There is nothing like Day Two of a holiday. It’s that day where you get your bearings and decide whether you have made an almighty expensive mistake or not. I’m trying not to remember the yurt.
I braced myself and drove down to the beach. Which was unnecessary but practice is practice.
It was deserted. And stunning. And frankly a bit too windy. We went back to the apartments and tried the beer.
It did feel slightly like being in an episode of Eldorado with a very limited cast. There were two bars and a pub open while we were there. The first bar was by a wonderful pool and can be summed up with the words we were greeted with – “We are Chelsea”. They are also great fans of 1980s music. Not a smattering of a Spanish accent here despite 16 years in Ibiza and a menu based heavily around bacon and eggs. Excellent lager, extremely strong Sangria and a neverending freezer full of ice cream.
The other bar was run by a beautiful Spanish girl and her tanned tattooed muscle bound British boyfriend. Cocktails and tortillas.
And finally the pub run by an Ibizan who seemed to have never been to the other side of the island and who had learned his English accent from Harry Enfield. He showed us a tortoise he was keeping in a crate. I’m still not entirely sure why. They were all welcoming and fantastic, even if the contrast was a bit bonkers.
We chose the upper pool and bar for the first afternoon’s relaxing. It was silent for a while but there had been a wedding on and guests started to appear out of the woodwork looking worse for wear. They perked up and started jumping in the pool. We began to feel like we were gatecrashing an episode of The Only Way is Essex – Abroad.
We went to the lower bar, drank beer and ate tortillas. I was back in Eldorado and all was well.
The kids were in the pool and in heaven. We were on holiday and I didn’t have to drive again for at least another 12 hours.