Shady South American
Active Member
Part 1
Before we start, the more eagle-eyed amongst you will note I’ve written a few reviews before. In fact, I’ve posted on the Ibiza Spotlight forum under various guises over the years and penned some none too complimentary if not slightly incendiary things about the island in various intoxicated states. Looking back, my “the West End should be napalmed” comment probably wasn’t my finest hour but you live and learn. I even dedicated a chapter of my debut novel to various (mis)adventures across the island over the ensuing years. I guess I’m pretty hard to impress, not very diplomatic and just automatically call bullshit wherever I detect it. I don’t come on this forum to self-promote or to worm my way on to guestlists. I’m just fascinated by Spain and all its charms in all its corners. It probably isn't a coincidence that I am half-Spanish (or half-Catalan) and based in Barcelona, Ibiza’s spiritual older mainland brother. So I keep returning, because despite all its flaws, I am slightly in love with the place and feel a connection I can't quite identify.
Yes, even this greying, jaded rave carcass retains a romantic streak...
Well, how can you not on the Napoles, the Balearia ferry entrusted with getting my car, my girlfriend and I to Ibiza. It takes over eight hours from Barcelona but the service is excellent, the restaurant is good value and the cabins are an essential element to sea travel.
Sadly, Balearia dock in the old town just a little too early for sunrise in September, so we found ourselves driving around with nine hours to kill before we could check in at our Cala Gracio apartment. There is an eerie early morning quiet about Ibiza’s east coast at that time. You’re too late for the clubbers and too early for the sunworshippers. It is therefore the perfect time of day to head to the beach before it gets overrun.
On the first morning, we passed several beaches along the east coast and decided to forsake the ‘charms’ of the empty sunloungers at the Jacaranda Lounge (which I noticed carried prominent advertising for a special PA from Bryan McFadden! Witness the shitness, I muttered..) for the more authentic beauty of Cala Nova, near the Punto Verde. I have a longstanding fondness for lawless parking in Spain, dusty sandpits under trees in woods, where the deafening sound of crickets punctuates the summer air. A short walk away you arrive at one of the cleanest beaches in Ibiza with seawater which can only be described as pristine.
It was the kind of water to completely submerge yourself in until you realised you were running late for an appointment with a slightly neurotic and impatient holiday letting agent in Cala Gracio. We found it easily enough, nestled on a backstreet in the shadows of the notorious Hotel Tanit (deafening Katy Perry by the swimming pool anyone?) Our street appeared to have no name and seemed to be populated by abandoned buildings including at least one squat – a pretty smelly and dirty outpost on San An’s northern flank. Our balcony looked out on to a discarded cement mixer and an abandoned speedboat. The carreterra connected San An to Cala Gracio and the beaches beyond. I had been to Cala Gracio before, specifically the Chiringuito and the Putumayo Café (from whence legendary stories and lifelong friendships were formed in 2010). On this occasion both disappointed. Perhaps it was the bad music or the rubbish strewn everywhere or the baboons drinking San Miguels in the water. I really couldn’t say.
At this point I could easily slaughter San An as I did all those years ago – rehashing ancient groans about the ‘wrong’ English, divs and bad attitudes, and above all the sheer anachronism of skyscraper resorts in 2016. I could also rant about the intimidating bar props working the streets, preying on the young and stupidly drunk, the seediness of the sex trade and the seriously shit music options, but despite all of that, at its core the town still has a heart, there is still a Spanish presence to be felt and the staff at the Manchego and Capriccis restaurants were incredibly friendly to us whilst the staff at the fairground gave us ages on the dodgems. We met a genial old Yorkshireman called John who works at one of the more old-fashioned hotels; he was one of the first Brits to arrive in the town in the sixties as it opened up. A wonderful man with fantastic stories, untainted by any cynicism. As the Spanish consider ways of reinventing the resort I really hope the likes of John survive.
It was from San An that we hired a boat through the excellent Star Boats with our Scottish pals, who were staying at the Costa Mar. We headed for Cala Bassa. Its beach could well be a template for high-tempo resorts the world over. And I’m not sure I like it. Line upon line of symmetrically ordered sunloungers and bali beds and overpriced cuisine. Whilst a DJ synced deafening, beefed up remixes on a terrible system, with badly bouncing sound, featuring snippets of samples of well known hits. Dennis Ferrer Hey Hey, Moby Go, Mr Scruff Get a Move On all stood out as rare incidents of music amidst the tedious tech house dross.
Sampled snippets would appear to be all the rage this season, darling…
Around him I noticed nobody else seemed to care. Some bald, jobbing DJ going through the motions.
The water was as nice as Cala Nova. The fish came out to play. Life was good. And the fast food hut tucked out of the way at the very end of the beach suited my needs perfectly.
All week we ate sensational food. I particularly enjoyed the bbq lamb at Chimichurri buffet and the veal burger at a place on Carrer Bisbe (I think) in the old town. My girlfriend was charmed by D’Alt Villa (who isn’t?!) although we somehow resisted the lure of the Christopher Columbus museum. In full tourist mode we did however do some sightseeing at the amazing caves at Cova San Marça, in San Miguel, which was used by contraband smugglers until the Guardia Civil got wise to them in the 1950s. From there it was a short drive to Benirras to reacquaint ourselves with the drummers. I’m not sure why Sundays enjoy such cult status there when you can hear them most days of the week. The old guys were joined by a woman in shades on a tambourine who bore a suspicious resemblance to Annie Nightingale. Each of them were infinitely more genuine than the fake hippy types Las Dalias seems to attract these days. We stopped off there too en route somewhere, probably when we were lost.
I think that’s why I’m drawn to the old Ibiza, a playground for the freaks, the misfits, the nudists, the party animals.
