Celebrities and Artists Flock to this Spanish Island off the Coast of Spain—Now It’s Getting More Luxury Hotels

I hid under a camel-hair Berber tent on the beach to shade myself from the intense Mediterranean sun, next to a young woman from Atlanta who was tapping out poems on an old typewriter. She asked me for a word—the first that popped into my head—to add to her psychic verse. Nearby, a German model-turned healer in a backless goddess dress and no tan lines was talking about breath work. An artist in a crocheted bikini came by and sought help dragging a large metal sign that read, “SAVE ME,” into the sea.

I smiled, because without even standing up, I had stumbled upon the elusive essence of Formentera—a pristine island four miles south of Ibiza that feels like a bohemian holdover from an earlier time. It has no Ibiza-style megaclubs, just sand dunes, pine forests, and secluded coves. The stiletto-shaped slab of craggy rock lies at the southern end of the Balearic Island chain. Its geographic isolation has, for the past five decades, made it a low-key social sanctuary for artists, musicians, fashionable eccentrics, and other vacationing visionaries. 

Hippies first arrived in the 1960s. Bob Dylan is reputed to have slept in an old windmill. Pink Floyd stayed for extended periods, and the band used the eerie image of an island windmill on the cover of its soundtrack for More, Barbet Schroeder’s 1969 film about the hippie-heroin scene that was partly filmed on the island. Joni Mitchell, fleeing fame and Los Angeles, stopped there on a sabbatical through Europe that inspired her 1971 album, Blue. The design crowd came next and built chic beach escapes: they included Consuelo Castiglioni, the founder of Marni, and Philippe Starck, the French architect.

“Formentera is a paradise in the center of Europe,” Starck, who owned a cliffside home on the island for three decades, told a French fashion magazine in 2023. “It’s a rock, like a boat, in the middle of the sea. I don’t know anything more perfect; I don’t know anything more rare.” 

I knew exactly what Starck meant as I lounged under the Berber tent at Can 7, an artists’ residence and private home on Platja de Migjorn, a beach on the island’s southern shore. It was peak summer, when many beaches on the Mediterranean are wall-to-wall bodies. But I encountered hardly any tourists, apart from a few nude sunbathers splashing around in the calm and buoyant sea. 

It was early evening, so I decided to go for a pre-dinner swim myself. As I waded in, the electric-blue water felt amniotic and restorative, as if my nervous system were being recharged. At first, I thought that the hippie-healer vibe at Can 7 had rubbed off on me. But it turns out I was swimming in an aquatic meadow of Posidonia seagrass that has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site—some of it is thought to be 100,000 years old. The long, thick strands dance in the current, filtering the water and imbuing it with a magical crystalline glow. 

The land is equally as primordial—a pinkish dirt so desiccated it made me thirsty just looking at it. But look deeper and the mineral-rich soil almost takes on a jewel-like sparkle, with shades of rose, coral, and ocher. There is history everywhere, too. Drive around the island and catch glimpses of past civilizations: ancient fig trees propped up by wooden crutches; centuries-old windmills that look like giant antique flyswatters; stone walls built by the Moors during the Middle Ages that somehow still look new. 

Until recently, Formentera’s elemental charms were mostly enjoyed by day-trippers, who came aboard 30-minute ferries from Ibiza or on private yachts. They typically confined themselves to the northern shore, and made the pilgrimage to Juan y Andrea, an island institution that specializes in boozy seafood luncheons on Platja de Ses Illetes, a spit of sugary sand. Fewer spent the night, as many hotels lacked the kind of haute-hippie vibe that Joni Mitchell might have sought, nevermind anything more luxurious. The lodgings were often concrete bunker-like structures left over from Franco’s dictatorship or big package resorts built before the government clamped down on development in the 1980s. Upscale travelers seeking nicer accommodations were left to rent villas—unless they were lucky enough to be guests of Starck. 

I first visited Formentera 20 years ago. I stayed at the only semi-chic place I could find, Las Banderas, a small hotel run by Leah Tilbury, the sister of English makeup entrepreneur Charlotte Tilbury (their parents met at a full-moon party on Formentera in the 1960s). The rooms were basic, and the few guests were scrappy club kids taking a break from Ibiza to work on their tans. I was lucky if I could find fresh-squeezed juice or a memorable meal. 

