Santa Eulària des Riu

The only river in the Balearic Islands used to reach the sea here. These days it arrives as a dusty memory, but the name sticks: Santa Eularia des Riu, a town that advertised water when none was guaranteed. Brits mispronounce it “Santa You-Larry-ah” and the locals no longer flinch; they’re too busy loading crates of courgettes onto vans or hosing down the promenade before the first breakfast tables appear.

A Promenade that Refuses to Hurry

At 8 a.m. the front is already warm. Dog-walkers overtake elderly men in flat caps who read the Diario de Ibiza on the same bench every morning. The sand-coloured tiles run for a full kilometre, wide enough for three pushchairs abreast, yet somehow nobody collides. Between the yacht club and the fountain shaped like an oyster shell, cafés switch languages with the fluency of pickpockets: “Morning, love—porridge or porrons?” Café Sidney does a full English for €8.50 if the children mutiny against ensaïmada, while two doors down the bakery sells coffee and croissant for €2.30 and refuses to accept anything larger than a twenty.

The beach itself is a 300-metre scoop of pale grainy sand. Sunbeds line up like pastel-coloured soldiers: two pine-slats and a adjustable back, €15 a day in high season, €10 if you arrive after 3 p.m. The water shelves quickly; toddlers disappear waist-deep within three strides, so bring swim shoes and a watchful eye. By midday the breeze dies and the heat turns metallic. Sensible families retreat to the shade of the riparian walk that threads behind the hotels—bamboo, reeds, the ghost of a river providing the coolest free attraction on the island.

Uphill to the Fort-Church, Downhill to the Market

Leave the sand and climb Carrer de San Jaume for fifteen minutes. The gradient is gentle but July tarmac softens trainers. Halfway up, the houses shrink: thick whitewash, green shutters, pots of geraniums that survive on gossip and dew. Puig de Missa appears suddenly—a 16th-century church-cum-citadel, its walls the colour of old bones, bell tower punched out like a sentry box. The view from the balustrade stretches across tiled roofs to the fields of orange and almond, then the sea, then the hazy outline of Formentera. Entrance is free; silence is enforced only by the heat.

Back in the grid of low houses, the Mercat Municipal opens 8 a.m.–2 p.m. except Sunday. Stallholders shout prices in that sing-song Catalan that sounds permanently surprised. Tuna turns up at 9 a.m. sharp from the port; by 9.30 the best belly cuts are gone. If self-catering, buy sobrassada here, not in souvenir shops—€6 for 200 g versus €12 on the front. Round the corner, an English-language book-swap operates from a fridge-sized cupboard outside the library: take one, leave one, no need to register. Crime paperbacks fly out; Thomas Hardy lingers.

Beaches for Every Type of Escape

Santa Eularia administers a string of coves like a tolerant head teacher. Cala Llonga, ten minutes east by the L12 bus, curves into pine-covered cliffs wide enough to absorb hundreds without feeling like Magaluf. The sand is powdery, the water bottle-green, and there’s a miniature tourist train that shuttles to the supermarket for gin-and-tonic supplies. Es Canar, another ten minutes on, hosts the Punta Arabí Hippy Market every Wednesday. Bus timetables are built around it; drivers recognise the glazed expression of passengers who have just paid €18 for a tie-dye sarong they could have bought in Camden.

Smaller coves demand effort. Cala Pada is a twenty-minute coastal stroll past shuttered holiday homes; Cala Martina attracts wind- and kite-surfers who treat the shoreline like a runway. Between them a dirt track serves fresh coconut water and reggae at 11 a.m.—or did last year, ownership changes with the breeze. Bring cash, because the card machine is “broken since yesterday”.

When the Sun Clocks Off

Evenings start late and cool fast. By 7 p.m. the promenade re-populates with power-walkers and parents wheeling buggies like diplomatic luggage. The marina’s boutiques dim their lights; one street back you’ll find identical espadrilles 40% cheaper. Dinner service begins at 8 p.m. sharp—arrive at 7.30 and you’ll dine alone under a waiter’s pitying gaze. Restaurante Miranda above Cala Nova will split a seafood paella for two if you ask nicely; half still feeds three hungry teenagers. House white is a Macià Batle that tastes of grapefruit peel and costs €18 a bottle, cheaper than the water in most London restaurants.

Nightlife exists, just not the Ministry-of-Sound variety. Bars along Passeig Marítim close by 1 a.m.; the loudest sound is usually a cocktail shaker or the thud of emptying bottles into the recycling drum. If you need a dance, Ibiza Town’s clubs are 20 minutes by taxi (€35 fixed fare after midnight), but the return journey always feels longer.

Getting Here, Getting Around

UK airports serve Ibiza from March to October with the enthusiasm of a Ryanair flash sale. Flight time is two hours ten, plus the inevitable twenty-minute circle over the Med waiting for a landing slot. From the terminal, Santa Eularia lies 21 km north-east. Pre-booked shuttles cost €25 pp and drop at hotel doors; taxis hover at €40 but won’t split the fare unless you bargain in Spanish. Public bus L13 leaves every 45 minutes, €4 exact change, and terminates opposite the town’s tiny tourist office where maps run out by July.

Once installed, local buses radiate like spokes. The TIB ten-journey card (€15) works out at €1.50 a ride—cheaper than Ubers that refuse to come anyway. Car hire is plentiful: €45 a day for a Fiat 500 in May, €95 in August, insurance extra. Petrol stations on the main road close for siesta; fill up before 1 p.m. or after 5 p.m. Parking near the beach is pay-and-display (€1.80/hr, three-hour max); side streets are free but competitive—think Christmas Eve at Tesco.

What the Brochures Don’t Mention

August is a furnace. Temperatures top 34 °C and the tramontana wind occasionally whips sand into exfoliating storms. The town’s sound system is a church bell that strikes the quarter, even at 3 a.m.—pack earplugs if you sleep lightly. Some restaurants add a 10% “service” line in tiny print; locals tip coins only, so query the bill. Finally, the river may be dry but mosquitoes remember its route; repellent is cheaper in Boots at Gatwick than in the resort farmacia.

Come in late May or mid-September and you’ll share the place with retirees who know the waiters by name and the price of a pint to the cent. The sea is warm enough for length-after-length, the artisan market smells of leather and clove cigarettes, and the fortified church on its hill still keeps watch, just in case the pirates ever return.