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The sun’ll come out… tomorrow!

The sun’ll come out… tomorrow! Well, that’s what my trusty little iPhone weather app tells me, and even as I look out my windows now, there’s sunshine peeking through the clouds. Damn. I was really enjoying that gloom and doom of the past few days. I do love Ibiza in the rain. I find it so calming, so beautiful, so inspiring. Anyway, it seems I’ve still got just enough time to write my annual blog about Ibiza’s downpours before the heatwave returns… and as I gaze back over the previous years’ rain-themed entries, I couldn’t help but wonder. Is August actually Ibiza’s own version of a ‘wet season’? Albeit mighty brief? Every year the island gets absolutely hammered by electrical storms, biblical downpours and suffers severe damages at the hands of Mother Nature… and every year, we seem totally shocked and surprised!

Shouldn’t we start taking notes of the annual storms and predict the next year’s big hit, preparing ahead to protect our properties and businesses, stay indoors and off the roads and just sit back and marvel at the sheer wonder of it, rather than flail around in shock and react to the damage? It’s all well and good for me to say this now. Yesterday I spent a grand total of two hours and 40 minutes INSIDE MY CAR for the duration of said storm. I’d offered to drive Mr D – who only has a scooter and was thus rendered transportless in the rain – from Es Cavallet through to a quick pit stop Ibiza town and then onto Bambuddha. A trip that should take no more than an hour, TOPS. And yet there I was, in gridlock like I have never, ever seen before, while the water in the streets was rising to flood level and causing many cars to break down, or worse, crash.

It was chaos like nothing I have ever seen before in Ibiza. All the way there and back. So at least I wasn’t the only one. People talk about the infrastructure of the island not being able to cope with the influx of tourists in peak season, but I think we need to start worrying about the influx of water. At least all those extra people can help us scoop buckets of water out of our flooded basements! According to Spanish State Meteorological Agency, AEMET (and another lovely website who kindly shared this fact with me earlier!), a total of 37.4 litres of rain fell per square metre over the course of the day yesterday with a maximum intensity of 108 litres per square metre. Just think of that in terms of those huge five litre bottles you buy in the Eroski, stacked up in all the corners of your house/villa/hotel/apartment… that’s a whole lotta water! When I finally got home (frazzled is an understatement), a quick scroll through my Facebook news feed showed the carnage that had taken place whilst I’d been holed up in the car.

Many of the shops in Ibiza’s shopping district, La Marina, had flooded, as had the bars in the port, many needing the assistance of the fire department to pump the water OUT to avoid damaging electrics. The tunnel on the way from Ibiza town to the airport was officially closed, as it became an unofficial waterslide. The seawater at Talamanca rose completely to the shore, reaching the restaurants and walkway – and matching the depth of the nearby flooded road. Outdoor venues were forced to close as it was too dangerous to continue operating. Luxe villas were all without power. Drains and sewage systems were exploding everywhere (ick). The canals by Pacha had swollen to the size of a rough river. Trees were falling down, the stone walls of Dalt Vila were creating mini-avalanches onto parked cars and the surrounding rocky hillside of Los Molinos was coming down like a landslide. And of course, all those posh superyachts I so love were rendered virtually useless. And that was just in a matter of hours! It wasn’t all bad of course.

I also saw pics of tourists floating through the flooded streets of Bossa on their fluoro lilos with beer, making the most of he mayhem. I saw many an island worker gloating that they could finally take a day off in busy August as their venues were closed for a night. Much to my amusement, I still saw people swimming and taking selfies. I saw amateur photographers become household names overnight due to lucky storm snaps. And, best of all, I can imagine the island’s dry landscape springing back to life and lush greenery, our empty reservoirs filling with water and our farmers finally happy. So – will we learn from the storms of last night and today? Will we patch up our damages and just get back to business as usual? Or will we remember to protect against the inevitable downpours next summer before their arrival? Err, and should we warn the holidaymakers who spend all their hard earned cash on August holidays? Only time will tell… watch this space next year! In the meantime – enjoy Ibiza’s 300 OTHER days of sunshine!

Who’s watching Italy?

