I arrived in dreamy Ibiza for my first yoga break, full of trepidation, and with horrifying images of the sleazy yoga instructor from the film ‘Couples Retreat’ running through my mind. Actually, it was novel to see Ibiza airport through sober eyes for a change. Clutching the bottle of Evian that had been my only refreshment during the flight, I gazed slightly green-eyed at the hoards of young ravers already well into party mode.
One stone down, though (and counting!), since I first started this yoga malarkey, and sporting some pretty hot new yoga pants ā which weren’t about to split as I attempted a downward dog, for once ā I fought the temptation to stop at the nearest bar and headed straight for the dayās introductory class, which was due to start.
Very relieved to find that the mature, respectable-looking, and more to the point, fully dressed, teacher, Catherine, bore no resemblance at all to the dry-humping, half-naked lothario in the afore-mentioned movie, I took my place along with eight or so others, on a quiet beach.
With the evening sun beating down on us, and the smell of the Mediterranean in the air, I went through a few well-practised moves with relative ease, and found myself completely relaxed and chilled.
What a glorious way to spend an evening, a far cry from the islandās noisy nightclubs. As this was just the introduction, I was sure there was harder work to come. But for now, I was happy and looking forward to waking up in Ibiza for the first time ever, hangover free. Just a few hours from the hustle and bustle of London, this will be my life for the next couple of days. And what a great life it will be too.