The sun has set and the blue-black sky blurs into the bodies of pine trees. The summer air carries a chill at La Granja, a luxurious farmhouse inn that opened last year in the remote northern corner of the island of Ibiza. Wrapped in cashmere scarves, a handful of “members”—due to Ibiza’s arcane permitting system, La Granja is accessible only to members, though membership is gained simply by asking—have gathered around a wooden bar built at the base of a carob tree to sip mezcal cocktails laced with fresh basil. From the terraced fields surrounding the 17th-century finca, or farming estate, emerges a handsome farmer with a trim salt-and-pepper beard, toting a bushel of just-picked spinach. He whistles after his dog, a blue merle border collie named Franky.
Ibiza has a well-deserved reputation as a real-life Aeaea, a pleasure island where normally sober Europeans go to forget themselves in a summer haze of DJs and Dionysian indulgence. In a farmhouse turned nightclub, Paul Oakenfold once threw a birthday party so epic that it gave rise to a genre of music (house) and fundamentally altered the culture of Ibiza. Today, the island is synonymous with a hard-partying boom- tss boom-tss, day-into-night rave scene.