Ciao readers! As I write this, I feel a little unsure about what country I am actually sitting and typing in, as I am completely surrounded by Italians (which leads me to wonder, is there a collective noun for a group of Italians?). Wherever I go this month, this is the case – on the beaches, in bars, restaurants, in clubs and even while shopping. I am hearing a steady stream of ‘come stai, mol to bello, ciao regazzi, scuza and prego’ (of course these are the only words I recognise) and there’s been a definite rise in the amount of designer sunglasses and designer stubble – not to mention scooters – on the streets. No, I haven’t been teleported to Italy in my sleep. It’s merely August, when the entire Italian population (seemingly) decamp to Ibiza for their summer vacation period, also known as Ferragosto.

Having such a high concentration of Italians in one place guarantees a lot of pizza and pasta restaurants popping up in Ibiza, and there are also quite a few high end trattorias, osterias and chi-chi fine dining restaurants serving up food even finer than Mamma or Nonna used to make (though ask their authentic Italian guests and they’ll loyally swear Nonna’s is better – such is the Italian way), which is great for me, since my favourite type of cuisine ever is… you guessed it, Italiano. Mmmmm, lasagne, risotto, spaghetti, rigatoni, linguine, paccheri… these words are like music to my ears, and the flavours are like heaven on a plate. But I digress (and now I’m hungry). It also guarantees a huge influx of beautiful, teensy tiny tanned Italian girls in itsy bitsy bikinis – making people like me feel like beached white whales next to them on the beach – and by their side, crews of handsome chiselled, Speedo-wearing men (just think Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue advertising campaigns).

Italians seem to stick together (there’s that loyalty again), even on holiday, which is why you’ll always spy them in big family-sized groups – whether its commandeering a row of sun loungers on Playa d’en Bossa or taking up half the dance floor at DC10. Speaking of clubs, you’ll notice this month’s clubbing line-ups being peppered with more classic Italian names than the other months of the year (to satisfy those loyal fans who want to stick to their own) – think a roll call like Claudio Coccoluto, DJ Ralf, Benny Benassi, Tommy Vee et al. In Formentera, it’s little the Balearics own ‘Little Italy.’ So big are the Italian communities there – expat, not just the Ferragosto crew – that in some parts of the island, the restaurant menus are written in Italian before Spanish, and I’ve even had the experience of being served by a waitress who spoke Italian and English, but not Español! Again – the food was totally out of this world.

Another thing I’ve noticed, is Italians are loud (and proud!). Before one person has finished talking, the next in the group raises their voice and begins to speak, and so on and so forth, until the decibel level almost requires earplugs. But they’re not being rude. This is just the way it is. And of course, they are also well-known for talking with their hands, which makes for groups of wildly waving arms and voices raised to shouting levels – but for all you know, they’re probably just talking about the weather. Italians are also big fans of PDAs (public displays of affection, in case you didn’t know), and it just warms my heart every time I see guys kissing hello without any hesitation! And their style! I think Italians are quite literally born with it. It’s not something you can learn, or that money can buy.

Believe me – if I could squeeze myself into a tiny black slip dress, cover my arms with elegant tattoos and sport winged eyeliner and red lipstick together the way these stunning girls do… well, my life could almost be complete. Though in my case, squeezing into said slip dress would probably mean having to give up pasta and risotto forever… and I’m not sure I could ever commit to that. There is indeed a saying, ‘Italians do it better’ and I have to agree when it comes to food and fashion, no doubt about it (as for all those other rumours, well, I can’t say I’ve ever had the err, pleasure of experiencing). Ti amo, mis amigos Italianos – you make our island a much prettier, more stylish and delicious place – albeit a little noisy and overcrowded in August! But perhaps the real question we should be asking here is – if the who’s who of Italians are all here in Ibiza and Formentera, who’s watching Italy?

AWE-gust has arrived

Take a deep breath – it’s that time of year again. August has arrived – the month of big spenders, big bucks, big boats and big stars. Big queues, big parties and even bigger after parties. That’s right folks, August has arrived. Or, as I prefer to think of it, AWE-gust. I mean, love it or hate it, you have to admit, some things about the month are indeed awe inspiring. For example, my jaw drops at the sight of the gazillions of super yachts moored in the port each and every night – and it drops even lower when I spy the SUPER superyachts dropping anchor just away from the ports, in between Los Molinos and Figueretes or off the coast of San Antonio.

