Father and Daughter time - Ibiza
The first time I hit Ibiza was back in ’81. I was just a young teen—too early for party nights, but I remember the hot chocolate drinks that kept us up into the small hours while the parents chatted over beers with friends. We went back a few times in the early ’80s. It was a quiet island then—simple, slow, and unspoilt.
Fast forward to the ’90s, and it became a different beast altogether. We returned time after time. Hedonistic summers, no phones, just memories etched in sunburn and sound systems. That golden “you had to be there” era—never to be repeated.
Then, in the 2010s, the tone shifted again. We brought our daughter over to the White Isle. She was only five. A no-party zone, obviously. But still full of family fun and little adventures.
So yes, I’ve lived Ibiza through several lenses. Rose-tinted maybe, but each one with fond memories of a place that somehow keeps pulling me back.
When the idea popped into my head for a bit of father–daughter time this summer, my wife gave me that classic raised-eyebrow look. “Ibiza? Really?”
Why not?
Our daughter had just wrapped up her exams, leavers' day, and prom. A big moment. Free time ahead until college kicks in. It felt right. A last-minute, four-day escape.
My head was buzzing with ideas—jet skis, jeep safaris, beach clubs, racing around the island... trying to do everything, yet maybe ending up doing nothing.
We boarded a Sunday afternoon flight from East Midlands. I’ll admit, I had a touch of apprehension. Would we be trapped with stag do mayhem in the sky? Thankfully, all was calm.
Touching down at Ibiza Airport felt like coming home to a long-lost friend. A short taxi ride took us over to Port des Torrent—our base for the trip. I’d done my research. Close enough to feel the Ibiza buzz, far enough to avoid the chaos.
We checked in at the Occidental Hotel and I knew straight away I’d made the right choice. Bags dropped, a quick snack at the restaurant, and we were out exploring. Down to the beach for that first moment.
Port des Torrent is a tucked-away spot just around the corner from San Antonio Bay. Still got that old-school vibe. Family-focused, mellow, unpretentious.
We caught the dying of the light over the sea. And in that moment, the pace shifted. No noise, no rush. Just a stillness. There’s something about staring at the sea—it unlocks a calm you can’t fake. A proper reset.
It was time to properly unwind—feet in the sand and a cool beer in hand.
Just off the beach, I’d clocked a bar-restaurant called Spitzeria. Something about it caught my eye—nothing fancy, just the right kind of laid-back. That turned out to be our spot for the next few days. Our go-to.
Sand between our toes. Cold drinks. Ibizan vibes humming through the speakers.
Heaven, really.
I was more than content. I'd fully activated solo parent mode—in Ibiza, no less—and all was good.
Morning arrived with that unmistakable warmth of the Mediterranean sun creeping through the curtains.
It was our first real glimpse of the hotel in daylight. Clean lines, palm shadows dancing on white walls—it looked spot on as we made our way down to breakfast.
The day eased in just how you'd hope.
A slow morning spent poolside—sun on our backs, a book in hand, and the occasional dip to cool off. Holiday mode firmly engaged.
We grabbed some lunch—nothing fancy, just fresh and simple. Then wandered back down to the beach for the afternoon shift.
Barefoot walks. The sound of the sea doing its thing. No rush. No agenda. Just how it should be.
Barring the cool vibe of the beach bars, Port des Torrent is a properly family-friendly spot. Shallow waters, no inflatable madness, zero chaos. Just calm. Just right.
With the daughter being sixteen, I found myself longingly eyeing up the DJ and superclub billboards scattered around the island. Names I used to chase. Venues I once knew like the back of my hand.
Would I even belong in those places now?
Maybe I’ve aged out of that scene.
Or maybe the scene’s aged out of me.
Either way, this trip wasn’t about late nights and loud lights. It was about something else entirely—and that felt more than enough.
In my wisdom, I decided to take the daughter over to San Antonio—more for the night market than the chaos of old. Maybe catch a sunset at Mambo?
But stepping out of the taxi, it felt like we’d landed on a different island entirely.
Gone was the slow pace and gentle rhythm of Port des Torrent. In its place: police everywhere, patrol cars in full force, security at the taxi ranks…
Wasn’t San Antonio supposed to have calmed down?
The night market was underwhelming, if I’m being kind. So we took to the backstreets, weaving through the newly polished West End.
Some of the street art was spot on—vibrant, rebellious, full of attitude. But I couldn’t shake the scent of stale beer and warm drains. It clung to everything. A far cry from the Ibiza in my mind’s eye.
I’d had enough. It’s just not for me.
Not my cup of tea—and the daughter didn’t seem too impressed either.
Back in the heat of the taxi queue, it all started to make sense. We overheard a local saying there’s a shortage of taxis and drivers on the island. That explained the 45-minute wait earlier outside the hotel.
Apparently, peak time runs from 8pm till... well, late. Should’ve known that really.
Half an hour later, we finally jumped in a cab and made the decision to head straight back to the beach bars of Port des Torrent.
San Antonio, you can keep it.
Would I ever venture back for a stag do?
Not a chance. We’d barely made it past 9pm and we’d already seen the police wrestling some drunk lad to the ground.
And there I was, shaking my head thinking, “I am so old.”
Back in the calm of Port des Torrent, we followed the sound of music drifting from the beach bar—and stumbled across a live guitarist. But this wasn’t just some bloke with an acoustic playing Oasis covers.
Call me cultured, but this man didn’t just play the guitar. He lived inside it.
He took everyone watching on a journey—no vocals, no lyrics, just six strings and pure emotion.
Absolutely incredible.
A few beers and a fine vibe rounded off the evening in this little pocket of tranquillity.
I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure if this would land for a sixteen-year-old. But the quiet “he was amazing” and that completely chilled look on her face told me everything I needed to know.
The mood was set.
From then on, it was all about slow mornings by the pool, barefoot walks along the beach, and drinks by the sea as the sun dipped down.
No agenda. No rush. Just time well spent.
The Ibiza I hoped was still here… was still here.
Maybe not everyone’s cup of tea, but for us, it was spot on.
The chilled-out vibes, the slow pace, the friendly faces.
Father and daughter chats over drinks, poolside laughs, and moments that won’t be forgotten any time soon.
Good people are everywhere.
Forget the mainstream media and its steady stream of doom.
Over just a few days, we found ourselves chatting with people from all walks of life—and everyone smiled.
That says a lot.
I am sure there are a few more Ibiza trips left in me.
4 comments
A fab read as always. Could literally feel the calmness of Ibiza, I don’t really know existed! What a lovely dad/daughter experience xx
Reading your blogg has inspired me to go back to Ibiza, a place I loved in the 80s and early 90s, but often wondered if i went back would i find that same vibe.
Its back on the list bit next trip as I said is Cleethorpes keeping it real 😂 . Great blogg x
Quality time with family is priceless x
A few years we had a wonderful and relaxing holiday at Cala Llonga on the island. Absolutely wonderful place great cove for swimming just the one bar, the complete antithesis of what you expect Ibiza to be. If you needed more Santa Eularia where the rich take their yachts was close .