I’VE NEVER BEEN TO… IBIZA
Emma Featherstone once eschewed clubbing in the Balearics. Five years later, and in lockdown, she craves some hedonism
The past year has been short on escapism. Perhaps if we could have given our past selves a hint of warning of the hemmed-in, ruleladen existence hurtling toward us, we might have been a bit more bold and taken a pass at an alternative life.
As the first lockdown began, I dreamt of bohemian isles. I fantasised about breaking free from my responsible, decade-long relationship with London and rushing into a summer flirtation with the most mythologised Balearic island.
In my 20s, I passed up a trip to Ibiza, deeming its party scene beyond my means and my tolerance – even aged 18, I’d bow out of all-nighters by 2am. But now, I’m aching for a little hedonism. I’d dig out my most club-appropriate outfit, drag along the friends I’ve barely seen since Covid struck, and accept any entry fee. Hours lost on a crowded dance floor, moving to the DJ’s whim, then creeping out at sunrise, would be just the salve to this stale era.
But it is the island’s nonconformity that I could truly fall for; to turn on, tune in and drop out (without any call for hallucinogens). I’d rent an open-top car, pausing to admire bougainvilleaclad hamlets and take dips at secluded beaches. Then, I’d wave goodbye to my companions at the airport, forgo my flight home and head for a yoga retreat.
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My hope is that this would be a precursor to a permanent move to the island. Perhaps I’d try to make a living as a yacht skipper or a talentless artist. Weekends would be spent sailing around Ibiza’s wizened coastline, snacking on fresh seafood and day-tripping to the other islands, such as Formentera.
Without the freedom to adopt this fantasy life, I will continue to dream. And when this is over, although my affair with Ibiza will no doubt be shorter, I am sure it will be just as sweet.