A quick roll call sees most of the big guns have already cruised into the Balearics. The iconic ‘A’ (owned by Russian billionaire Andrey Melnichenko and famed for its Phillipe Starck design in addition to its 119-metre mass), Prince Abdul Aziz (owned by the Saudi Arabia Royal Family and so big it even features a replica Titanic lobby – yes, really), ‘Eclipse’ (Abramovich’s current baby featuring two swimming pools, two helipads, a cinema, a mini-submarine and its own missile defence system – yes, really again) and the ‘Radiant’ (a 110-metre retro style beauty owned by a sheik from Dubai), plus many, many more. Just take a stroll through the newly redeveloped port in Ibiza town if you want your mind to be blown. The size. The quality. The value – we’re talking up to around 860,000,000€ for some – but that’s just a drop in the ocean for some of these players (sorry, couldn’t help myself). Join the throes of people milling around on shore, all hoping for the chance to sneak a peek onboard, and catch a glimpse of a lifestyle that is so very nearly impossible for most people in the world, but that is happening right here under our noses each and every day throughout AWE-gust.

You may might be wondering how I know so much about the inside of these superyachts, and while I’d like to report that I’ve been sailing on them by day and partying on them every night, I’m going to admit the truth – I merely have an addiction to Superyacht Times. Yes, such a publication exists. Such is the world of superyachts. I remember being fascinated with the concept of a super yacht after the first time I ever caught sight of the A, while on a humble sailboat (that at the time I thought was pretty damn special) en route to Formentera. From then on I’d Google the names of the mega boats I’d see in the water or moored in the port each summer. But really – what do these people DO on their superyachts all day?

Do you really need that much space while you’re at sea? If you have 65 bedrooms, does that mean you have 65 guests, or are they just for show? Are they like regular boats, where all the cupboards have magnets to ensure they don’t fly open when a wave comes? How many staff are onboard? How long does it take to clean the windows? Is your WiFI signal stronger because you’re on a superyacht? Does cava – oops, sorry, I mean champagne – taste better on a superyacht? If you own a superyacht, do you have The Lonely Island’s ‘I’m on a boat’ as your phone’s ringtone? Where do you order your helicopter to take you once it’s picked you up – is Ibiza traffic that bad? Can you take the submarine for a joyride? Does a boat that big make you feel like a teensy tiny human being? One day I hope to board a superyacht and ask all these questions. Who knows, this AWE-gust could be my lucky month!

The true taste of Ibiza

From summer 2015, Tina Soriano and Lucas Prats, owners of the idyllic boutique hotel Can Lluc in the heart of the San Rafael countryside, welcome guests to the newly opened Can Lluc Restaurant; a stylish and sophisticated eatery enabling more visitors to experience the true spirit – and tastes – of Ibiza, in a haven of tranquillity. Set on the Can Lluc estate, just outside the tiny village of San Rafael and surrounded by pine forest, almond and olive trees, Can Lluc feels a million miles away from anywhere, without actually being far away at all. Tina Soriano explains, “Can Lluc is a special place; somewhere people breathe deeply, relax, feel at peace, and connect with nature. We wanted more people to experience this, so, two years ago, we started making plans to create a restaurant and event space, which hotel and non-hotel guests alike could experience and enjoy.”

The result is an elegant, and lovingly creating restaurant under the stars, which serves diners the ultimate Ibiza dining experience. A magnetic atmosphere is created with the warmth of maitre d’restaurant Julian and the sights, scents and sounds of the magical setting. Can Lluc is a place to sip cocktails as the sun sets over the campo, and ease into an evening of sumptuous Ibicenco fare. The menu includes an array of grilled meats, fresh seafood and vegetarian dishes, all made with quality, locally sourced, Ibizan ingredients, or homegrown produce such as the Can Lluc figs, almonds and wine. The new cuisine offering at Can Lluc has been heavily shaped by new head chef, Manuel Anton, appointed six months ago. As the godson of the legendary Doña Margarita (a once-famous Ibiza restaurant in the 70s, 80s and 90s), he was born to be a chef, and sent off to the mainland be trained accordingly as a youngster. Following his work at Doña Margarita, Manuel worked at the immensely successful El Naranja, Santa Eulalia and Sa Punta.

