Desperately bored on a flight to London, I actually started reading those bits at the back of the EasyJet in-flight magazine which offer information and recommendation about their various destinations (and which I suspect only the terminally uninterested ever read). I expected to learn stuff that will probably never be of any use to me, i.e., that Wagner composed Parsifal in the Grand Hotel in Palermo and that it takes half an hour to get from Orly airport to central Paris by train.

I didn’t expect the advice in the Palma entry which reads: “If you still have some energy to burn after leaving Palma’s clubs at 6am, why not hop on the fast ferry at 8am to the neighbouring isle of Ibiza? You can then take a short taxi ride and experience one of the world’s best clubs, Space, open all day.”

Clearly news of the new after-hours restrictions hasn’t drifted as far as the ears of EasyJet correspondent David Anderson. More to the point, do you think news has drifted to the ears of the Ibicenco government that it was the glorious fun of daytime parties like Space, DC10 and Bora Bora that made Ibiza famous? And that for many visitors they were the whole point of a trip here?

Last month in Ibiza NOW we reported on the International Music Summit and the eternal strife that seems to exist between the established ’superclubs’ and the rest of the music and party organisers on the island. Since then DC 10 and
Kumharas have subsequently been shut down, so those in power would appear to have won. But have they…?

Reports are now beginning to filter through of alternative events that some at the conference predicted would occur. Their predictions anticipated a market that will develop over the summer involving 4 x 4 police chases into the depths of the campo.

It would appear that a rethink might be in order…

This report came in recently in response to concern expressed by foreign observers at the conference. They were worried that Ibiza’s previously tolerant and welcoming attitude to foreigners had been crushed. We felt this report worthy of
publication to illustrate the fact that the island’s spirit will not be crushed.

Interestingly, the majority of the participants were residents and almost exclusively Spanish. The party clampdown is not being fought by Italians, or any other organised group of foreigners. These are the legislator’s own children… Is anyone
surprised?

The venue was in Ibiza Town, but to be honest from the outside you would never have guessed it was a club. It was only the two meat-heads standing outside a door that gave it away. We were charged 5 euros to get in and were then led down some stairs through a series of blankets which were doubling up as makeshift soundproofing. Very old-school.

The club was in a dark, musky basement and was already very busy with a predominantly young Spanish crowd even though it was not long past kicking out time at the big clubs.

The fug of marijuana smoke was as unmistakable as it was overpowering and people were openly taking drugs - well, I’m no chemist, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t sherbet dib-dab they were snorting off the tables that’s for sure. The walls were wet with condensation and a DJ was playing dark minimal house which suited the surroundings perfectly, but it wasn’t quite loud enough to dance to (they obviously didn’t trust the makeshift soundproofing).

There was a bar selling reasonably priced drinks and the crowd in there were smiley and relaxed - very relaxed actually. Basically the whole experience was as far away from the big clubs as you can get. These parties are obviously in their infancy and the low volume of the music did reduce the atmosphere to little more than an after-hours bar than a proper rave. But I could tell kids in there were getting off on the fact it was illegal, they seemed excited just being part of it. I’m sure that eventually they’ll get braver and start turning the sound up which will give it the atmosphere the punters were looking for.

I didn’t stick around for very long - it was just my curiosity that had taken me there in the first place - but I’m sure that more and more of these parties are going to start popping up around the island. And maybe the music might get so loud that the politicians might even start hearing it.

Please don’t ask where this venue is…

Question: Does summer in Ibiza mean the end of the world as we know it?

Having just completed my first winter on the island I am jittery with pre-season nerves. I’m anxious that Opening Weekend signals the end of civilised winter and the beginning of a summer fraught with hordes of hard-drinking, creatively sunburnt tourists charging around the island on dodgy mopeds. Is there really a great divide between “us” and “them” though? Or is it possible the invaders are more finely attuned to the tempo of island life than I’m prepared to give credit for?

Exhibit A: the Space queue at half-past one. Personally, I’m only here to see my friend Dan Tait play the Flight Club Arena. The line is crammed with season pass holders, and moving slowly, so there is plenty of time to ascertain the majority language is Spanish. An hour or so of idle eavesdropping finally takes us into the main arena, where — again — the crowd is overwhelmingly Latin.

Later in the afternoon we sneak off to get some lunch and bump into a couple of British friends who have just been turned away from Space for certain, er, indiscretions. Perhaps the superior ability of the locals to blend in and avoid unwanted attention from the Guardia explains why they’re more visibly out enjoying themselves.

Exhibit B: DC10. Thanks to the new opening hours law I expect my favourite grimy disco to be jam-packed by the time I arrive at 2PM. It isn’t.

My friends and I waltz in to the mostly empty car park and one of the first people I spot a friend from San An and his (Ibicenco) posse. Of course DC10 is the spiritual home of the island’s massive Italian contingent but so many of them have been around for so long they practically count as natives. More to the point, the club fills in the gradual, amiable fashion of a local watering hole: by 4PM the terrace is comfortably full of people chatting and dancing, by 7PM packed, by 10PM in the grip of a secular revival meeting with much raising of hands and voices.

Exhibit C: The aftermath. Despite horror prognostications about wild after-parties and roaming herds of bellowing Brits all is calm as we drift woozily out of DC10 at 12.30AM. Our afterparty consists of Massive Attack on the stereo and a few bottles of rotgut cava in preparation for a day at the beach. And there is notably no evidence of anyone else doing anything more exciting (at least not in Playa d’en Bossa).

Exhibit D: Tuesday. The weather makes up for its hitherto Trabant-like unreliability by allowing enough sunshine for bikini-wearing and ice cream-eating. Early evening brings a phone call from a friend who pops down to the beach to share another bottle of cava (something of a theme of the weekend). This merges seamlessly into a lazy dinner at our local grill, Cafeteria Parador, where neighbours are scattered around the terrace feasting on garlic-rich meats and heavy Ibicenco blood sausages. We linger late and enjoy a nightcap before retiring at the utterly respectable hour of 1AM.

Conclusion: For all my first-timer fears summer seems to promise more of the stuff I’ve come to love over the last few months. Spontaneous afternoons at local watering holes, cheerfully polyglot crowds in the clubs, late dinners at out of the way restaurants and lingering afternoons at the beach.

I may have to reconsider all this come July but for the moment I’m delighted and not a little relieved to discover the ease with which Ibiza rolls with the seasons.

By Cila