Sant Josep de sa Talaia

The church bells strike eight as a fisherman unloads boxes of red scorpionfish onto the pavement outside Bar Can Tixedo. No one's taking photos. The village square smells of coffee, diesel and seawater – the authentic perfume of Sant Josep de sa Talaia that never makes the brochures.

Most visitors race straight through this municipality on their way to the famous coves. They see the signpost, clock the distance to the beach, and accelerate. Stay longer and you'll find the island's largest municipality has split personality disorder in the best possible way. One half answers to the thud of club anthems; the other still operates on the rhythm of small-scale fishing and almond harvests.

Where the Sea Meets the Sky (and the Satellite Dishes)

Head west and the landscape unravels quickly. Olive groves give way to pine-scented cliffs, then suddenly you're staring at water the colour of Bombay Sapphire. Cala d'Hort faces Es Vedrà, the 382-metre limestone island that looks like a broken tooth on the horizon. Sunset here has become a ritual: hundreds perch on the rocks, phones at the ready, while drummers provide the soundtrack. It's touristy, yes, but the view still delivers that involuntary sharp intake of breath.

The beach itself is only 150 metres long. Sand is coarse, golden, and gets furnace-hot by midday. Arrive before ten or you'll be circling the car park like a vulture, eventually paying €15 to squeeze into a private field. The reward? Water so clear you can count the pebbles on the seabed twenty metres out.

Cala Comte operates on a different scale. Two stretches of sand connected by a wooden walkway, with water that graduates from turquoise to navy in distinct stripes. The western end gets rammed – sunbeds packed tighter than a Ryanair flight. Walk three minutes east and there's breathing space, though you'll need beach shoes for the rocky entry. The sunset bar, Sunset Ashram, charges €9 for a pint of Estrella, but where else can you watch the sun slide behind a nature reserve while eating Thai green curry?

Walking Off the Paella

The municipality's interior gets overlooked by the beach towel brigade, which suits the walking crowd fine. Sa Talaia, Ibiza's highest peak at 475 metres, starts fifteen minutes' drive from the village. The path climbs through juniper and rosemary; the scent intensifies when you crush the leaves underfoot. It's 45 minutes of steady ascent, ending at a concrete trig point with views across to Formentera on clear days. Go early – there's zero shade and the rock reflects heat like a pizza oven.

For something less aerobic, follow the old cami paths between fincas. The route from Sant Josep to Es Cubells winds past stone walls built without mortar, prickly pear cacti taller than your head, and the occasional goat farm selling fresh cheese. Distances are deceptive: what looks like a twenty-minute stroll on Google Maps often takes an hour when you factor in the gradient and photo stops.

What to Eat When You're Sick of Chips

The village square hides restaurants that locals still frequent. Bar Costa serves bullit de peix – a two-part fish stew that arrives looking like soup, followed by rice cooked in the same broth. It's €24 and feeds two hungry walkers. They'll swap the traditional grouper for whatever came off the boats that morning.

Down at the coves, Es Boldadó specialises in prawns grilled so simply they taste of sea spray and fire. A portion costs €18, which stings until you remember you're eating thirty metres from where they were caught. Their wine list starts at €19 a bottle – stick to the house white from Sant Mateu and you'll pay half that.

Vegetarians usually get short shrift in fishing villages, but Passion Café at Cala Tarida does excellent falafel bowls and oat-milk flat whites. It's where yoga instructors go after class, so expect more talk of chakras than hangovers.

The Calendar No One Tells You About

Visit mid-March and you'll stumble into Sant Josep's fiesta proper. The village shuts the main road for a weekend of processions, paella cooked in pans two metres wide, and dancing that continues until the church bells warn of sunrise. Tourist numbers: minimal. Authenticity levels: maximum.

July brings the Virgen del Carmen celebrations. At Es Cubells, they carry the statue onto a fishing boat while crews sound their horns. The resulting echo off the cliffs sounds like a pod of whales communicating. It's genuinely moving, even if you wouldn't know a Hail Mary from a ham sandwich.

October's wine harvest means treading grapes in vats at Can Rich vineyard, five kilometres north. They'll let you stamp about in wellies, then hand you a glass of their malvasia. The wine tastes of honey and herbs – like drinking the island's scent bottled.

The Reality Check

Let's be honest: August turns these coves into a stress test. Cala Bassa's free car park fills by 9.30 am; after that you're directed to the paid section where €20 buys you four hours of shadeless tarmac. The water remains gorgeous but you'll share it with hundreds of others, all wondering why that bloke keeps splashing.

Evenings bring relief. As day-trippers retreat to all-inclusive resorts, the villages regain their composure. Old men play cards under streetlights. The bakery reduces yesterday's ensaïmadas to half-price. Somewhere a generator hums, mixing with cicadas and distant house music carried on the breeze.

Sant Josep won't seduce everyone. Nightlife means one late bar and a pizza van. Shopping is limited to a Spar, a pharmacy, and Saturday's craft market where the same woman sells leather bracelets she's been making since 1998. But if you want beaches that appear on screensavers without the hard sell, plus village life that continues long after you've flown home, this municipality delivers. Just bring patience for the traffic, cash for the beach bars, and enough Spanish to order coffee without pointing.