Today at Can Lluc restaurant, the Ibiza born and bred Manuel combines his love and knowledge of local cuisine with his global culinary experience. Aligned with Tina and Lucas’s desire to share the best of Ibiza, Manuel has developed a close bond of trust with Can Lluc’s owners, and together they have worked to produce “a new feeling.”  Tina fondly remarks, “Manuel sends me Whatsapps with pictures of the big fish he buys at the market each day. He is always taking care of sourcing the best produce.” The menu is based on traditional Ibicenco cuisine, with some fabulous international twists. Starters include Avocado with Mexican Salsa, where the ripe creamy avocado contrasts perfectly with the heat of chilli salsa, and Can Lluc’s own Gazpacho – a dish no Ibiza menu would be complete without! For mains, there are a selection of paellas to share, including the meaty Ibiza crab and octopus medley, simple meat dishes such as Grilled Sirloin with Mushrooms and Home Grown Vegetables (served crunchy and fresher than fresh) and an array of fish dishes, including the succulent and aromatic, Cod Confit in Vanilla Oil. An intelligently paired wine menu is available, or guests can order to suit their own tastes.

A culture’s food says so much about its personality, at Can Lluc guests can sample dishes grown in Ibiza’s soil, created by its people and in a beautiful Ibiza setting; it’s a cyclical sensory journey of the island through sight, smell, touch, sound and taste. Everything at Can Lluc is about connections, here guests connect with the island and each other through the food, and create beautiful memories.

Why detox during party season?

That’s the question people have been asking me this week, as I’ve been toting my special detox pills, fibre sachets, drink flask and powdered shakes to every appointment and occasion. The consensus seems to be that most people prefer to detox before the season hits in April or May, or at the end of a hectic and toxic summer. But not me. I’ve never been a fan of doing what everyone else does just for the sake of it.

And that is why I decided to embark on a nine-day detox program as the months of July and August collide. Oh, and I also bumped into my lovely friend Miss M, who had just completed a detox of her own and looked SO amazing I simply had to have some of what she was having (dammit – maybe I DO do things other people do for the sake of it!).

There are a plethora of juice cleanses, detoxes and diet programmes available in Ibiza for those looking to kickstart a new healthy lifestyle, embark on a weight loss regime or totally detox their systems… whether you’re a year-round resident or looking for a relaxing, healthy detox retreat – but more on that in the latest edition of the White Ibiza Wellness Magazine (download FREE here).

In the meantime, if you need any more convincing, let me talk you through my own reasoning behind detoxing in peak season.

  1. It’s too hot to eat.
  2. It’s too hot to cook.
  3. The best restaurants are too busy to get a reservation.
  4. I’m so busy with work I don’t have time to eat.
  5. I’m so busy with work I don’t have time to go out for dinner!
  6. My friends are so busy with work they aren’t going out for dinners.
  7. I’m saving money by not drinking and dining out which means more funds to play with in the holy grail month of September.
  8. I plan to emerge from my detox like a butterfly from a cocoon – a (hopefuly skinny!) picture of good health instead of the usual August look of over-partied, over-tired bad skin and podgy fast-food belly.
  9. I’m actually brimming with energy thanks to all the fresh food and vitamins – not a single siesta has been taken since starting on the plan – and I feel like can tackle anything August throws at me, rather than waiting to hide under the covers. It’s like a mid-season energy top-up.
  10. I’m enjoying the smug feeling of getting up and glowing in the mornings while everyone in the office else is shaking off the night before’s hangover. Hey, it might only be nine days, but one may as well be sanctimonious while they can!

