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It was more than a decade ago, but it could have been yesterday. Speeding down Formentera's only real highway, kicking up clouds of billowing dust on the way to a midnight supper at Can Carlos. My espadrille-clad feet propped on the dashboard of our ancient Golf Cabriolet, laces twisting like tendrils around my nut-brown ankles. James drove barefoot, shirtless, as I lay back in the passenger seat and watched great swaths of creamy stars swoosh by overhead, suspended in a fathomless navy sky. The night air was so hot, it caught in our throats like honey. James and I had fallen in love only that summer, and Formentera was our bolt-hole, our refuge, an offshore escape from the gossip mill that is Ibiza in peak season. Over the years that have followed, the island has become a constant in our lives, a place so etched in my consciousness that if it didn't exist, I'd have to invent it.
Formentera is a geographic anomaly, a curiously shaped island barely connected in the middle, honed by wild winds and thousands of years of shifting tides. It is the smallest and most southerly of the inhabited Balearic Islands, home to Roman salt pans and high plateaus, Bronze Age settlements and strange seabirds. Just over a mile wide at its narrowest point, it has a jagged coastline defined by towering cliffs, tottering lighthouses, and endless pale-blond sands. Some 12,000 inhabitants are scattered through its six whitewashed villages, a self-sufficient and resilient tribe accustomed to burning summers, stormy winters, and desolate periods when those winds—including the Tramuntana, the Migjorn, the Llevant, and the Ponent—wreak havoc on the treeless plains.
Even just a few generations ago, the locals on neighboring Ibiza were suspicious of Formentera. The island was for pirates and sirens, a place where spirits lived in caves and crops refused to grow. Half a day's choppy boat ride away, Formentera was the end of the world. The boat may no longer take half a day, but with no airport or other means of access, it's only the migrating flamingos that flit in and out with ease. This place exists in autonomy, in relief, a dry, febrile land of cuboid houses and scrawled horizons. If Ibiza is juicy, abundant, and Technicolor, Formentera is bleached out and desaturated, the island equivalent of a Super 8 film. For eight months of the year, it simmers with a heat so slippery and mercurial, the horizon appears to dance. Formentera is dissected by one main road, a gravelly two-lane highway flanked with fruit shacks and retro gas stations with their faded Repsol signs peeling in the sun. Countless dirt roads scratch outward from the highway like the legs of a centipede. Exploring these caminos has become a fixation of ours. They crisscross one another senselessly, ending abruptly at pearly beaches, time-warped hotels, or rocky coves edged with fishermen's huts. We drive these lanes lazily, put-putting along in a hired Citroën Méhari while our three sandy children doze dopily in the back.
The earth in Formentera is mineral-red, like Ibiza's, and we pass prickly-pear bushes whose spiny pads are clad in pink dust as thick as setting plaster. Inland, low-slung stone walls corral fields of listless sheep, their angular forms huddled beneath fig trees whose outspread arms are propped up with sabina branches. This ancient technique encourages abundance and shade on an island where neither comes easily. In the late 1960s, Formentera became a stop on the hippie trail, and idealistic youths—my father included—retraced the steps of the ancient incense traders on a loop that linked Ibiza with the East. These countercultural vagabonds whiled away days at Fonda Pepe, the frontier-style saloon bar that still reigns in sleepy Sant Ferran, or later on the pavement outside Formentera Guitars, where English blues guitarist Chris Rea hung out while recording the video for “On the Beach.” Didier Malherbe, of the psychedelic rock band Gong, lived in the Balearics in 1968, declaring Formentera “a really wild, moonlike place, not like Ibiza [where there] were more clubs and more alcohol.” Perhaps it's the heat, or the lack of diversions, but there's a bohemian imprint to the island that defines it even now. Sant Ferran—still sleepy by day but buzzing at night with a little sidewalk market and live music—is now home to Macondo, a post-beach pizzeria our family loves, where every inch of wall is scrawled with graffiti and pinned with tattered club flyers. Children roll marbles up and down the paved plaza outside while long-haired parents roll fragrant joints, sipping mojitos amid clouds of deep green smoke. In Sant Ferran, it is forever 1973.
