The cynic in me says that it's not only inaccurate, but also verging on the heretic, to call my bond with Ibiza a spiritual one. That cynic goes on to say that the deep love I have for its sun-scored landscapes, honeyed air and bone-bleached colours is due to the psychotropic substances I tend to imbibe there, a by-product of reckless debauchery and irresponsibility rather than anything deeper.
But as I sit here in my darkened London flat, my heart so swollen with memories it feels like it's filled to the seam with tears, I've come to one simple conclusion.
Bollocks to that.
Ibiza is as important a part of my spirituality as a thousand hours in a stuffy old church. The epiphanies I've had whilst lying on her aquamarine shores have changed my life more than any dry sermon ever has, or ever will. The friendships I have made, the simple expressions of generosity I have seen on the island have been as 'Christian' as any I have experienced. And I have seen God there - in the staggering perfection of those molten sunsets, in the flawlessness of her bejewelled fish.
Stepping out of the plane into the viscous Ibizan night air was like embracing an old friend. I felt a smile touch my lips which would take up residence there for the entirety of the weekend.
It was late Friday night when my rambunctious friends and I landed on the island. We booked into our hotel, met up with the lovely Peppermint, and had a casual midnight snack before retiring early, for reasons akin to the promises made to children on the night before Christmas – the sooner you go to bed the sooner it’ll be morning..
Saturday dawned bright and perfect. My phone began to ring almost immediately with lost villa goers asking for directions, of which I had only a vague idea. Apologetically, I did the best I could, as Buckley struggled with the local phone company to become contactable again.
A couple of much-needed hours on the beach, evaporating the persistent London damp in my bones, and hazaa! We were off to the villa!
The first steps that I took into that place will stay with me forever. One of the most ethereal views I have ever seen greeted our winter-weary eyes. It was as if we’d decided to run a shin-dig in St. Peter’s gatehouse. The photographs hadn’t done the place justice at all – we were at least 1000m above the turquoise waters far below.
Once I had recovered from my initial shock, I realised that the party was already in full swing, with the revellers adapting quickly to their new home. Fashionably late, few spotlighters had arrived by this point (although I did meet Dr Mick cooking a couple of chops in the kitchen), but those from DSI and other friends of Buckley and myself already had the place buzzing pleasantly. After a leisurely paddle in the pool, a few Vodka Tonics and more than a few new friendships forged, the sun began to dip down in the sky, crowning Es Vedra with violet, scarlett and gold.
To the perfectly selected tunes of Stu Hirst, we all drank in the sunset with the bittersweet joy of people who know that a moment in time will tint their memories forever.
Then.. on to business. With the onset of darkness, the party, largely, moved inside. With the multitude of nooks and crannies that the villa offered, it was impossible to know how many people had actually attended the party – but once the dancefloor began to fill, it became apparent that there were people there I had hitherto not seen.
Soon it was my turn on the decks, and I couldn’t wait to play. To DJ to a dancefloor infused with the kind of happiness that this event had engendered was no challenge at all (unlike the dodgy CD decks), and I was loving every minute of it.
Memories start to become a little smoky from this point onwards, but I do remember that I wore a Cheshire cat grin wherever I went and whatever I did. At one point I was compelled, gurning and flapping no doubt, back behind the decks for a second bite. I think I started my second set with ‘Smells like Teen spirit’ by Nirvana, but then again, maybe I didn’t..
BBS, Kang, X-amount, Mr & Mrs Scoobie, SuperD and Maria all seemed to materialise from the darkness at one point, but then again, I may have also seen Jimi Hendrix playing chess with Homer Simpson in a corner by the fridges by this stage......
It was Buckley who woke me, looking drawn but relieved and satisfied.
“Mate. Everyone’s gone”
The first steely light of morning was throwing muted shadows outside as we picked ourselves up to wait for our taxi. I took one last lingering look at the view before shuffling down the long drive, and into Sunday morning.
In just a handful of hours, we’d be back at Space…
…to be continued…
But as I sit here in my darkened London flat, my heart so swollen with memories it feels like it's filled to the seam with tears, I've come to one simple conclusion.
Bollocks to that.
Ibiza is as important a part of my spirituality as a thousand hours in a stuffy old church. The epiphanies I've had whilst lying on her aquamarine shores have changed my life more than any dry sermon ever has, or ever will. The friendships I have made, the simple expressions of generosity I have seen on the island have been as 'Christian' as any I have experienced. And I have seen God there - in the staggering perfection of those molten sunsets, in the flawlessness of her bejewelled fish.
Stepping out of the plane into the viscous Ibizan night air was like embracing an old friend. I felt a smile touch my lips which would take up residence there for the entirety of the weekend.
It was late Friday night when my rambunctious friends and I landed on the island. We booked into our hotel, met up with the lovely Peppermint, and had a casual midnight snack before retiring early, for reasons akin to the promises made to children on the night before Christmas – the sooner you go to bed the sooner it’ll be morning..
Saturday dawned bright and perfect. My phone began to ring almost immediately with lost villa goers asking for directions, of which I had only a vague idea. Apologetically, I did the best I could, as Buckley struggled with the local phone company to become contactable again.
A couple of much-needed hours on the beach, evaporating the persistent London damp in my bones, and hazaa! We were off to the villa!
The first steps that I took into that place will stay with me forever. One of the most ethereal views I have ever seen greeted our winter-weary eyes. It was as if we’d decided to run a shin-dig in St. Peter’s gatehouse. The photographs hadn’t done the place justice at all – we were at least 1000m above the turquoise waters far below.
Once I had recovered from my initial shock, I realised that the party was already in full swing, with the revellers adapting quickly to their new home. Fashionably late, few spotlighters had arrived by this point (although I did meet Dr Mick cooking a couple of chops in the kitchen), but those from DSI and other friends of Buckley and myself already had the place buzzing pleasantly. After a leisurely paddle in the pool, a few Vodka Tonics and more than a few new friendships forged, the sun began to dip down in the sky, crowning Es Vedra with violet, scarlett and gold.
To the perfectly selected tunes of Stu Hirst, we all drank in the sunset with the bittersweet joy of people who know that a moment in time will tint their memories forever.
Then.. on to business. With the onset of darkness, the party, largely, moved inside. With the multitude of nooks and crannies that the villa offered, it was impossible to know how many people had actually attended the party – but once the dancefloor began to fill, it became apparent that there were people there I had hitherto not seen.
Soon it was my turn on the decks, and I couldn’t wait to play. To DJ to a dancefloor infused with the kind of happiness that this event had engendered was no challenge at all (unlike the dodgy CD decks), and I was loving every minute of it.
Memories start to become a little smoky from this point onwards, but I do remember that I wore a Cheshire cat grin wherever I went and whatever I did. At one point I was compelled, gurning and flapping no doubt, back behind the decks for a second bite. I think I started my second set with ‘Smells like Teen spirit’ by Nirvana, but then again, maybe I didn’t..
BBS, Kang, X-amount, Mr & Mrs Scoobie, SuperD and Maria all seemed to materialise from the darkness at one point, but then again, I may have also seen Jimi Hendrix playing chess with Homer Simpson in a corner by the fridges by this stage......
It was Buckley who woke me, looking drawn but relieved and satisfied.
“Mate. Everyone’s gone”
The first steely light of morning was throwing muted shadows outside as we picked ourselves up to wait for our taxi. I took one last lingering look at the view before shuffling down the long drive, and into Sunday morning.
In just a handful of hours, we’d be back at Space…
…to be continued…