I’d offer to post before and after pictures, but, well, you know – anonymity and all that! You’ll just have to take my word for it…

Ibiza – A world forgotten

“As a child, I had a favourite book called The Magic Walking-stick. It was about a boy who had a walking-stick that was a kind of magic wand. By holding it and by making a wish, he could travel to anywhere in space and time. Looking back over my years in Ibiza, I realize that my travels in time have been to me as marvellous as the travels of the boy in the book. During these years, the ancient culture of Ibiza had passed away, evaporated. The great god Pan has truly died. From this side of the time-barrier, the age-old Ibiza that still existed twenty years ago seems as remote as the fabled kingdom of Solomon, and like that realm it can be revisited in the mind’s eye.”

So said famed Ibiza architect Rolph Blakstad in a (as yet unpublished in English) foreward to his book, La Casa Eivissenca. He goes on to continue the wonderful tale of a creative life that led him to settle in the Mediterranean. In 1951, the 21-year old Canadian history buff, painter, architect and filmmaker received the Emily Carr scholarship to study painting anywhere in the world. He chose Florence, Italy and alongside his wife Mary, headed to Europe for an adventure that saw them spend much time in museums, palaces and cathedrals, and most importantly, fell in love with the Mediterranean. After returning to Vancouver two years later to take up an opportunity to work in television, Rolph found himself with a feeling of ‘incompleteness’ around 1956.

Struck with a desire to go away for a year to paint and clear his head, he took a year’s leave of absence, knowing the Mediterranean was once again calling. “In Alicante we bought ticked for the boat to Mallorca via Ibiza. The night we sailed for Ibiza the air was warm, the sea calm. The little steamer was filled with islanders who, for one reason or another, had been visiting the mainland. Most of us slept on deck my wife and I shared a hatch cover with a family of gypsies. The night sky was filled with stars. There was a steady throb from the motors and the swishing sound of the bow waves, spreading outwards softly against the gentle swell. Dawn found us entering the harbour of Ibiza.

There was a bustle of preparations by the people on board, excited to be home, anxious to disembark. I suppose we felt what people had felt for centuries, coming into this little harbour bathed in the pale rose light of early morning. The peacefulness and calm was such that one sensed on was passing into a different realm, further away in time and space than could be measure by the night we had spent on the ship. The scene we had awakened to was distant, world forgotten, apart. The town itself was white, pyramidal, a terraced hill rsing from the sea with tier upon tier of crystalline cubic houses. The whole bay was bound together by great swathes of beige stone, the fortified walls. Beyond, ringing the whole bay, were mountain ranges of the kind you would imagine in a fairy tale. A kingdom in miniature. The light was incredibly clear: every detail of the distant farms and houses, every tree, seemed finer, more perfect – as when you look through the wrong end of a telescope.

The green farmlands came right to the shoreline of the bay. Hills covered with olive-trees came right up to the town walls. The quayside was lined with wooden sailing ships. The anchor was loosed. The chain sped out with a running clatter; our attention was suddenly brought to focus on the activity around us on the ship. People, recognizing friends on shore, waved excitedly, calling out jokes and greetings. It seemed that the whole town had gathered on the quayside. There was a warm, festive air. We were carried by a flow of passengers funnelling down the gangway into the waiting crowd on shore. The Ibizan women and girls were dressed in peasant costume. The men were dressed in faded well-washed cotton shorts and trousers. They seemed to be lounging together whether they were sitting or standing. To meet the boat was the great event of the day, a pleasure to experience even if you were not expecting friends. We had about an hour on shore before the ship was to depart, bound for Mallorca.

We headed up through the massive gates of the walled town. We felt exhilarated climbing the ancient, cobbled, winding streets. The houses seemed more vegetable than mineral, the softened contours appearing to grow organically out of the ground. It was impossible to absorb all of the details. There were balconies, stairways, tunnel-like passages twisting off in unexpected directions, tiny windows, people everywhere, women sitting in doorways intent on embroidering, children running. The whole town, streets and all, had an informal air of one huge living room shared by everybody. We did not feel like strangers. When we reached the Cathedral square, suddenly the view opened out over the whole bay and beyond, revealing range after range of miniature mountains.

