Ibiza, Spain
I don't think I've ever been to church in Ibiza before, but there in front of us stands Mary, smiling beatifically and nearby her son, crucified for the sins of the world. The Lord knows there are plenty of people on this island who could do with a dose of salvation, but they're probably still dancing away wide-eyed at Space, beyond the existence of time and reality.
We however have come to Santa Gertrudis, the little town in the centre of the island, which boasts a pretty little church, a restaurant-lined plaza and not much else. Having spent the morning stretched out by the pool we've decided to do a little sight-seeing and, as we always do, go and visit somewhere new on the island, this time as suggested by Jon and Lisa who we've previously stayed here in a villa with.
Our taxi driver is very happy to tell us, in broken English, about all the restaurants we should visit on the way and wax lyrical, but at times incomprehensibly, about Santa Gertrudis, but he's often distracted by other drivers, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Oh no, no, no!!!" he yells as a car pulls straight out in front of us, its driver on the phone and looking the other way. "Crazy woman!! Eez always women, yes?!" he says, looking for our agreement. "Bad, bad drivers!!"
Well considering you've just been going at 150km on a 90km road and we've strapped ourselves in with white knuckles, my friend, I'm not sure you have room to speak. But at least we arrive in one piece, being dropped right beside the church.
After having a peek inside we spend all of two minutes exploring the town before we realise that, yes, that really is it, nothing more to see. But the shade of the lime trees that overhang the al fresco dining tables looks very inviting and so, having checked out the menus of the various establishments we settle upon Bar Ulivans, chiefly because it has a deal for its Menu de los Dias - three courses for €10, including a glass of wine. A bargain, but then the taxi journey is a €45 euro round trip, which is a hefty wedge just to get fed. The food better be good!
The waiter comes over and puts down paper table mats with a cartoon-map of Ibiza on them and delivers a big basket of bread, and a surprisingly agreeable glass of house white which we sip whilst watching the world go by.
Apparently Santa Gertrudis is best at night, sat out with twinkling lights and surrounded by the laughter of fellow diners, but we're fully booked for every evening so lunchtime it is. The pace of the day is indolent and slow, the other diners calm and quiet, the fierce sun diffused by the scented tree canopy above us, and soon we're soothed into a state of tranquility, away from the noise and bustle of the tourist environs, discovering a little piece of authentic Spanish charm to relax into.
Coman opts for the rather inauthentic pesto spaghetti for his starter, while I have a simple but delicious tuna salad. The rather plain mains of grilled chicken and fish aren't exactly haute cuisine but belie their pale exteriors to be quite tasty; the fish in particular, although the bland and glutinous rice that accompanies my chicken rather less so.
No matter, by now we have moved on to a bottle of Vina Sol which is going down a treat, but it seems we're not the only fans of its floral sweetness. Suddenly we find ourselves in the midst of an attack of wasps, the little buggers swarming around us, going mental for the food and drink on display. We swat away, the buzzing aggression of the wasps a somewhat forgotten memory as they've been peculiarly absent from London the past two summers. And now we know why, they've all moved to Ibiza! Can't say I blame them.
Eventually, the stinging missiles abate, off to torment other diners no doubt, and we sink back into peaceful reverie as the afternoon takes on a rhythm of its own. We're stuffed and content, enjoying the calm tranquility of the place, the silence from the crowds and the general absence of noise as we watch the clock tick on past 4pm, the wine making us sleepy in our seats.
There's a beautiful breeze keeping us cool and the hazy, dreamy square becomes a little enchanted world of its own. Families potter past, a dog listlessly slopes around the corner, a young girl and her brother play in the doorway of the church, kneeling down and pretending to pray and, most amusingly, two pretty girls disembark from their scooter in crash helmets and rara skirts to spend a good twenty minutes taking pictures of themselves, posing in various provocative ways and laughing at their own antics, no doubt posting the "selfies" to Facebook.
The breeze slowly drops to stillness, and so to move the balmy air around Coman decides, in a tipsy manner, to fashion himself a fan from the Ibiza table matt and procedes to waft himself like Scarlett O'Hara in Gone With The Wind, or as he'd prefer to think, Michelle Pfeifer in Dangerous Liaisons. The little coquette!
Finally our dessert appears. We've ordered strawberry and chocolate ice cream, expecting bowls of lusicious gelato, but with little ceremony, two plastic supermarket pots from the recesses of the freezer are dumped on our table along with a couple of teaspoons and we're left to our own devices. I've not seen the like since childhood, but by God, they're guiltily yummy and we devour the frozen mass of e-numbers, preservatives, dairy substitute, artifical flavouring, and roughly six bags of sugar in double-quick time.
Suitably reinvigorated, and probably rushing on the sucrose hit, we snap out of our daydreaming and realise it's now well beyond five o'clock. What a beautifully relaxing time we've had. We order a taxi along with the bill and Coman heads to the loo, coming back with a property brochure he's found where we "ooh" and "ah" over various villas - a snip at €2.5million. Let's put a deposit down right now!!
Our journey back to Playa d'en Bossa is with a female taxi driver who proves the exception to our previous fellow's rule, giving us the smoothest, safest ride of our trip, all soundtracked by her radio station of choice which pumps out Peter Gabriel's 'Sledgehammer' and Van Halen's 'Jump' in quick succession, which works surprisingly well as we hurtle along the roads. We pass forests on the sides of mountains, and fields which include a remarkably lifelike herd of plastic cows, gaze into beautiful casas, villas and restaurants and overtake cyclists training for heat-drenched competitions, as we head back towards the sea.
Before us, we're afforded great views of Dalt Villa, the old walled city of Ibiza Town, fortified in the early middle ages and preserved to this day. As we drive past we're serenaded by what sounds like a Spanish version of The Corrs followed by 'Nothing's Going To Change My Love For You' by Glen Medeiros, which seems remarkably incongrous as the advertising hoardings for mega clubs and superstar DJs start appearing. Still makes a change from the normally banging techno most drivers inflict on their passengers.
Thankfully we arrive back at the hotel before the music gets any worse and a quick change later we're back down to the pool again, now the late afternoon sun has lost the intensity of its power. The resident DJ pumps out perfect tunes to laze back and close our eyes letting the ambient sounds wash over; the splash and laughter of children in the pool, the snatched conversations of German, Dutch, French, Spanish and English that drift around us, the occasional roar of the plane passing low overhead bringing more revellers in, and the distant crash and smell of the sea just a few metres beyond us.
It's 7.30pm before we know it, our siesta having rounded off the dreamy day perfectly. And so the evening begins...
