Days 149 to 157: Finding the quietness of Ibiza

It was of some comfort to learn that Nostradamus predicted that Ibiza is the place to be when the world ends. If anyone is reading this, Kim Jong Un hopefully hasn’t yet provoked a global nuclear war and you are all ok. Scary stuff alright . . .

In any case, the majority of tourists who come to Ibiza are probably more concerned with which club they will party in and who they will score with. There are a lot of “roided up” boys (as Danielle describes them) and tanned girls here – after all, Ibiza has long been the Mediterranean’s party island. Interestingly an article in the UK Express just yesterday suggests Ibiza is losing its young reputation as a party island to the Greek islands while older travellers are taking over Ibiza. Ha . . . !

Flights to Ibiza roll in everyday from European cities. Our flight from Amsterdam took 2 and a half hours and we landed late afternoon to a balmy 28 degrees. Seven million tourists a year come to Ibiza – which seems a huge amount for such a small island. In comparison, New Zealand welcomes 3-4 million tourists per year with that number projected to reach Ibiza proportions by 2030.

Our villa for the week was just your quintessential Spanish design – lots of white plaster and stone, set in the midst of pine trees overlooking the Mediterranean. Just a beautiful and relaxing place to be. We decided to eat at home for the majority of our stay, and who wouldn’t with the views we enjoyed over breakfast, lunch and dinner. The local supermarkets are pretty good with reasonable choice but bugger all in the organic department.

Ibiza isn’t a big island – drive 40 minutes and you are in the ocean on the other side. We hired a car and everyone put on a brave face when I got behind the wheel – first time for a while driving a manual on the right hand side of the road. In my opinion I did pretty well as evidenced by the fact I didn’t hit anything (although I might have noticed a couple of sharp intakes of breath from the passenger seat) . . . I must say drivers in Ibiza are easy going – nobody seems in a hurry and the roads are well maintained and straight forward to navigate.

Highlights . . . well this place doesn’t want for good beaches, it’s just a case of finding one that isn’t packed. Our first try was Cala Salada – 5 minutes drive from our place. Well its 5 minutes drive if the road isn’t blocked which meant we had to park about 1.5km away and walk. In fairness this tiny beach is rated one of the best in Ibiza and it really lived up to its billing – beauty wise. Crystal clear waters, white sand and loads of rocks to jump off. Jo and I were sooo far over the average age – it was almost like a beauty contest for tanned twenty somethings.

Much more our style was Cala Xarraca on the northeastern tip of the island. Just as beautiful, warm clear water, a small rocky island in the bay to jump off and, most importantly, a few more fat older people to make us feel more at home.

The main town in Ibiza is named – wait for it – Ibiza. Well it’s actually “Eivissa” on the Spanish road signs – a confusion we quickly worked our way through. To be honest the town is a bit ho-hum, with the exception of the smaller older section of the city, which is built on a small steep hill. We wound our way up on foot, through cobble stoned, car-free, streets lined with a combination of local houses, cafes and shops selling tourist tat. The view at the top over the town and harbour was well worth it – especially the very welcome breeze. Man it was a hot day to be climbing steep streets . . .

The “world famous” hippy market on the southeastern side of Ibiza runs every Wednesday. I wouldn’t have described it as hippy – not much in the way of alternative stuff like yoga and free love (well if it was there I must have missed it). There is your usual touristy mass-produced stuff but also some really cool and unique offerings such as a range of clothes made out of recycled garment offcuts (all re-threaded) that would otherwise have been thrown out. I was determined to enter into the hippy spirit and so bought myself a sarong for the beach – which Jo later pointed out was actually more of a tablecloth.

A cautionary note here for those travelling with any children under 25. Don’t ever assume that when you pack the car, lock the house, deposit the key in a secure letterbox and start driving to the airport that your darlings will have actually thought about checking for their passports. Danielle as usual . . . After unpacking all our bags on the side of the road, dashing back to the house, borrowing a fork from the neighbours to pry the letter box open and then finding the missing passport underneath a duvet on some random shelf (oh yes that’s a sensible place to leave it) we took off again with some degree of agitation (and frosty silence as far as Danielle was concerned) and made our flight.

Now in the plane heading back to the Netherlands where apparently it is pissing down. Looks like I will have to wait a bit before parading my new tablecloth at Scheveningen beach . . .