The sun had risen, the light had changed from soft pink to the clear gold of a warm autumn morning. The sea beyond the harbour was deep ultramarine, the calm bay below was a paler blue, glowing from within with a soft white light, the reflections of the clouds floating overhead. Passing behind the Cathedral, we emerged to an even broader vista t the south, with the island of Formentera a thin line of pale blue in the distance. As we turned to descent to the port, we both knew that we had found a place in which we wished to live. We were on to Mallorca to see the island; we spent a week there, anxiously awaiting the next boat to Ibiza so we could settle in.”

Was it always this hot in July?

I’m asking a very serious question here. In all my Ibiza years, I don’t recall ever being THIS hot at this time of year. It’s like the island has melted into a big, soggy, humid, sticky, icky pile of… slush. Which, as a girl, is not the best type of weather to be getting glammed up in, let alone going out in… unless of course you go from the air conditioned villa, into the air conditioned car of your driver, and are taken directly to your plush air conditioned VIP table in a club, or lovely table in the fresh sea breeze in a beautiful Ibiza beach restaurant. Ahhh, but that’s another story.

At the moment, this is my life. Wake up, sweating. Before I’ve even opened my eyes. Take a cool shower to try and balance out my body temperature, but end up even hotter afterwards from the steamy little bathroom, and my wet hair feels like a wet fish slapping and sticking against my skin. But the thought of blasting the hair dryer literally fills me with dread.  In fact, there’s not even much point of putting on moisturiser, unless you want it to slide down your neck in a silky, slimy slick of sweat. Sexy? Oh I think not. I throw myself dramatically on the bed, shutters drawn, ceiling fan on full blast, trying to restore my temperature to normal.

Guzzling water, this takes around 10 minutes, give or take a cat or two climbing onto me and destroying all equilibrium. Then it’s time to get dressed. Cue an intense hunt for the lightest possible items of clothing in my wardrobe, throw on the exact same all-in-one loose fit genie jumpsuit as the day before, and the day before that (don’t worry, i have three in different patterns on rotation – they do go in the wash) and head back to the bathroom now the steam has dissipated, ready for the task of beautifying for the day ahead. Realise any smidgen of make-up will just slide right off my face before walking to my car (remember I live in the lovely pedestrianised Dalt Vila and must walk 10 minutes and up 97 stairs to reach my vehicle, a walk which I normally love because it’s so beautiful but actually… in the peak of summer… don’t love so much) so make do with a slick of mascara and tie my hair into some form of giant pineapple on the top of my head, just so that not a single stray hair can touch any of my clammy skin.

By 9am, it’s already too hot to eat breakfast on the roof terrace (I can tell because the poor kitties don’t want to put their little paws on the tiles and huddle beneath the shade of an aloe vera plant), so I close all my shutters and go back to hiding in the shaded kitchen, precariously balancing my teensy tiny desk fan on the counter so it keeps the moist wisps of hair from sticking to my face. Can’t face washing the dishes. Don’t want to put my hands in hot water. Grab what’s left of breakfast, along with the desk fan, to my desk to check my morning emails. Before I know it, time has escaped me and it’s nearly midday (does that happen to everyone else while they’re checking emails or is it just me?). I really need to get myself moving.

Clients coming to the office, photoshoots to attend, people to meet, places to go. But I’ve got to get up those fricking 97 stairs first. And now it’s the middle of the day, the sun is reaching its peak and I am going to feel like the wicked witch of the west after she was hit by a bucket of water by the time I open my car door. Did I mention I park my car in the blazing sunshine and it’s black? My own personal sauna, every day. By the time the air conditioning has kicked in (around seven minutes – trust me, I count them) and the perspiration has dried up, I manage to finally strategically apply make-up at every traffic light and by the time I make it to my destination, you’d never know what a traumatic experience I’d had just trying to get my day started. Anyway. Enough about me. Is anyone else finding it hotter than ever before? Brace yourselves… it’s nearly August! NB. Clearly the author absolutely loves it or would not be here!

