I first came to Ibiza in 2011 with my family. I was 15, and somehow convinced my mum that shisha wasn’t the same as smoking. I didn’t go clubbing, but I spent the whole trip plotting how to sneak into Space or Amnesia. I never made it. 14 years later, here we are.
I was asked to attend Mau P’s residency at the world-famous night club, Pacha, now also with Pacha Restaurant and Paradiso in the family. Of course I said yes—I love holidays, I love dancing, and most of all I love giving people my deranged opinions and bad advice. So, here’s my guide to Ibiza…
The cherries.
Let’s start with those famous cherries. Everywhere you look on this magical island, you’ll see them. Glistening red cherries—plastered across buses, slapped on cans of branded water, scattered across T-shirts, even freshly tattooed on island dwellers. Every time you spot one, I dare you to slam a can of San Miguel or a shot of tequila. Good luck.
Inside Pacha, funnily enough, is where you’ll see the least amount of branding—excluding the giant silver cherries hovering above the crowd. After catching up with Mau P, he tells me frankly that we’re in the best place to dance on the island and that the food at Jondal is worth the hype. He also says you can’t cheat a hangover. Water’s the only solution.
I ran down the stairs to see if the rumours are true. I scan my contactless wristband to get into the seated section behind the decks. Mau’s set is super fun. In my delusion, I remember dancing dangerously close to several groups of people who I decide must own yachts. Maybe they’ll invite me aboard, I think. Spoiler: they don’t. I stumble back into my hotel room around 6 a.m., disappointed but content.
The hangover.
Ignoring Mau’s advice, I drank almost no water. By 3 p.m., I stumble out of my hotel room with one of my worst hangovers and head to the Old Town. It’s very boho, very Ibiza. There’s lots of trinkets, way too many stores selling woven hats and baskets, and cocktail bars at every turn. I keep seeing a Brat green convertible Jeep and convince myself I’m going insane. I buy some swim shorts from Gimaguas, down several Aperol’s to make myself feel normal again, then head back to the Pacha hotel bar for a nightcap.
The detox.
The rest of the trip felt like a chaotic detox. I leave Old Town for a nondescript beach town tucked within a cove. The next two days are spent doing the absolute bare minimum—sitting in the sun and rummaging through gift shops for fridge magnets.
Because of the location, I ended up getting a lot of taxis. Which leads to my second favourite club: the backseat of a cab listening to 97.6 FM. This was exactly the kind of music I wanted to hear, including a Pitbull remixes, Armand Van Helden, and Calvin Harris. Bonus: most journeys cost less than a single drink at one of the clubs, let alone the entrance fee.
The food.
When it comes to dining, I’m famously not a foodie. But who cares about food when it’s over 30° (that’s 86°, America). In true Brits-abroad style, I stick to a strict diet of ham and cheese toasties with a pint—occasionally with a Fanta Lemon topper! Gourmet.
After lying on the beach for 4 hours staring into the trees and watching a kid named Max pretend to be a sandworm, a man appears out of nowhere screaming, “It’s freaking happy hour!” I accept his voucher. When I stand up, I realize I should’ve applied suncream three hours earlier. I was cooked—mind, body, and soul.
San Antonio.
On my final afternoon, I head to San Antonio. This is where you’d expect to find Jack Kay, the infamous final boss of Ibiza. But at 2 p.m., the place feels like a ghost town. No sights of Kay. Instead, I stumble upon a hat-trick of bars: a Scottish one (The Highlander), an Irish one (Shenanigans), and a Welsh one (Delilah’s).
I order a ham and cheese toastie (of course) from Shenanigans and watch the bars slowly fill up. Absorb the chaos, but do not stare. The Highlander is famous for a toxic green drink called Venom. I didn’t order one, but the barstaff tells me it’s a mix of Southern comfort, WKD, and a bunch of other stuff I can’t remember—none of which are green.
The finale.
For the grand finale, I recommend renting a boat to watch the sunset. Even better if you take your crush! For the first time all trip, I truly feel like I’m on holiday—or at least a romanticised version I’d imagined.
You get a choice: sail north, towards the tourists, or south, into paradise. Imagine if I said north. I snorkel, smoke, sip tiny cans of beer, and play cards. Another useful tip: learn at least one card game that isn’t Snap. I go with Shithead. (Google it—I got ChatGPT to write me a recap of the rules.)
As the sun sinks into the horizon, I step off the boat and disappear into San Antonio for one last hurrah. Maybe I’ll finally try a Venom.
My List.
Pacha – Old Town
Gimaguas – Old Town
TKO Tacos – Old Town
Shenanigans – San Antonio
The Highlander – San Antonio
KFC – San Antonio
Flippers – Cala Llonga
Beach – Cala Llonga