The Reluctant Bride
Five nights, two hotels, endless laughs — and a gentle reminder that the best celebrations are sometimes the quietest ones.
Catch up on the latest from The Reluctant Bride
Part 1: Navigating The Wedding Maze: A Reluctant Bride’s Journey Begins
Part 2: Family Dynamics and Guest List Dilemmas: The Hard Truths of Planning a Destination Wedding
Part 3: Love (and Wedding Planning) Isn’t Always a Fairytale… Part 4: Plot Twist – A Wedding Reimagined (Again)
The last time I set foot on the island, I was 17 — on a Club 18–30 holiday (so young we even needed parental consent!). It was my first trip without my parents, a baptism of fire into the wild world of package holidays that felt galaxies away from the family travel I’d grown up with. It was also my slightly daunting introduction to all-night clubbing — the kind of full-throttle experience that, at 17, I probably wasn’t quite ready for.
Fast-forward 26 years and I’m back — this time with one of the same girlfriends from that original trip. We’re both mums now, escaping for five precious nights without our children, and somehow that’s giving us the same fizz of excitement we felt at 17… albeit for very different reasons.
This time, our intentions couldn’t be further from those of our teenage selves. Instead of chasing all-nighters, we’re chasing stillness. Instead of searching for the next bar, we’re looking for beauty — good food, wellness, a bit of history, and just enough nostalgia to laugh about those long-lost misadventures of the late ’90s. Ibiza, it turns out, has grown up too.
If you’d told 21-year-old me (or even that slightly feral 17-year-old!) that I’d be back on the White Isle for my hen trip — I’d have probably laughed, downed another tequila, and carried on dancing. But here I am, back again, ready for five nights of what I can only describe as relaxed hedonism. Translation: less neon body paint, more linen. Less 4am bassline, more 4pm siesta. And, admittedly, far too much time spent in Zara.
This wasn’t an official hen do. There were no sashes, no shot necklaces, and not an inflatable in sight. It was simply two women revisiting an island that once represented carefree chaos — this time swapping the hangovers and heartbreaks of our youth for sunshine, sleep, and good food. And it was bliss.
Leaving the kids behind for five whole nights felt both indulgent and surreal. No early wake-ups, no packed lunches, no small humans interrupting mid-sentence — just time. Time to sleep in, linger over breakfast without pouring cereal for anyone else, and read by the pool without a single “Muuuum!” in earshot. It was, in a word, priceless.
We started our trip in Ibiza Town, checking into The Standard Ibiza — a hotel that manages to make you feel effortlessly cool just by walking through the door. From the moment we arrived, Carlos on reception greeted us like old friends, offering local tips and that warm, genuine hospitality that’s increasingly rare. The hotel itself is stylish without trying too hard — all minimalist lines, crisp bedding, and the kind of bed that makes you consider cancelling plans just to stay horizontal.
They even have a WhatsApp concierge for everything from dinner bookings to “we’re still shopping, please can we have a late checkout?”, which made life so easy. Our room came with a well-stocked minibar, refillable water bottles, a hangover kit, and (bizarrely) a high-tech toilet with its own remote control that had us both in stitches trying to work it out.
The rooftop bar was another highlight — a lively but relaxed spot overlooking the old town. During our stay, it was hosting a Burberry pop-up, complete with lemon-yellow cushions, signature cocktails and just enough Ibiza energy to make us feel like we were still “in the scene”, without having to prove it on a dancefloor. The only downside? The Zara next door. Our luggage and our credit cards both suffered significantly.
After a few days in the buzz of Ibiza Town, we moved on to Siesta, a relaxed little coastal village just outside Santa Eulalia. Here, we checked into Hotel Mongibello, and honestly — it was love at first sight. Imagine pure 1950s Riviera glamour dropped onto the Ibizan coast: blue-and-white prints, gold accents, and a grand piano gleaming in the lobby. Every corner begged for a photo, but the atmosphere was refreshingly unpretentious. Our room looked straight out of a retro film set — red velvet headboard, monogrammed towels, and a baby-blue coffee machine that somehow made morning coffee taste better. Breakfast felt like an event, with mountains of fruit, homemade granola, a live egg station and free-flowing vintage cava (which we told ourselves counted as “hydration”).
Days drifted by happily around the pool — a Hollywood golden-age scene of blue-and-white tiles, matching lilos, and a giant mosaic ‘M’ glinting in the sunshine. Between swims, we’d sip iced coffees and reflect on how different the island feels now. The same sun, the same sea, but a totally different energy. Back then, Ibiza was loud, relentless, and a little bit reckless. Now, it feels softer. Slower. Still fun, but threaded with something deeper.
But even a “reluctant bride” needs one big night out. So, we saved our energy and sequins for Pikes — the hillside hideaway famous for its legendary parties, world-class DJs, and sense of mischief. It’s an institution, steeped in stories, and the kind of place that manages to be both glamorous and gloriously unpolished. Excited beyond measure, we fought our way to the front of the crowd in the tiny club room that was once Freddie Mercury’s favourite suite. And there we stayed — dancing non-stop through David Morales’ set, grinning at each other between old-school anthems and fresh beats. It was sweaty, euphoric, nostalgic and totally life-affirming.
And in that moment, I realised something: maybe at 17, I wasn’t quite ready for Ibiza. But at 43, I finally was.
By the time we reached Siesta again, all ambition of late nights had evaporated, replaced by lazy beach walks, seafood lunches, and long chats about life, love and everything in between. It wasn’t about reliving our youth — it was about reconnecting with the part of ourselves we’d left behind somewhere between work deadlines and school runs.
This “unofficial” hen trip wasn’t about ticking boxes or making a scene. It was about slowing down. Laughing until our faces hurt. Finding joy in small, unfiltered moments — like sharing a jug of sangria at sunset or realising you can, in fact, still dance (just… briefly).
Ibiza now isn’t about who’s playing at Pacha. It’s about who you’re there with, and how it makes you feel. And if the measure of a good hen trip is leaving happier, lighter and slightly poorer thanks to Zara — then I’d say this one was a success.
Here’s to grown-up hedonism, old friends, and a suitcase that definitely won’t fit in the wardrobe when I get home.
Yours in love, linen, and reluctant bridehood,
Hannah
IG: reluctant_bride