It has taken us more than 10 years to get back to Ibiza. The last time we went, kid-free, we popped out from our chi-chi hotel for a quick drink at the Rock Bar, got whirlwinded into a high octane party overseen by Jonny the famous Manumission dwarf, who took us to Pacha, from where we returned six hours later.
The days, or rather nights, followed a similar pattern.
“It’s great, ‘ we croaked as we flew back to London, broken, along with the rest of our flight, ‘but never again.’
This time couldn’t have been more different. A shared villa in the North of the island, two families, ranging in age from 40 something parents, via a couple of 19 year old lads, two 16 year old boys, two cartwheeling, shopaholic girls and the 7 year old bringing up the rear.
It worked fantastically. The boys sat around the pool playing cards and drinking beer with an inclusive policy which meant even the 7 year old was invited to play.
‘Cute,’ I thought as I strolled past, thinking he looked like a miniature card shark with his baseball cap pulled low, his hand kept close to his chest.
The girls did handstands in the pool, the parents got time out on sunloungers, rarely had a holiday worked out so well.
Later we went to the beach where we met a couple with a 6 year old boy.
‘Would you like to play Uno with Toby?’ inquired the mother, sweetly.
‘No,’ said the 7 year old, ‘I want to play Shithead.’
In the bar he asked for a beer and when this was refused ‘OK, then, a Jagerbomb.”
The waitress, tired, unfazed, looked like she’d seen it all before.
In one, all too short, week it seemed simplest to go with the flow. Shithead was rechristened Sithead, Cokes were ordered before beers demanded, and the youngest turned out to be a helluva DJ, so good in fact, that quite often it was the parents pleading for 'just one more,' before he retired to bed.
I guess the White Isle makes hedonists of us all.