So a couple of days ago, someone asks me if I fancy a yoga holiday. Naturally. I'm thinking of somewhere in Kerala or the South of France perhaps; a few hours stretching in the morning, the rest of the day floating in a hammock. My kind of break. Then they say to me: "Ibiza"

Ibiza !

But I'm Forty something....and...and...Ibiza, it's excess, madness...they all fit in the same sentence, snug as bugs in a rug. It'll kill me. I need beatitude, not bacchanalia

She can't mean doing Yoga being blasted by a wildly gyrating foam cannon; or a sun salutation waving a light stick; downward dog with 3,000 others on a pulsing, heaving dance floor; ricocheting around Space or whatever the hippest club is on a yoga mat; over adrenalised sessions that finally draw to a close around 7am; sirens wailing before the next beat breaks; I can't do the Heron pose at the best of times, but in front of a crowd all dressed in dayglo...surely, she can't...She's got it wrong, has to.

She has n't. I have. Yes, there is Yoga in Ibiza...and it's way, way from the club scene, so I won't have to fear being blinded by a strobe. This place is high in the hills. A retreat. Quiet, surrounded by lushness and calm according to the web blurb....now this is more like it.