Can 7 occupies the same structure that was once Las Banderas. Coincidentally, I was staying in the same room I had 20 years earlier, although it was unrecognizable—redesigned in wabi-sabi style with a charcoal color palette, high-thread-count linens, and earthy Moroccan textiles. The property was originally a 1950s taverna run by an old woman who looked like a witch—I know this because a stone effigy of her marks the turnoff from the main road. (An endearing feature of the island is the many roads that are not identified by signs, but by painted rocks and statues.) 

Permits to build new hotels on the island are almost impossible to get. But with older owners looking to sell or lease, several properties have been refurbished and opened as barefoot-luxe hotels, attracting the type of visitors who might start their mornings with Pilates overlooking an olive grove and end their nights feasting on fresh-caught langoustines and biodynamic wines.

Among the newest is Teranka Formentera, a boutique property from the same developers as the Nobu hotels in Ibiza and Marrakesh. Set among fragrant pine trees, the 35-room hotel has all the ingredients required for sophisticated lounging: raw-wood daybeds, plush neutral-color cushions, and contemporary art—not to mention a saltwater swimming pool and a rooftop bar that’s ideal for sunset cocktails. The garden restaurant may be the dreamiest on the island: built right on the sand, it has rustic wooden tables illuminated by African straw lanterns dangling from olive trees. My boyfriend and I dropped in for lunch one afternoon, taking in the scene as we grazed on a tomato salad with impossibly fresh burrata. The other tables were filled with sleek women in sheer caftans, their hair and skin salty and sun-kissed.

Our next stop was Dunas de Formentera, which opened last summer just steps from the sea. Marugal, a hotel group that also operates the ultra-exclusive Cap Rocat in Mallorca, turned a former hostel into an “eco-luxury” resort, with a series of whitewashed bungalows that seem to be carved into the dunes. The property is shaded with wind-sculpted pines that curl and snake like something out of Dr. Seuss. I thought it was the most ingenious landscaping I’d ever seen, until I realized it occurred naturally.

As we explored the sandy paths, I kicked off my shoes without thinking, and convinced my boyfriend to do an impromptu photo shoot. After what seemed like hundreds of poses and ever-changing backdrops, we were both panting and wondering how to get back to the hotel. Then, out of nowhere, a waiter appeared and handed us two freshly made mojitos. All was back on track.

Drinks in hand, we checked out our room. Designed by Mallorca-based Antonio Obrador, the interiors are an homage to Balearic splendor: earthy textures and natural materials such as jute, terra-cotta, clay, cotton, and wood. Nothing faux anywhere. A striped, pastel-pink headboard was a subtle nod to the 1960s Mediterranean jet set. There are also eco-friendly touches, including an hourglass timer that encourages you to keep your shower to less than five minutes. 

The following morning, I was sipping fresh watermelon juice by the infinity pool with Maria Pulido, the hotel’s general manager, who has lived on the island for more than a decade. With pride in her eyes, she asked if I had tried vintages from the island’s two wineries, Bodega Terramoll and Cap de Barbaria. In the late 1800s, she told me, the aphid-like pest known as phylloxera, accidentally brought from the United States, decimated Europe’s vines. Scientists eventually figured out how to graft the roots with resistant American ones, but it altered the grapes’ DNA. Formentera, because of its isolation, was one of the few places that escaped the blight, and varieties like Monastrell remain unadulterated to this day. 

In a way, that’s how I feel when I’m in Formentera: protected from the world’s troubles by the sea, which acts like a moat and provides a sense of security.

On one of our final nights, we went back to Can 7 for a party. Instead of an EDM-fueled bacchanalia of the kind found on Ibiza, it was an intimate gathering: three DJs joined seven visitors from Romania, England, Spain, Sweden, and the United States. The Berber tent glowed with flickering candles as we huddled on cushions around a coffee table that held vases of wildflowers and a professional mixing deck. The DJs created a down-tempo soundscape with the volume kept low, so as not to disturb the still night beyond. It felt subversive, like a game of sardines—the reverse of hide-and-seek—in which we were all hiding from the other players on Ibiza still searching for the party. 

After a few drinks, someone suggested moving our little soirée to the beach. Formentera’s dark skies and lack of light pollution make for spectacular stargazing. We spread blankets and sarongs on the sand and formed a circle with our heads so it felt like we were all one big happy brain. We giggled, sang, and traded stories as we stared up into the cosmos. I smiled because I’d happened upon Formentera’s soul again—only this time I wasn’t even sitting, but sprawled out gloriously under the stars. 

A version of this story first appeared in the June 2025 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline “La Isla Bonita”