Ibiza. Once upon a time, the White Isle was the Mediterranean’s great holiday cynosure, a place whose very name connoted revelry. People came from across the world to swim in its cerulean seas and stroll its pretty whitewashed towns. They also came to eat, drink, dance, possibly flirt with a mind-altering substance or two, and generally view their change of coordinates as permission to pursue pleasure. That’s what a holiday was about back then.

How things change. Last summer, I found myself in the island’s far north, at the Six Senses Ibiza. After a drink made with fermented ginger and herbal bitters at the resort’s Pharmacy Bar (where the menu of non-alcoholic “elixirs” was as long as the cocktail list), I visited the RoseBar Longevity Sanctuary. In a tranquil blush-toned relaxation area, a nurse practitioner zipped my legs into a pair of inflatable compression recovery-system boots, designed to “encourage lymphatic drainage and promote detoxification”.