Mixed Feelings on the White Island (Ibiza)
The first time I ever flew on a plane, I was eighteen years old, back in 1995.
It was also the first time I’d ever had food poisoning — and unfortunately, the symptoms kicked in during the drive to Gatwick Airport for our flight to Ibiza. So, my maiden flight consisted of my mouth in a sick bag and my backside on and off the toilet seat. A glamorous start to my travelling career.
Despite that, Ibiza left its mark. I went back twice more within the next twelve months.
Fast‑forward 300‑plus flights, and there I was again — this time with my travel (and clubbing) partner, Anya.
The Flight: A Preview of Chaos
The flight was – lively.
A plane full of excitable youngsters drinking, swapping seats, and generally behaving like the party had already started.
Not at our seats though — we were reading our Kindles and trying to nap like the responsible adults we pretend to be.
Within an hour, the stewardess announced they’d run out of alcohol. Cue boos and jeers from the cabin. Cue a quiet cheer from me.
Suddenly I felt very old. What was I doing, aged thirty‑seven, on a flight to Ibiza surrounded by people young enough to be my children? While they were gearing up for a big night out popping pills, I was mentally planning how I would I get my own pills – paracetamol and Gaviscon. This was going to be some night.
As if that wasn’t enough, when the plane touched down, the cabin erupted into applause. I’ve seen this many times now, and it seems to be a uniquely British phenomenon. Being the grumpy old man that I am, I can’t stand it.
Should I clap my taxi driver when he drops me off? Applaud the waiter for bringing my food? I’d probably get slapped for sarcasm. I just don’t get it.
Ibiza Then vs Now
The dance scene of the 1990s was something special — a whole generation shaped by music and the club scene — and Ibiza was the beating heart.
Back then it was all about Amnesia, Es Paradis, and Space. Today, it’s still all about Amnesia, Es Paradis, and Space. Incredible how these clubs have survived everything and remain the island’s icons.
What has changed are the prices. Entry now ranges from €25 to €80. A small beer is €12 — roughly £15 a pint. This was always destined to be an alcohol‑free holiday.
But Ibiza isn’t just clubs and hedonism. Once you escape the resorts, it’s a beautiful island with a raw, rugged charm — the kind that attracted visitors long before the superclubs arrived.
San Antonio, the main resort town, is full of Brits with their tops off, drinking 2‑for‑1 cocktails and eating all‑day fry‑ups. One visit was enough to convince us to find a more authentic side of the island.
Scooters, Villages & The Ibiza We Loved
As usual, we rented a scooter and set off exploring. Within minutes we were cruising down empty roads with the wind in our hair and the sun on our faces, passing old churches, vineyards, farms, and stunning coastline.
We discovered villages like San Agustí, San Joan, and San Miguel — each with a little church, rustic buildings, and a slow, peaceful rhythm of life. This was the Ibiza I’d missed on previous trips, and I wasn’t letting it slip by again.
Ibiza Town — especially the old town — was the highlight. Quiet, cobbled streets, cool cafés, relaxed bars… With hindsight, we should’ve stayed there. We fell in love with it instantly.
Clubbing: The Reality Check
We did go clubbing twice.
First was the Friday night water party at Es Paradis, something I’d done years ago. At 5am, the bowl‑shaped dancefloor fills with water — and somehow, we actually managed to stay awake long enough to see it.
The second night was at the legendary Space, famous for its Sunday “day session” from 4:30pm to 12:00.
We arrived at 8pm, paid our €50 entry, and found only one of the four rooms open — and barely anyone inside. At €12 a beer, we weren’t drinking, so we sat chatting until it got busier around 10pm.
By almost midnight, after a couple of hours dancing, we were shattered and decided to leave.
Only then did we realise the other three rooms were just opening. We thought it odd given the club was closing shortly.
We headed outside, past the point of no return, and then it hit us – the club wasn’t closing at midnight — it was closing at midday the next day. We were leaving twelve hours early.
Outside, we passed the biggest queue I’ve ever seen — full of fresh‑faced youngsters just starting their night. They smirked at the oldies heading home. That was the moment I was officially declared old.
Goodbye, Ibiza
And so, in this never‑ending parade of goodbyes, we say farewell to Ibiza.
I’m sure I’ll be back — but next time I’ll double‑check the club closing times.
Those 90s club nights still tug at the heartstrings, and if Ibiza keeps the vibe alive, there’s always a chance to relive those memories.
I’m just not sure they’ll let my walking stick through security.
