Montesol Experimental

Ibiza, circa 2008. I am a mere whippersnapper of a girl and have just alighted from a rather grubby ferry onto Ibiza's sunny docks, ready to reinvent myself in the manner prescribed by my book of the moment, Eat, Pray, Love. 
 
I expected the trip to deliver some kind of personal transformation; perhaps a life-altering epiphany, a moonlit encounter with a handsome stranger, days whiled away exploring the innermost depths of my sense of self while snacking on figs under shady palm trees. What actually happened was that I ran out of money almost immediately and decided that, in the spirit of both austerity and adventure, I could no longer afford to eat but could just about afford to drink. I kissed German boys in dark alleys, slept in a cot in a hospital-white room in a pensión (an informal Spanish guesthouse), where the paper-thin walls offered more insights into everyone else’s holiday than I might have desired, invested in a bedazzled Space Ibiza T-shirt, and eventually found myself in a bar, putting the world to rights with a Geordie drag queen named Leona. It wasn’t Elizabeth Gilbert-worthy, but it was quintessentially Ibiza, and I’ve been dying to go back ever since. 
 
I’m recounting this story to Mr Smith, who seems surprisingly unfazed by it all, as our taxi rolls into Ibiza Town and pulls up in front of the immaculately restored neocolonial façade of the Montesol Experimental hotel. Built in 1933 as Ibiza’s first hotel, a ravishing blend of classic Mediterranean and Spanish neocolonial architecture, it has welcomed a heady mix of Hollywood celebrities, hippies, royals and intellectuals (including members of Pink Floyd and Princess Caroline of Monaco). Many iterations later, the building has found its rightful home as part of the iconic French Experimental Group.  
 
As is only right for a company that started out with cocktail bars, the hotel has a rather good one, as Mr Smith and I soon discover. Our room isn’t quite ready when we arrive — a boon for us it turns out, as we’re handed a voucher for complimentary drinks. Moments later, we’re soaking up the rays on Montesol Experimental’s terrace (having ordered a smoky Negroni Sour for me and a spiced-up Paloma for Mr Smith), which is right on Paseo Vara de Rey, Ibiza Town’s tree-lined main square.  
 
When we later check-in, our spacious Vara de Rey room is a vision of Mediterranean blues and terracottas, with swoon-inducing views of the Renaissance-era walls of Dalt Vila (Ibiza’s old town) from the comfy seating area. Meanwhile, the Wes Anderson-esque bathroom is done up in a glossy rust red, with curvaceous art deco-inspired mirrors and a rainfall shower big enough for two. 
 
Over the next few days, we roam the streets of Ibiza Town in search of local haunts but mostly encountering overpriced Italian eateries and rowdy bars overrun with Northern European tourists. I eventually stumble upon the most Ibizan thing I can find: a toasted sandwich oozing with island-made sobrassada (a tangy Balearic sausage) and goat’s cheese from Can Gourmet, home of the 'best sandwich in Spain' in 2025 (the Mar y Tierra, in case you're wondering). I spend far too much on a silky, gold-threaded kaftan (when in Ibiza!), vowing I’ll get plenty of wear out of it, but it’s yet to make its debut Barcelona.  
 
At sunset, I stomp up to the cathedral at the top of Dalt Vila, surprised to find the cobbled stairs and alleyways almost eerily deserted once I pass the first tourist-packed squares. Making my way back down, I spot locals smoking and chatting on plastic chairs in the street, their washing drying on racks outside their front doors. 
 
Between our forays, Montesol Experimental is a chic, colourful refuge, where the affable staff always welcome us back with a friendly smile and are never too busy to answer our questions or offer recommendations. On our last night, we order too many excellent Experimental cocktails on the hotel’s buzzy rooftop, while gazing at Dalt Vila, lit up like something out of a fairy tale. 

The next day, as we're heading back to the airport, I find myself comparing this trip to the last. Apart from the digs, which have seen a considerable upgrade, I didn’t encounter any handsome strangers (much to Mr Smith’s relief), didn’t spot a single drag queen (much to my chagrin), but, on this particular morning, I have had a major, earth-shattering epiphany: hangovers from top-shelf booze are far less horrific. I feel it’s a revelation that will serve me well in the years to come.