These pages: Houses perched
on rocks in Ibiza town38 worldtravellermagazine.com
IBIZA
worldtravellermagazine.com 39the social-media age and police
crackdowns. We agreed: the whole
place radiated a refreshing hippy
permissiveness. And there were kids
— including the owners’. Perhaps when
you’ve seen it all, there’s not much a kid
can do to shock you.
We loved the island’s relaxed eastern
side so much that we busted Amelie
out of the kids’ club again the following
day, making for the crescent of yellow
sand at Cala San Vicente. We went via
the whitewashed hilltop village of Sant
Joan (brightly painted shutters and
empty lanes instead of noisy clubs and
tourist-trap restaurants) and found
ourselves sharing the beach with just
two people, a pair of bohemian types
with a bongo. Thankfully, it remained
unplayed, and we whiled away the
afternoon tucking into just-caught fish
amid the unreconstructed ’60s charm
of Restaurant Es Caló, the children
building sandcastles between courses.
It was the perfect day, unmarred
by the pressures of fitting in with a
designer-clad crowd at a posh hangout.
In fact, the whole holiday had hit the
spot, packed with low-key places that
appealed to all of us (on other less
successful trips, we’ve alternated
soft-play days and disgruntled adults
with museum days and bored kids). It
was even a relief, eventually, to have
Karl and Koral on call, should Nat and
I want to visit a spa or have a drink on
our own. Nevertheless, as I joined the
kids in scooping up seashells in the
afternoon sun, I prayed that Amelie had
forgotten the evening disco.Inspired to travel? To book a trip, call
+971 4 316 6666 or visit dnatatravel.comDaddy’s turn,’ Nat asserted. ‘We’re going
to a beach club.’ It was a brave move.
Any recent excursions in that direction
had involved travel potties, panic over
eating unsavoury sand, and no clubs
whatsoever. Fortuitously, it turned out
that one of Ibiza’s best was a stroll from
the hotel, so we could always run back
if anyone erupted.
Cotton Beach Club is among a handful
of restaurants at Cala Tarida, and a
favourite with the yachting crowd. A
glance at Instagram suggested it was a
place where pneumatic blonde beauties
came to pose with the sea in the
background. Lord knows what they’d
make of us.
Slightly sweaty from ascending the
hundreds of steps from the beach, we
stumbled into the all-white interior
to find it staffed by model types in
minimalist black outfits. Spa music
played softly as we looked out over the
wide terrace, facing the glimmering
sea. It was so glacially beautiful that,
for a moment, we considered legging
it. Then we spotted a sprinkling of
families — even one or two with
children worse-behaved than ours.
In the end, we devoted three languid
hours to lunch, something we hadn’t
achieved since Amelie was born.
Nat and I nibbled fresh prawn curry
and polished off a bottle of decent
white; Amelie and Sonny befriended
some Dutch children and dashed
around a terrace meant for sunset
contemplation. Below, boats skimmed
across the bay as the sun cast millions
of glinting diamonds over the sea.
We had finally hit our Ibizan
stride. We returned to Cotton Beach
later in the holiday, for sushi on itssunloungers. The kids dipped in and
out of the water and, when boredom
threatened, the jolly bartenders were on
hand with banter and mocktails.
At dusk we swaddled ourselves in
towels for an Ibizan classic — watching
a flaming sun drip like syrup into the
opalescent sea.
Only two things threatened our island
adventures: Karl and Koral. The pesky
Sensatori’s kids’ entertainers were so
damn perky that Amelie instantly loved
them more than she did us. How could
my day-trips compete with mornings of
messy science experiments?
Frantically scouring the internet, I
found an evening out that would pry
her from the kids’ club: Babylon Beach,
a restaurant on a forested spit of sand
at the opposite end of the island, with
children’s entertainment and a Tarzan-
style rope playground. Bingo.
We arrived to find a kind of cross-
generational paradise. Nat and I
settled down for drinks under a straw
umbrella, while Amelie had her face
painted as a unicorn, chatting to six-
year-old boys with press-on Pacha
tattoos. Sonny scribbled in a dragon-
themed colouring book he’d been gifted
before dropping off to the lilt of the sea
and the persistent throb of background
dubstep. With the kids occupied, we
met the owner, Vaughan, a dreadlocked
giant clad in bright African prints, who
first came to Ibiza in the '80s to dance
at Pacha and ended up running the
club’s Funky Room. Now, he watches
over this place alongside business
partner, Angie (not to be outdone, she
was rocking vintage Pucci).
Vaughan told us that Babylon Beach
was reminiscent of Ibiza before‘
WE LOVED THE ISLAND’S
RELAXED EASTERN SIDE SO
MUCH THAT WE BUSTED AMELIE
OUT OF THE KIDS’ CLUB