Formentera's beaches—the island's calling card—are luminous, improbably blue thanks to offshore meadows of Posidonia oceanica seagrass. Platja de Ses Illetes, on the northern tip, is where gleaming superyachts deposit gleaming guests to be whizzed ashore to eat salt-baked sea bass and sip rosé at the impossible-to-book beach restaurant Juan y Andrea. When James and I were younger, day-tripping with friends from Ibiza, we'd cluster around the tiki bar at El Tiburon, a low-key beach shack, and drink ice-cold Caipirinhas from plastic cups. These days it's Platja de Migjorn, the three-mile stretch of beach on the southern coast that's the preserve of old-timers and overnighters, locals and the lo-fi, that calls to us. This exposed stretch of sand is backed by scrubby dunes and peppered with laid-back chiringuitos. Vacationers may find themselves at Gecko Beach Club or the deeply quirky Blue Bar, but it's the barely there Kiosko 62 that my husband and I visit religiously, on the first evening of every trip. If we're early, we grab one of the coveted tables on the deck and sip Pomadas—extravagant measures of Menorcan gin topped with Fanta Limón. We order paper plates of nachos and guacamole before settling in with the backgammon board. If I'm losing, I'll slip out of my dress on the sand and swim far from shore. From the sea, Kiosko looks shipwrecked, adrift—held together by frayed rope, nails, and luck.
Over the years we've stayed everywhere on the island. During our first trips, we fell in love with Es Ram, a rustic-luxe boutique hotel above the delicate sands of Caló d'Es Mort, where whitewashed casitas tumbled down the scrubby hillside and Kate Moss could be spotted on the fluttering daybeds among the pines. When Es Ram shuttered, we hit the shores, holing up at Las Dunas Playa or Talaya Formentera, cutesy beach bungalows hidden among the dunes. One unforgettable weekend we chartered a tiny wooden boat and slept out at sea, eating takeout pizza and watching shooting stars while our newborn baby snoozed below deck. The thrill of sleeping on the island never leaves me, but the most special kind of magic is reserved for those lazy, sun-soaked late afternoons when we decide on a whim to forgo our ferry home to Ibiza. More often than not, we'll end up in a bare-bones beach hotel, children packed like sardines into their beds, their dreams warmed by the sun. It's these furtive, glorious nights—snatched from nowhere—that hold the shiniest of memories.
Little as it may be, Formentera is now regarded as a foodie's paradise. This is impressive on an island that, until 50 years ago, relied upon the greasy-gray Balearic shearwater seabird for protein. Can Carlos—a twinkly walled garden with an open grill—is my favorite place to eat on the planet. But failing that, I'm likely to be found perched on a rock, poking salt-crusted stems of foraged rosemary into a hastily made bocadillo of sharp manchego and sweet tomatoes. Like everything else on Formentera, food feels elemental, essential, to be devoured bite after sandy bite.
Elemental is perhaps the best descriptor for this entire little island, where life is something that happens outdoors. I travel for a living, yet nowhere else am I so keenly aware of the relentless beat of the sun, the sticky heat of the road, or the salty tang of the sea in the air. Nowhere else do I so enthusiastically forgo the brushing of my hair, or go so resolutely barefoot, or dress so haphazardly—crochet! patchwork! pajamas!—if I bother to dress at all. Formentera grips me in a way that I can't seem to wrap my words around. It is a fever that I just can't shake, a fierce longing that feels primal. In one heady hiatus in the endless pandemic, we sneaked in a trip to Casa Pacha Formentera, a rootsy hotel at the southerly end of Migjorn. On the flight from Heathrow, I was seated—thrillingly—next to a woman named Maria who had lived on Formentera in the 1970s. En route to Ibiza she regaled me with stories of full-moon parties in Porto Salé where everyone arrived naked, loaded with baskets of bread and cheese and wine, where the boys played percussion with sticks on the rocks before diving into the deepest water. She remembered house parties that spilled onto silvery beaches and acid sessions with Hank Wangford, a Notting Hill celebrity doctor turned country music star, and Far Out Phyllis, an Ibiza scenester immortalized in Peter Kinsley's novel Bogged Down in County Lyric. It is tales like these, patchouli-scented and sepia-tinged, that make me nostalgic for an era of Formentera that I never knew.
