvenir shops arrived: houses wrapped like icing tiers around a fortress topping. The magical setting and infant enthusiasm combined in one of those annoying smug-parent moments. Sadly, it lasted exactly three minutes — until we got off at the wrong stop. There are two, it turns out: first, industrial wasteland; second, glitzy marina. Ashen-faced, we realised we’d have to wait for the ferry to do another one of its circuitous routes before it could pick us up. Still, every cloud - ‘Playground!’ shouted Amelie. Sure enough, there among the tumbleweed was a playground seemingly unvisited since 1986. We had no choice but to kill an hour there — the kids making the most of empty swings, my husband glaring at the water from a crumbling, graffiticovered wall. Back aboard the ferry, he took control of the situation. ‘Right, you’ve had your fun. Tomorrow it’s Mummy and Credit: The Sunday Times Travel Magazine / News Licensing 36 worldtravellermagazine.com
IBIZA This page, clockwise from above: Whitewashed buildings in Santa Eulalia on the east coast of Ibiza; Dalt Vila in Ibiza Town; decorative detailing and flowers adorn the traditional houses worldtravellermagazine.com 37
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