And where they go, we follow..
Before we start, the more eagle-eyed amongst you will note I’ve written a few reviews before. In fact, I’ve posted on the Ibiza Spotlight forum under various guises over the years and penned some none too complimentary if not slightly incendiary things about the island in various intoxicated states. Looking back, my “the West End should be napalmed” comment probably wasn’t my finest hour but you live and learn. I even dedicated a chapter of my debut novel to various (mis)adventures across the island over the ensuing years. I guess I’m pretty hard to impress, not very diplomatic and just automatically call bullshit wherever I detect it. I don’t come on this forum to self-promote or to worm my way on to guestlists. I’m just fascinated by Spain and all its charms in all its corners. It probably isn't a coincidence that I am half-Spanish (or half-Catalan) and based in Barcelona, Ibiza’s spiritual older mainland brother. So I keep returning, because despite all its flaws, I am slightly in love with the place and feel a connection I can't quite identify.
Yes, even this greying, jaded rave carcass retains a romantic streak...
Well, how can you not on the Napoles, the Balearia ferry entrusted with getting my car, my girlfriend and I to Ibiza. It takes over eight hours from Barcelona but the service is excellent, the restaurant is good value and the cabins are an essential element to sea travel.
Sadly, Balearia dock in the old town just a little too early for sunrise in September, so we found ourselves driving around with nine hours to kill before we could check in at our Cala Gracio apartment. There is an eerie early morning quiet about Ibiza’s east coast at that time. You’re too late for the clubbers and too early for the sunworshippers. It is therefore the perfect time of day to head to the beach before it gets overrun.
On the first morning, we passed several beaches along the east coast and decided to forsake the ‘charms’ of the empty sunloungers at the Jacaranda Lounge (which I noticed carried prominent advertising for a special PA from Bryan McFadden! Witness the shitness, I muttered..) for the more authentic beauty of Cala Nova, near the Punto Verde. I have a longstanding fondness for lawless parking in Spain, dusty sandpits under trees in woods, where the deafening sound of crickets punctuates the summer air. A short walk away you arrive at one of the cleanest beaches in Ibiza with seawater which can only be described as pristine.
It was the kind of water to completely submerge yourself in until you realised you were running late for an appointment with a slightly neurotic and impatient holiday letting agent in Cala Gracio. We found it easily enough, nestled on a backstreet in the shadows of the notorious Hotel Tanit (deafening Katy Perry by the swimming pool anyone?) Our street appeared to have no name and seemed to be populated by abandoned buildings including at least one squat – a pretty smelly and dirty outpost on San An’s northern flank. Our balcony looked out on to a discarded cement mixer and an abandoned speedboat. The carreterra connected San An to Cala Gracio and the beaches beyond. I had been to Cala Gracio before, specifically the Chiringuito and the Putumayo Café (from whence legendary stories and lifelong friendships were formed in 2010). On this occasion both disappointed. Perhaps it was the bad music or the rubbish strewn everywhere or the baboons drinking San Miguels in the water. I really couldn’t say.
At this point I could easily slaughter San An as I did all those years ago – rehashing ancient groans about the ‘wrong’ English, divs and bad attitudes, and above all the sheer anachronism of skyscraper resorts in 2016. I could also rant about the intimidating bar props working the streets, preying on the young and stupidly drunk, the seediness of the sex trade and the seriously shit music options, but despite all of that, at its core the town still has a heart, there is still a Spanish presence to be felt and the staff at the Manchego and Capriccis restaurants were incredibly friendly to us whilst the staff at the fairground gave us ages on the dodgems. We met a genial old Yorkshireman called John who works at one of the more old-fashioned hotels; he was one of the first Brits to arrive in the town in the sixties as it opened up. A wonderful man with fantastic stories, untainted by any cynicism. As the Spanish consider ways of reinventing the resort I really hope the likes of John survive.
It was from San An that we hired a boat through the excellent Star Boats with our Scottish pals, who were staying at the Costa Mar. We headed for Cala Bassa. Its beach could well be a template for high-tempo resorts the world over. And I’m not sure I like it. Line upon line of symmetrically ordered sunloungers and bali beds and overpriced cuisine. Whilst a DJ synced deafening, beefed up remixes on a terrible system, with badly bouncing sound, featuring snippets of samples of well known hits. Dennis Ferrer Hey Hey, Moby Go, Mr Scruff Get a Move On all stood out as rare incidents of music amidst the tedious tech house dross.
Sampled snippets would appear to be all the rage this season, darling…
Around him I noticed nobody else seemed to care. Some bald, jobbing DJ going through the motions.
The water was as nice as Cala Nova. The fish came out to play. Life was good. And the fast food hut tucked out of the way at the very end of the beach suited my needs perfectly.
All week we ate sensational food. I particularly enjoyed the bbq lamb at Chimichurri buffet and the veal burger at a place on Carrer Bisbe (I think) in the old town. My girlfriend was charmed by D’Alt Villa (who isn’t?!) although we somehow resisted the lure of the Christopher Columbus museum. In full tourist mode we did however do some sightseeing at the amazing caves at Cova San Marça, in San Miguel, which was used by contraband smugglers until the Guardia Civil got wise to them in the 1950s. From there it was a short drive to Benirras to reacquaint ourselves with the drummers. I’m not sure why Sundays enjoy such cult status there when you can hear them most days of the week. The old guys were joined by a woman in shades on a tambourine who bore a suspicious resemblance to Annie Nightingale. Each of them were infinitely more genuine than the fake hippy types Las Dalias seems to attract these days. We stopped off there too en route somewhere, probably when we were lost.
I think that’s why I’m drawn to the old Ibiza, a playground for the freaks, the misfits, the nudists, the party animals.
And where they go, we follow..
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