I write from a beach in Ibiza. To my left, three men are sheltering under my sunshade and frowning out to sea. Their arms are folded across their chests and they are discussing London property prices. ‘Fifteen million,’ one is saying, ‘for a flat in Eaton Square. It’s broken some kind of record, apparently.’ The other two make noises which could indicate awe or disgust, I cannot tell. On my right, two women are picking at their bare feet and comparing primary schools in Notting Hill. Then one lowers her voice — the pitch, not the volume — and announces that a married friend of hers is having an affair.
‘It’s so awful,’ she says, her voice sepulchral, ‘being the only one who knows.’
‘Is this the same one you were telling me about the other night?’ asks her friend, yawning.
‘Did I?’ says the first, discomfited. ‘God I must have been pissed.’
Not all of Ibiza is like this. In the early morning, in groves of almond, fig and olive trees, the rising sun touches the red soil to flare it orange, and flights of partridge quiver from beneath my feet into a silvery dawn sky. I walk through tangled patches of wild fennel, or along paths which wind through shushing pine woods and down steep, blond cliffs to the sea. Scrambling across rocks I find places to slide into the emerald water and float above foot-long fishes, who drift in circles beneath me.
But Ibiza was named by the Phoenicians after their goddess of music and dance, Bes, and despite the best efforts of the most recent government to change its reputation, in August there are parties every night. During my stay there is a party at the home of a banker who is so keen to honour the island’s emblematic goddess that he has built a temple to her in his garden: a private, subterranean nightclub.
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