We're going to Ibiza... No wait, we're here

We're sitting in Ibiza old town underneath an enormous umbrella which has little glowing watering cans hanging from its spokes. Darkness is descending in a dusty haze, and the square we're in is coming to life. Jewellery and pottery sellers are setting up stalls and the fruit market is being dismantled. This is definitely a town which lives for its night life. 

The air is reverberating with the sound of sparrows roosting and cicadas singing; a noise which is sometimes difficult to distinguish from the sound of electricity.

It is my brother's 40th birthday and he has hired a fabulous villa on the island which feels like one of the judges houses on the X Factor. The bay beneath the villa is a tremendous shade of turquoise; the water is as clear as a mountain stream and the surface magnifies the seaweed beneath one's feet in an almost disconcerting manner. It was like swimming through diamonds. 

The plane journey over here with Easy Jet was a surprisingly pleasant experience. I was expecting to be herded about in the style of Ryan Air, but the experience proved comprehensively that a budget airline doesn't need to a) fleece you at every turn and b) employ rude and dangerously incompetent staff. Bravo Easy Jet! 

The people who get on the Easy Jet flights to Ibiza are the stuff of legend, however. I've never seen such a long queue for a plane loo peopled by so many inappropriately dressed young women. It became clear that these women, made up to the nines and wearing slaggy high heels, were literally expecting to get off the plane and go straight to a club.

Fortunately, we're nowhere near any of the infamous clubs, which I'm told cost fifty quid to enter and will charge twenty quid every time you want a drink. 

Ibiza, I'm relieved to report, is not all about lads and slags on tour. It's a genuinely beautiful and intriguing place and I'm excited about exploring it some more.