Six Senses Ibiza

'Is it popcorn? Are they sweets?' I enquire, as we check-in to our Junior Sea View Suite at Six Senses Ibiza. 'No, it's... pickled cauliflower,' Mr Smith replies, 'pink pickled cauliflower.' Clearly, posh chocs and cava don’t quite cut it at this oasis of wellness – it’s nuts, kombucha, and the aforementioned brassica from now on. It’s been almost a decade since Mr Smith and I last ventured to the White Isle, footloose and kiddo-free. Those whirlwind weekends were a lot of things, but I’d be hard-pressed to describe them as ‘healthy’. This time around, we’re feeling decidedly wholesome and ready for a long weekend of spa time and chill.

On the island’s sleepy northern side, Six Senses sits nestled into Xarraca Bay, where nature is the headliner. Clever architectural planning means the hotel blends into the hillside it cascades across. Trailing greenery, leafy plants and bamboo cladding break up the buildings, so it doesn't look or feel like the vast resort it is. Our room is a sumptuous haven of good taste, open and airy with tactile natural furnishings, but the view from the balcony is the real knockout. Below us, the cobalt blue waters of the Iberian Sea lap against the rugged coastline while, on the other side, a glistening turquoise pool demands we head straight down.

After a swim, I melt into the sunlounger beside my love and memories of our ungodly early start drift away on the back of a Balearic breeze. My mind is now occupied with my other great love; people watching – and boy is this the place for it. A couple of tech bros field calls from their day-beds, a warren of immaculately dressed yoga bunnies sip on pea-green juices and a loved-up couple with model looks sashay down to the sea. All the while, I eavesdrop on a gaggle of girls across the pool raucously recalling last night’s louche antics. Sadly, before they conclude the tale, I’m forced to tear myself away to the spa.

The White Lotus evocations are dialled up a notch as a guest who more than resembles Jennifer Coolidge strikes up a conversation in the changing rooms. She’s two days into a week’s worth of poking, prodding and pummelling, I learn, and already radiates health and vitality, with just a touch of smugness. Inspired by her itinerary (but with a fraction of her budget), I soon find myself in a spa recliner, gazing out across crystal waters while a therapist uses a futuristic device to blow air all over my limbs – or as she calls it, cryotherapy. My next treatment, a tension-soothing massage, has more obvious benefits, and borders on sorcery as my whole body yawns. 

As I marinate in essential oils, cocooned in a white fluffy robe, I know I should be savouring the fresh herbal tea. Instead, all I can think about is rays and rosé. I float back poolside where the sun has passed its zenith and Mr Smith awaits, glass in hand. We meander toward the sea’s edge, where bean bags and rugs make for a rustic, and totally blissful, lookout.

Wielding a new thirst – and half a bottle of rosé – we hotfoot it back to our suite and change into our finery in time for supper at the neighbouring restaurant, Los Enamorados. This unpretentious bohemian hangout sits right on the seafront in the romantic harbour of Portinatx. We feast on locally caught fish as the sun sets, scuttling inside when the breeze picks up post-dinner. Here, we devour the chef’s signature cheesecake while lounging on squishy modernist armchairs – me admiring the decor; him, the playlist.

The following morning, we stir from a margarita-infused slumber to recall our wholesome intentions. The only thing to ease my (minor) guilt, I decide, is a trip to the gym. Unbelievably, given we’re here at Ibiza’s health mecca, we have it all to ourselves (outdoor boxing ring included) and can sweat out last night’s margs in total privacy.

Breakfast in the Farmers’ Market is heaven for a top-tier buffet grazer like me. There’s a long table of cold-pressed juices and health shots, as well as charcuterie, and a bakery overflowing with oven-fresh goodies. Whole-grain croissants sit beside their paler counterparts, so while health might be top of the agenda (I refer you back to the cauliflower), it’s not in the prohibitive way I suspected it might be. Rather, it’s if you’re looking for it, which Mr ‘full-English-and-keep-the-coffee-coming’ Smith is not.

Overcast skies make the perfect cue for a lazy morning spent back in our suite. Wallowing in the gargantuan tub, I lose myself in the hotel’s RoseBar magazine, a bible of articles with advice on the key to eternal life – none of which, it seems, feature rosé, cheesecake, or cocktails. But we’ve still got 24 hours to make up for it in the yoga studio or three-floor spa. Besides, life’s all about balance, right? We didn’t exactly detox, but we didn’t bounce around Ibiza’s dance floors either. ‘Wellness’ isn’t all about breathwork and biohacking, sometimes it’s about putting a grin on your face and a zing in your step, and we both leave with plenty of those.