Travelling to Formentera, also known as the White Island, is still something of an adventure for those looking for a different side of Spain

Arriving by ferry on the last leg of a journey really makes you feel like a true traveller, and nowhere I can think of illustrates this more than sailing into the tiny port of La Savina on Formentera, in the Balearics. Other than day-trippers over on cruises from neighbouring Ibiza and those fortunate enough to sail into the island’s sheltered anchorages on their yachts, every visitor to the ‘White Island’ passes through this bustling little Estacio Maritima.

Just six kilometres as the seagull flies from big sister Ibiza, this 20 km long island of white beaches and abandoned saltpans, the latter being a stopping-off point for pink flamingos between Europe and Africa, sees relatively few British tourists, even at the height of the summer season. When I first discovered this enchanted island back in the eighties most tourists were German or Scandinavian, but the Italians came back in their droves in the mid-nineties, to the extent that August evenings in the primary resort town of Es Pujols can sometimes sound more like Lido di Jesolo or Rimini.

The last time that the Italians invaded in numbers was back in Roman times, and supposedly the name Formentera originates from the Latin term frumentarium, which means granary. Wander inland from the beaches, particularly to the southwest ‘high heel’ of this shoe-shaped island, and you will still find the stone-walled arable fields that gave the place its bread-basket reputation two thousand years ago.
When I first stepped off one of the converted fishing boats that used to ferry tourists and their luggage over from Ibiza Town port to Formentera back in the eighties, I was on a holiday package with my wife and young daughter in tow, looking for two relaxing weeks in a destination that was a little more ‘exotic’ than the Costa del Sol or Costa Dorada, yet still within the family budget. In those days the water supply in the few low-rise hotels on the island was salty and liable to irritatingly dry up just after soaping oneself in the shower, but that was all part of the adventure.

Those days are long gone, but as the island is both too small and too close to Ibiza to have its own airport, it’s still a bit of an adventure getting there. While the more modern hydrofoil service has brought crossing times down from ninety minutes to under half an hour, I usually opt for one of the slower car ferries and spend a stress-free hour or so on deck watching the Pityuses group of Ibiza, Formentera, Espalmador and the rest of the archipelago slowly gliding by.

Read the full article in our October 2008 edition.

(Words and pictures by Bob Morrison)