IBIZA’S SULTRY SIDE
Go late season and this starry island rocks to a different beat, says Mark Palmer
EVEry now and again, a tall young woman with killer heels and a 24in waist shimmies around the pool of the Gran Ibiza Hotel, occasionally stopping to do a twirl. ‘Must be a photoshoot,’ I tell my wife, knowingly. ‘Well, I’d love a top like that,’ replies Joanna, admiring the woman’s white blouse with embroidered lapels and sparkly buttons. No chance. And we both return to our books.
But, hold on. This curious spectacle turns out not to be a photoshoot, but a way of advertising what’s for sale in the hotel’s beautifully designed, but predictably expensive, boutique. Skill will be called for if we are to escape without sustaining heavy financial damage.
Thankfully, diversions come thick and fast in Ibiza, not least at the famous Saturday Las Dalias Hippy Market outside Sant Carles de Peralta in the north-east of the island, where all the girls dress like Sienna Miller and where the embroidered lapels and sparkly buttons are significantly less onerous on the wallet.
It’s late September — a fine time to be here and we are both Ibiza first-timers.
This might be because we have read about vomiting lads on tour in San Antonio (or, as it’s known in Catalan, Sant Antoni de Portmany) and because the thought of jumping up and down until 5am in one of the island’s mega-music venues has all the appeal of a Club 18-30 holiday in Magaluf.
Prejudiced? Just a little. Failing to see the whole picture? Guilty as charged, especially when our spectacular room at the Ibiza Gran Hotel looks across to Ibiza Town, a mere tenminute stroll away and a Unesco World Heritage site to boot.
I dare say many ravers give Eivissa (Ibiza Town’s Catalan name) a wide berth, but with its 14th-century cathedral sitting majestically at the summit of the Dalt Vila fortified hilltop, it’s an even more arresting sight than the twirling model by our hotel pool. And so off we hop.
Now, I pride myself on having an infallible sense of direction and had been scoffing at guide books claiming you’re bound to get lost in Eivissa. But you do. And you should. At one point, we fetch up at the Museum of Contemporary Art, where there’s a display of local artists’ work, and entrance is free. We’re taken by one painting and ask about it at reception, where two comely ladies have no English. Not a word. This is encouraging, as are the narrow streets of white houses that tumble down the hill, clearly still lived in by locals. And we like the way tiny shops and bars appear almost as crevices in the town’s flaking walls. For all its boho bravado, macho music and teeny-weeny bikinis, there’s still a traditional side to Ibiza; still people who live here long after the clubs and hotels have closed for the season. The place to eat is El Portalon, where you sit on a terrace of a former palacio under a canopy of vines and eat food sourced mainly from Anne Sijmonsbergen’s organic farm.
American-born Anne, author of Eivissa: The Ibiza Cookbook, has done more than anyone to put Ibiza on the world’s culinary map and supplies many of the island’s restaurants.
I’m not sure if that includes Aiyanna, about 40 minutes away up the east coast at Cala Nova. It opened in 2016 and immediately garnered the moniker ‘hot’ — a byword for beautiful people taking pictures of themselves and topping up their tans.
WE Book a table for lunch at 1pm, but arrive at 3.45pm — and that’s early compared with many of the locals. We enjoy what’s on our plates, but love watching the passing parade even more. It’s near here that actress Alicia Vikander and Michael Fassbender reportedly wed in secret last summer. But what is it about the Spanish and meal times? Dinner at 11pm? Don’t they have to get up in the morning?
Speaking of which, the Ibiza Gran’s breakfast buffet has to be the world’s biggest and best. I had oysters one morning, for heaven’s sake.
The only meal that trumps it is our final-night extravaganza at the hotel’s flagship restaurant, La Gaia, a Japanese/Peruvian combo that works brilliantly and where it’s best to let your waiter decide what you eat. But give him a budget first.
We’re here for a three-night blow-out to celebrate my birthday — a taster, if you like. Next time, we’ll be sure to make it a full week. out of peak season, of course.