Ibiza is an island, in the Mediterranean Sea. One which is sadly devoid of dinosaurs, although some of its inhabitants do look distinctly scaly.
When I went to Peru I hoped to find a bear and found a statue of one. There are no statues of velociraptors in Ibiza.
I stayed in the Sirenis Hotel Club Aura, a nice hotel off the pleasant Balearic Sea. Not to be mistaken for the Anchor Hotel Club Aura, a nice bar off the choppy North Atlantic Ocean.
The hotel resort was made up of apartment blocks, of varying designs. It seems Club Aura has been expanded multiple times with the quality of rooms varying dramatically. All of the facilities are shared, from the pools to the bar to the three restaurants. One of these must be dramatically better than the others because I was not able to find a reservation earlier than 9 o’clock. I have a strict, “before seven for food, after seven for booze” protocol to adhere to so the Teppanyaki restaurant had to be missed.
The pools were delightful to swim in. Worryingly, children seemed to find them delightful to defecate in. I witnessed several mass exoduses of the pools thanks to feral floaters.
The door keys were an interesting puzzle for the holiday. They constantly changed which doors they worked on leaving me locked out on more than two occasions. I still had access to my balcony though which was mere yards from the infinity pool, perfect for an afternoon dip before going in to watch Judge Rinder on the widescreen TV.
There is an open air “village” feel to the resort. Some degree of wildlife is expected in such circumstances. Ibiza wall lizards sneak out for a peak at the passing foreigners. No doubt I looked like some pale freaky creature to them. The resort has a bit of an ant problem in the same way that 1940’s Europe had a bit of a Nazi problem. The red ants marched into my room seeking food, shelter and the mass execution of the near indistinguishable black ants. After several days I could tolerate their incursions no more and plugged the gaps between the door and the ground with toilet roll. This sorted the problem but had the knock on effect of making me look crazy to the cleaners. A mosquito also found its place in my room, living there for several days despite my attempts to kill it. I named him Mitchell the Mosquito. Mitchell took quite the pleasure in displaying himself in clear view of me only to disappear as soon as I grabbed a book to swat him.
The hotels staff were very pleasant throughout my stay. The reps, Freya and Stewart, put on enthusiastic performances for the adults and children at night time.
The waiting staff had a decidedly Mediterranean attitude to drink deliverance. Slowly walking around the tables to occasionally deliver the complementary drinks, acting like a cross between The Dude (Big Lebowski) and Manuel (Fawlty Towers). The heavy heat exposure may be the root of their sluggishness but I assumed locals would be used to it in the same way that I am used to cloudy skies and drizzle.
On one of the days I tried to join in on an organised football match. Unfortunately I was the only one to turn up. The Rep suggested that we could have a one-on-one match but her thighs were muscular giving me reason to believe she would defeat me and, as a consequence, shatter my fragile masculinity. She asked if I wanted her to fetch some other competitors and I refused. The sun was melting my sun cream in weird streaks and if I didn’t top up soon my face would resemble the Spanish flag.
The scorching heat sapped my energy for much of the holiday forcing me to laze around. As lazing around is my primary mode of being, the status quo was not upset. The sun did drain my hydration levels and my liquid assets in Nivea,
which barely lasted till the end of the holiday.
I took a tour of the Island so I could soak up some of its culture and history. Our tour guide did much to assure us that the British and Irish tourists had ruined Ibiza and were drinking its water supply dry. This surprised me as I had assumed most of the liquids taken on the island were of an alcoholic nature. Tourism is, of course, the island’s main industry closely followed by the provision of salt and the engineering of several strains of antibacterial resistant gonorrhoea. The Tour led us to see a church, a beach, two tourist trapped towns, several mounds of unfarmed salt and a hippy market.
The hippy market was choc full of the sort of people who would give a Daily Mail reader an aneurism. It smelt like Jeremy Corbyn’s sweaty cycle shorts. The story of how I found out what Corbyn’s sweaty shorts smelt like is a long, convoluted and thankfully non-sordid tale. Let’s just say bicycle chains, unconventional road signs and personal renditions of S Club 7’s greatest hits is an explosive mix.
I was quite sad to leave Ibiza by the end. On my last night I renamed Mitchell the Mosquito to “Maximus Mosquitomus” for his daring exploits. That night he placed himself on the light switch, daring my finger to come close. I hurled a hard back copy of the latest Harry Potter book at him turning the lights and leaving me in temporary darkness. When I turned the light back on there was no sign of a corpse. I believe Maximus Mosquitomus survives to this day in room 1009. Ready to put his life and limbs on the line to taunt the pale skinned foreign freaks visiting Hotel Sirenis.
Most of those coming to Ibiza, do so in search of drunken debauchery in San Antonio. I sought relaxation and velicoraptors on a resort outside the epicenter, but spent my nights battling a six legged foe.
Adios, Ibiza. Adios Maximus Mosquitomus.
My Next Travel Blog: The Moon
