Ibiza does drama well. It’s in the beat of the bass, the flash of a camera, the whisper of a high-stakes guest list. But somewhere high above it all, past the yoga retreats and influencer outposts, is a hotel that redefines island escape.
Ibiza must’ve been made on the sixth day, when all that God had left was a brutish hangover and some clay. The island is architecturally unremarkable, a brown featureless lump, where people don’t come for the history, or the culture, but for the twenty-first century Mecca of clubs, comedowns and sexually-charged coastlines. At least that’s what I thought. We’d spent the first four days in the heart of clubland, Platja d’en Bossa, at a hotel called Ushuaïa, which if you know Ibiza, is a place where the party never stops. Everything about this part of the island is imported junk from university campuses in less-sybaritic parts of Europe. Namely Manchester,…