There’s nothing like a free holiday. Thanks to a banking ‘cash-rich, time-poor’ brother, a girlfriend and I jumped on a plane and headed to his empty finca in the hills of Ibiza. Our mission was to give it a lick of paint in return for a fortnight’s free board. The pool was green and fetid and there was no electricity or running water, but it was hot during the day, cool and mosquito-less at night and we could happily cope with an ancient generator and the odd pee in the garden for two weeks of such sun-soaked serenity.
Call me a hippy (I’m not), but there really is an element of magic about this enchanted isle. Yes, it’s the clubbing epicentre of Europe, but off-season it is a haven of tranquillity and calm. They say the rock of Es Vedra gives off some kind of mystical energy (something to do with Odysseus and an alleged magnetism that makes navigational tools go haywire).
So perhaps it was that, perhaps it wasn’t, but we had a ball. Resolved to capitalise on familial generosity and our good fortune, we packed some books, rented a car and bought a map: the island was ours.
The beauty of Ibiza in May is a distinct lack of ‘Brits on tour’. The clubs aren’t open and the sea is still pretty chilly — quite enough to keep Wayne and Waynetta away. Instead, fellow holidayers were mostly Spanish — much my preferred choice of beach companion. Lying on a beach with not an Adidas-wearing lobster in sight or an English voice within earshot is some kind of heaven.
Our days took on a pretty simple routine. After some minimal household maintenance (the finca’s refurb coming pretty low on our list of priorities), we’d head to our local village of Jesus for a café con leche and pick up a carton of gazpacho and some quiches from the bakery before heading seaward.
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