Sunset is Kiosko 62's witching hour; as dusk approaches, the beach fills with bodies clustering around the ramshackle bar or sitting on the rocks like gulls. The wild-haired owner, Francisco, juggles beer bottles as Nina Simone blasts from the crackly speakers and a few colorful stragglers begin to dance, kicking up dust as they move. The olive-green cargo netting of Kiosko's roof is silhouetted in the setting sun, a jagged flag against a painted pastel sky. As night falls, the air fizzes with thundery heat, and the lighthouse at Cap de Barbaria blinks out its warning. Named for the Barbary Coast pirates who plundered Formentera moons ago, it's a reminder that this far-flung slice of Spain has long been the preserve of the wild.
Where to Stay
Casa Pacha Formentera
An outpost of the Ibiza super brand, Casa Pacha sits on the sand like a bleached-out wedding cake, its 16 rooms offering barefoot luxury in the form of calming, neutral minimalism in polished concrete. A chiringuito-inspired seafood restaurant with sun-dappled terraces reinforces the connection to the beach. From $208; casapacha.com
Etosoto Formentera
This driftwood-chic renovated finca near the shore has the air of a private house. It is a soul project for its anti-consumerist owners, who have a sister hotel on Portugal's Costa Azul. The walled garden is surrounded by gnarled olive trees, fig trees, and vineyards, and some of its nine breezy bedrooms have views of the ocean. Price upon request; etosoto.com
Can Tres Formentera
Three spare, light-filled apartments by Madrid interior designer Paty Pombo are dotted around a garden near an inviting pool. The beach is a 10-minute walk. From $150; cantresformentera.com
Can 7
You have to be in the know to stay at this under-the-radar artists' hangout in the dunes of a nudist beach. It has vegan food, immersive yoga, and art retreats with a strong spiritual slant. Price upon request; @can7formentera
Casbah Formentera
Simple, modern, whitewashed casitas surround a pool, a bar, and an upscale restaurant, moments from the beach. Casbah's unique appeal lies in the fact that, on this arid island, it is ensconced in a fragrant pine woodland, the white-tablecloth restaurant set in a mature Mediterranean garden. From $200; hotelcasbahformentera.com
Where to Eat
Can Carlitos
This buzzy all-day tapas-and-paella spot has a cool crowd and a vermouth- and cocktail-fueled sunset scene, not to mention epic views. About $62 for two; cancarlitosformentera.com
A Mi Manera
A glorious twinkly garden with a restaurant, rather than the other way around, Italian-owned, inland A Mi Manera is all about seasonal flavors from the garden and robust fish and meat on the plate. About $100 for two; amimaneraformentera.com
Es Còdol Foradat
Set on a stunning slice of beach, this rustic-hip restaurant enjoys a bustling lunch scene. Every beautifully plated dish on its menu is an ode to the sea. About $75 for two; escodolforadat formentera.com
Restaurant Can Rafalet
This unapologetically traditional family restaurant serves hearty breakfasts and Formentera classics such as paella, fish casserole, and lobster. After coffee, slip off the rocks for a swim. About $100 for two; restaurantcanrafalet.com
Chiringuito Cala Saona
Expect simple tapas and cold beer at this old-school shack overlooking idyllic Cala Saona. It's the best spot for sunset, and its wild charm is a reminder of the Balearics of yesteryear.
Es Molí De Sal
Housed in a converted windmill on lovely Platja de Ses Illetes, this seafood institution is famed for its lobster. It has timber ceilings and white tablecloths, a generous covered stone terrace, and a loungy sundeck. About $145 for two; esmolidesal.es
This article appeared in the July/August 2022 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.