The thing about summer birthdays…

So, I had a birthday yesterday. No surprise, it fell on the same day as every other year before. Nothing special. No plans. No fuss. Just the way I like it. You seem I’ve never been a big fan of birthdays. Don’t put my date of birth on Facebook, don’t mention it to anyone whose path I cross on the day (corner shop man, yoga teacher, clients, colleagues), don’t celebrate it at all. You may have noticed already, I like my anonymity (though secretly I do also really like gifts – hypocrisy is my middle name). It’s because to me, when your birthday falls in summer in Ibiza*, it just feels a bit much like hard work! *At the peak of summer, everyone is too busy to take time out of their schedules to celebrate with you.

This includes myself – the idea of taking a long boozy lunch break petrifies me because I know what the inbox count will be like when I get back to the office. *It’s exhausting, and embarrassing, being the centre of attention for a full day. I prefer to be at home, with my cats, watching re-runs of Friends. Now that is my ideal day! *The island does not need one more party – plus, who can compete with what’s on offer in the clubs anyway? But speaking of clubs, it’s impossible to have a good catch up with your mates there if that’s how you choose to celebrate – plus, it always turns out your fave DJs never play on your birthday. It’s like Ibiza law – you want DJ W!ld, you get Idris Elba.

*The shops are all in sale mode, so when you try to buy yourself a nice gift, there’s nothing to choose from except extra large autumn clothing that wasn’t popular the first time around.

*It’s too damn hot to eat, which spoils the idea of a nice lunch or dinner. It’s also chaos driving to and from restaurants, queuing for a table or missing out completely because they’re full!

*The post-birthday hangovers are much, much worse in summer. But here’s what I learned yesterday. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to celebrate your birthday for any or all of the above reasons. Birthdays – funnily enough – are not all about YOU. If you have a crew of good friends and a loving family, you might just find that you have no choice but to be celebrated. Like I did. Which is why I find myself now:

*With an overflowing inbox and mega elevated stress levels. *With a sore throat from talking constantly all day yesterday.

*With a handbag full of Flower Power promotional gear.

*Contemplating how I can customise the sale purchases that I will otherwise never wear

*Feeling nauseous from devouring too much rich food late last night.

*Sweating feverishly and suffering from an agonising hangover!

*Feeling totally grateful and loved. From the surprise Mars Bar sprouting a birthday candle and gifts in the office (thanks Miss A and Miss S!) and the amazing box of flamingo-shaped cupcakes for breakfast (thanks Mr D) to the impromptu sunset drinks and the bonus hip flask of mezcal that came with my dinner, plus beautiful messages from people all over the world, my birthday was totally awesome. Thank you to everyone who made it that way.

*Of course, summer birthdays are amazing if you happen to be in Ibiza on holiday. I did that once. Came here on a holiday for my birthday – never left.

Creating unforgettable gourmet experiences

It’s no coincidence that the owners of stylishly cool Ibiza beach club Babylon Beach are also the people behind the only certified organic livestock farm in Ibiza, C’an Pere Mussona. With direct and unfettered access to the best ingredients on the island it’s easy to see how the talented chefs here are able to deliver some of the most delicious dishes in town. Much of the produce used in the Babylon Beach kitchen literally comes from the field and the farm in the morning morning to arrive on the plate that very same afternoon. The head chefs work closely with the farmers to o cultivate exactly what the restaurant needs in terms of produce and livestock and also works on a day-to-day basis with the local fishermen to obtain the finest, freshest catches.

On the farm, lambs, chickens and indigenous black pigs plus mountains of vegetables are at Babylon Beach’s disposal. The very few things that aren’t found on the farm are purchased from local Ibicenco families in the region, meaning the daily menus really are completely local. The team greatly value their relationships with the farm and their other suppliers, all of whom visit the laboratory-style kitchen where they work together like scientists to come up with fresh and exciting new menu ideas. Absolutely every last dish on the tempting menu is fresher than fresh, from the chips and the salads to the steaks and the seafood, and Babylon Beach prides itself on keeping things homemade. Even the bread comes from their own onsite pop-up bakery – created when the owners couldn’t find a local supplier who met their strict high standards – today’s fresh-basked goodies are now all made with organic flour.

