Ibiza, Spain
It seems we've woken up in a fridge. How did that happen?!?! Ah, now I remember... It's 9.30 already, meaning I've had the first decent sleep in forever, my throat seemingly miraculously healed by Dr Watson's steroids. So fully refreshed I get up and adjust the a/c to less polar conditions, before coaxing Coman to rise and come down for breakfast.
Hotel Garbi's signature colours are deep purple and lime green, with pillars lit up and soft furnishings clad in these garishly stylish hues. It makes for an interesting breakfast as clubbers from the night before don sunglasses to protect against the neon glare and cover the sins in their eyes.
We of course have no such trouble being bright and perky, especially once my fistful of steroids kick in. So stuffed to the gills we slip into suitable attire and head out to the pool.
It seems that the hotel has been upgraded since last we stayed, with a chill-out pool and jacuzzi alongside the main affair. The restaurant gazing out over the beach has also had a slight revamp and, as we stretch out on the sun-loungers and feel the sun kiss our skin, all the cares and stress of the last few months start to drift away.
After a couple of blissful hours we hop in a cab and head out to Salinas beach to meet the ladies. The familiar salt flats that give this area its name stretch out either side of the road and suddenly we're transported into memories of previous visits all around the island, big grins appearing on our faces.
As anyone who's visited Ibiza without near fluent Spanish knows, communicating with taxi drivers can be fraught with (deliberate?) misunderstandings. And so first our driver tries to drop us about a mile from the beach presuming we don't know where we're going, and then feigning comprehension he drives on and speeds straight past the familiar roped pathway to the Jockey Club where we're meeting the girls and deposits us at a lovely, but unfortunately wrong, beach restaurant called Malibu. Rather than argue the toss we get out and walk the five minutes back along the crowded beach.
Having usually visited in quieter times we're amazed at how many people are thronging the sands. I'm tempted just to keep walking and walking down to the desolation of the far distant tower and the secret quieter beaches behind it over the dunes. It's where all the beautiful boys hang out but it's a bloody long walk and it's 36 degrees in the shade so we can't be bothered with all the hassle. And anyway there's Jo, Nic and Dani with a table in the sun-dappled rear of the Jockey Club, already getting stuck into their pina coladas.
Clearly it's now wine o'clock so Coman repairs to the bar to grab a bottle and we're soon gassing away and giggling like fools. There's just something about this island that suffuses you with happiness, a step out of the mundane realities of life into a charmed world of magical joy. Even the baby with the couple sat on the next table can't stop smiling and takes an instant shine to Dani. God knows what they've put in her milk...
After an hour or so we move to a reserved table in the heart of the Jockey Club which is busy, buzzing and beats-driven, the perfect place to people watch and gaze upon the sea, aided by jugs of cava sangria and a deeply disappointing pizza. By now it's almost 5pm and the azure waters are calling us so down to the sand we go, and dumping our things head straight into the warm, warm sea. It's tropically gorgeous.
Dani, Nic and I swim out beyond most of the other bathers into cooler waters and I leave them drifting out towards the plethora of yachts bobbing in the bay while I stretch out on my back, close my eyes and let the saline water buoy me gently upon the waves; nature's very own floatation tank. After what seems like an hour but is probably more like five minutes a larger wave breaks over my face filling my eyes and giving me a salty Mediterranean mouthful. Eurgh!
Retiring to the beach I join the others and get a half hour of late afternoon sun before we decide it's time to make tracks. The merry dance to hail a taxi becomes increasingly fruitless so Dani chats up a couple of Italian boys who offer to squeeze the girls in the back of their Fiat Punto, leaving us to eventually do the same, sharing the back of a stranger's car with a dancer and an aspiring "urban pop" singer who are similarly stranded. The enterprising stranger charges us twice what a cab would, but split four ways it's a worthwhile expense as we definitely don't want to be around when the greedy mosquitos start their dusky feed.
Back at the hotel we wash away the sand, salt and suntan lotion, Balearic tunes blasting out of the iPad, trying to recreate the sunset vibes that have been so magical in all the villas of the past. It's not quite the same in a hotel room though, lovely as it is, and so we're soon back in a taxi and heading over to meet the girls a ten minute ride up the coast in Figuretas.
They're waiting for us in Loos tapas restaurant. It's a typically Spanish affair, yet I realise in all our visits to the island this is the first time we've had a proper authentic tapas dinner. Elsewhere in Spain tapas restaurants abound but Ibiza, with its vast array of amazing dining experiences - and ghastly fast food strips - doesn't really feature many quaint little tapas bars outside of the hidden away gems in remote villages or the twisty lanes of Dalt Villa in Ibiza Town itself.
Loos, despite its name, is a wonderful discovery though with plate after plate of squid, prawns, lamb kebabs, asparagus, meatballs, garlic mushrooms, pepper, tortilla and more being delivered in quick succession, all washed down with gorgeous jugs of sangria. The little table is soon overflowing with dishes and precariously crammed amongst them are our full glasses. Coman, midst exciteable flow, accidentally knocks one of the glasses flying and the inevitable disaster occurs, covering me from chest to groin in a huge splash of red wine sangria. I am drenched.
Leaping to my feet in horror I look down and it's about as bad as it gets, my khaki shorts and red and white checked shirt already staining a deep maroon. I run to the toilet, the waiter pausing me to proffer a full salt cellar, and stripping down to my underwear I try to repair the damage. Salt duly applied and then shirt and trousers thorougly soaked in the sink and pitifully held under the wheezing hand dryer I emerge fifteen minutes later wearing sopping wet clothes but thankfully I seem to have managed to expunge the stains just in time. Coman is forgiven...
Dinner finished, and a healthy tip left for the delighted waiter, we head across the road to the girls' hotel. It's our first visit to Figueretas and we're charmed by its twinkling night time promenade and cute string of shops and restaurants. While Hotel Garbi is undeniably swisher than the more rustic nature of their lodging, its location in Playa d'en Bossa does mean it's surrounded by crassly touristic establishments attracting the 18-30 crowd. You'd never know when lounging by the Garbi's lovely pools, but step outside the front and it's Burger King and KFC with nary a tapas bar in sight.
As it turns to midnight we sit on the girls' balcony, chatting away about life, love, work and more, drinking in the view along with the booze whilst debating what to do next. We're all on the guestlist for a party at the infamous Pike's hotel on the other side of the island but we're so chilled that a 30 minute cab ride, a banging dancefloor and a bar so pricey you may as well take out a second mortgage, seems somewhat unappealing.
Jo suggests a little bar just a couple of minutes away called Fusion so we wander over and avail ourselves of their extensive cocktail menu, all priced at a remarkable €6 a pop. Large glasses with enormous measures are duly delivered and my mojito is strong enough to disarm a pirate. It's quite delicious. The music plays, Dani dances along, we sprawl on sofas and the night drifts on until, at nearly 2am Coman suggests that bed might not be such a bad idea.
We decide to walk back to Playa d'en Bossa along the promenade. It's remarkably quiet and the warm night air along with the lapping of the waves gives a peaceful note to round off the evening. It takes us half an hour or so to make it to Hotel Garbi and thankfully we soon slip into dreams, vivid and peculiar that disappear into fragments as soon as the alarm sounds a few hours later for breakfast.
