ibiza

Casa Munich, Ibiza

There are few places in the world that I have resisted going to, even with my insatiable travel appetite. One of those places, I’m embarrassed to admit, is Ibiza. Yes, I know the Ibiza groupies will be shaking in their itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny beachwear. But the all-night rave culture, combined with its rebellious Peter Pan spirit has not drawn me into the annual pilgrimage of beautiful people, who religiously pay homage to the White Isle’s shrine of eternal youth. I can party with the best of them, and who doesn’t love a bit of sparkle, glitz and glamour, but its reputation as the frenetic clubbing capital of the world and the most…

Hacienda Na Xamena, Ibiza

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,…