Taking inspiration from international street food – where simple dishes become super special – the provenance of the ingredients is paramount at Babylon and the brilliant chefs are also the key to their success. Filippo Alberi and Simone D’Elia hail from Tuscany, and together they are the perfect team. Having run a restaurant together in Italy and also worked together in London they have been the ying to the other’s yang for over ten years. Filippo is the creative and technical head – the ‘elegant’ one, they say – adding astonishing details worthy of a Michelin star, whilst Simone employs his more rustic yet equally delicious approach to the food and is the business mastermind, making sure they present the perfect plate at the right price to their clients.

Filippo and Simone perfect the Babylon Beach menus over several months, deconstructing classics and finding the best ways to reinvent them. The menu includes some usual beach club suspects, but redone in Babylon’s bespoke way. The burger for example, is not just any burger. The star chefs whip up the perfect combination of beef, fat and marrowbone to make it a real show-stopper. The seafood risotto is made with not one but three different homemade fish stocks. Babylon’s mashed potato is whipped with rosemary, thyme, egg and smoked salt and has a delicious crispy finish. Even the ice lollies are not exempt from the Babylon beach twist – think unique flavours such as homemade cheesecake varieties. The attention to detail is incredible. This is food to make you go silent. For an Ibiza gourmet experience that won’t be forgotten, Babylon Beach is a must-go – by day or by night.

Love wins

If you’re anything like me – and probably even if you’re nothing like me – your Facebook feed is currently awash with rainbow colours, as every man, woman and their dog (yes, I mean those people who make profile pages for pooches) has updated their profile picture with the Celebrate Pride app, in the name of, well, celebrating Pride. This virtual rainbow flag waving all started on the June 26, 2015 when Supreme Court of the United States of America finally legalised same-sex marriage, prompting a huge amount of support on social media (including the popular hashtag #lovewins) from people all around the globe. After all, when the White House speaks, many other governments listen (#comeonaustralia), so this can be seen as just the beginning.

Ibiza has always been known as a rainbow flag friendly destination. Spain was one of the first countries to legalise same-sex marriage in 2005, and as the wedding industry in Ibiza booms, so to does the influx of gay and lesbian weddings. Love definitely wins, when it chooses Ibiza as its wedding destination! And with a slew of specialist parties (more on that in tomorrow’s nightlife guide), dedicated gay-friendly beaches, an area full of predominantly gay bars in our bustling old town (plus everything else the island has to offer), and more stunning LGBT entertainers per square metre than on a stage with Kylie Minogue or Madonna – plus a laidback lifestyle and overall acceptance of anyone who chooses to be here, the island welcomes and loves those who love her back.

Anyway, I digress. Back to love. Over a million people used the app to put a translucent rainbow wash over their profile images within a few hours, and in the end, 26 million people in total around the world had changed their profile picture. Which – as with any social phenomenon – prompted the conspiracy theorists to declare we were all part of a social experiment by Facebook (who have always been known to support equal rights). But if it helps raise awareness of a relevant and important cause, does it matter? If you feel manipulated, don’t do it. Simple. There was even an uproar from a prominent gay journalist calling everyone who adopted the rainbow profile a ‘slacktivist’, declaring they didn’t have the right to claim gay pride if they hadn’t experienced the struggle. I see his point – and I’m the first to admit your average every day blogger like me does not understand the struggle from a personal point of view. But really? Support is support, and when 26 million rainbow coloured profile pictures are popping up in news feeds around the world daily, that’s got to contribute to making the world a brighter and better place, even if in the smallest of ways.

We’re all just people at the end of the day. Gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, straight. Dog lovers, cat lovers, vegetarians, vegans, carnivores, pescatarian, yoga enthusiasts, Pilates purists, gym bunnies, sofa surfers, workers, miners, farmers, bankers, teachers, writers, artists, musicians, homemakers, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, daughters, sons, grandparents. Human beings. Equals. Our skeletons are the same. Our bodies function the same way. Our blood runs red. As the five-night Gay Pride festival kicks off in Ibiza tonight, we should all take the opportunity to paint the island rainbow. Celebrate diversity and support the LGBT community who bring so much to the island in terms of colour, spirit and open-mindedness. The colour comes home!