'hey, we're going to ibiza' (...for a yoga retreat not necessarily to party)

I've gotten many benefits from doing yoga, but surely one of the best must be treating myself to a week-long yoga retreat on the Mediterranean island of Ibiza.*

I heard about the retreat from a book (‘Liz Jones's Diary: How One Single Girl Got Married’, a true-life memoir of a late-30-something woman who hooks up with a 20-something man who is generally no good yet who she supports for years while he ‘writes his novel’ and who she pampers with many holidays and mini-breaks, including one at Ibiza Yoga and the unputdownable quality of this book is best explained in the fact that B. had no problem reading it in public despite its hot pink girly cover) and although I had been looking forward to it for seemingly ages, it really did live up to my expectations.

Each day involved perfect sunshine, a three-hour yoga session, fresh vegetarian food and time on the beach where the most pressing concern was deciding whether to read, sleep, sunbake or swim. This was combined with occasional nature walks and dinner out with the other the participants - mainly young, female, Londoners and all very nice. I slept in a pagoda. I showered outdoors. I saw nothing of the high rise resorts and club scene. It might not be everyone's idea of a good time, but it was just my cup of (herbal) tea.

* unfortunately I can not even think the word ‘Ibiza’ without my mind singing back the annoying late-90s Vengaboys dance track: ‘hey, we’re going to Ibiza, hey, we’re going to the island, hey, we’re going...’ Get out! Get out! Get out!!