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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 postcard-
worthy 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 narrow-
alley mazes. But, after a quick lunchhe 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 over-
hyped 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
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, graffiti-
covered 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‘
AT DUSK WE
SWADDLED
OURSELVES
IN TOWELS
FOR AN IBIZAN
CLASSIC -
WATCHING A
FLAMING SUN
DRIP LIKE
SYRUP INTO THE
OPALESCENT
SEA