the irresistible call of the Balearics
For me, any trip to the Balearics starts with a blank Word doc (or until a few years ago, a pale-blue, wafery page of my beloved Smythson diary) populated with the dates of travel, to be filled in, purely, thrillingly, with restaurant reservations.
I wish I could be the kind of person who can drift spontaneously around and wander into the most curious looking spot to eat on a whim, where a table is miraculously found at no notice at all. But I get my kicks out of the build-up, the count down, forming the shape and the rhythm of a holiday in foodie peaks and troughs, where the whole thing hangs on the delicious timetabling of long lunches, late suppers and go-slow brunches (yes even brunch gets scheduled).
If it’s to Mallorca that I’m heading, repeat tables will be booked at Grace Berrow's Patiki Beach, tucked in a hidden corner of Port de Soller’s crescent moon bay, for jugs of peach-pink, grapefruit-laced sangria and garlicky clams. In Menorca, slots are secured for soulful starlit evenings at Nonna Bazaar and cultural post-exhibition refuelling at Cantina, next to the Hauser & Wirth gallery on Illa del Rei. In Ibiza, I am drawn to Casa Jondal time and again for its stripped back, razor-sharp brilliance, where instead of thumping house music, the soundtrack is the tumble of the waves, the roar of crickets, the hum of chatter and the sizzle of gambas on the grill.
But it is on Formentera, that dreamboat of an island, where my heart really starts to beat faster. Where the essence of the place is determinedly barefoot and bohemian, but the food is anything but. I have been going there for years, as a footloose, fancy-free 20-something and now knee-deep in children. The pace is changing, evolving each year, slowly growing (please let it creep along rather than race).
All winter, I dream of sitting under the boughs of bougainvillaea and strings of fairy lights on a hot summer night at Can Carlos in Sant Francesc. It is without a shadow of a doubt my favourite restaurant on earth.
The menu—fresh ceviche, local lamb seared black over the coals, sensational spaghetti—is handwritten every evening, the cocktails are strong and spritzy and the staff divine. There is a sibling too, Can Carlitos, in La Savina for shoulder-dropping feasts when you get off the ferry, with Ibiza on the horizon and ferociously crispy patatas bravas on the plates.
For wildly good pizzas, €3 glasses of verdejo, wobbly pavement benches and rousing cheer, we hotfoot it to Macondo in San Ferran. No one speaks English, but they will happily coo guapa at the toddler. For deeply distracting sea views of electric blue, Platja Mitjorn’s Es Codol Foradat and Casa Formentera (Casa Pacha five minutes ago) both strike a chord between being a little sceney and actually charmingly welcoming. And on Playa Illetes, people tend to flock like moths to a flame to Juan y Andrea or Beso Beach, but we go to Tiburon for its joyful lack of flash and rounds of limoncello whether you want them or not.
Low-key and so completely lovely, it’s this island that will have my bookings for years to come.
Issy von Simson
Still strongly tethered to her hometown London, Issy certainly knows what’s groovy in the UK capital. But, lucky for us, her knowledge extends far beyond the reaches of Zone 6. Perpetually drawn to the coast – the brinier the better when it comes to the air – Issy is our go-to for seaside getaways. Opinionated and organised, she’s pretty much our ideal travel companion; you know you’re going to get a perfectly planned trip when Issy’s in charge. So, follow her tips and do as Issy does. You’ll end up in the most gloriously unexpected of places.
