The first of my monthly Guardian columns

Here's the uncut version of my introductory column about living in Ibiza while working in the UK. In order to make an advertisement fit, it was cut from 700 words to 500 words. This often happens in newspapers and I've butchered many a journalist's copy, but it's still frustrating.

Actually I was more fed up at the headline: 'Wherever I lay my Mac, that's my home'. I'm strictly PC these days having used Apple Macs when I worked in an office.

You can read edited article as it appeared in The Guardian if you click here. Or you can read it in full below...


Many people who’ve worked from home will recognise the picture. And it isn’t pretty. I’m sitting in front of my computer in my dressing gown, unshaven. The clock shows it’s 4pm, but doesn’t reveal that I haven’t set foot outside for three days. That’s because I had no need to venture onto Edinburgh’s cold, wet November streets. My work, and most of my life, was reduced to a screen, 19 inches corner to corner, and a telephone.

It was actually a couple of days later in the chilly sunshine that something clicked. I really didn’t need to be here. If most of the human contact necessary to earn a living could be made via phone and internet, I could be anywhere.

So I started to formulate a plan. There was nothing to stop my wife Barbara and I taking off to Ibiza for a year, celebrating my 50th birthday along the way. We had a small inheritance after my father died which, as long as I continued to earn something, would tide us over. We could put most of our belongings into my “home-office” and let our flat out as a two-bedroom which would, hopefully, cover most of the rent for a place in the sun.

Barbara wasn’t totally convinced. But I persuaded her Ibiza’s climate would be good for her rheumatoid arthritis and enable her to sell the jewellery she makes. So we wiled away the winter hours looking on the internet for somewhere to rent. Eventually it became clear we weren’t going to find anything and I’d have to spend a few days actually on the island. That’s when the first flaws in my plan became apparent.

Property seemed to be divided into two types. There were places which looked idyllic in summer when indoors was just for sleeping. In the spring drizzle, however, they felt barren and isolated. Alternatively there were apartments built for locals with tiny balconies barely large enough for a coffee table and two chairs. Watching sunshine through the window wasn’t the dream.

After four hectic days I found the ideal spot. It was modern and owned by a British architect and his wife. Okay, his work designing car showrooms did show a little in the décor, but it was a spacious compromise between local and holidaymaker’s tastes. It also managed to be quiet despite being two minutes from the beach and ten minutes from the island’s capital Ibiza Town. Getting a phone line and ADSL was also supposed to be easy, but that’s another story.

Feeling extremely pleased with myself I headed back to Edinburgh. The 25 hours it took gave me ample opportunity to think about whether it was really such a good idea to try and work from a small island with no direct flights outside Spain throughout the winter.

But, over a year later we’re still here. It’s four in the afternoon, I’m still unshaven, but it’s too warm for me to wear my dressing gown. As much by accident as by design I’ve ended up as a global telecommuter earning my income in the UK, but living by the Mediterranean. I edit the August Club’s website which is aimed at people retiring from business and the professions, write regularly for a number of publications and act as a confidential consultant on website content for several large private and public-sector organisations.

It’s all work that can be done anywhere there’s access to an internet connection. Even in the year I’ve been away, advances in technology, particularly internet telephony, keep making it easier to enjoy this way of working. I’m certainly not alone.

That doesn’t make it straightforward. Dealing in a foreign language with tax, bureaucracies which appear unreconstructed since Franco’s day and a postal service that doesn’t recognise your existence can reduce you almost to tears.

But I’ve learned a lot about working abroad in the UK over the last year or so. I’m sure now Ibiza is not the rational choice, but if you can make it here you can make it anywhere. Hopefully, over the coming months through this column I’ll show you how.

• Nick Clayton is a freelance writer, editor of the August Club website and a web content consultant.

Real price of a cheap flight

One of the main topics of conversation amongst Brits in Ibiza is the price of flights. With so many budget airlines landing here over the summer finding out which one has the best deals can mean many frustrating hours on the internet, although there are some useful tools such as Skyscanner which searches across multiple airlines.

It’s easier for Londoners than the rest. For them, there’s direct flights into Luton, Stansted or Gatwick. And even if they land at 4am, there’s always a taxi into to town. For the rest of us, even landing in the early evening on British soil can make a cheap flight very expensive. Somehow you have to make a connection and if you miss the last onward flight, train, bus or whatever you’re stuck. A night in most airport hotels costs more than the flight.

Now, you might think from looking in travel agents windows that there would be regular cheap flights to Ibiza from Edinburgh or Glasgow. And you’d be right. Sadly for me, you can’t get the same bargains flying from Spain to Scotland. Sometimes, however, if you know you’re making several trips over the summer you can book that cheap return originating from the UK. So this summer Barbara and I flew to Doncaster, stayed in Edinburgh for three weeks, got a cheap return for two weeks from Glasgow and finally flew back to Ibiza from Doncaster. The total cost for four flights was less than £200.

But, sometimes those cheap summer flights provide more than a bargain. That was certainly the case when we flew back from Glasgow. The reason the ticket was cheap, incidentally, was because it straddled the end of the Scottish school holidays. It’s always worth checking term times to find bargains if you’re not too far from the border.

Anyway, the trip started badly. At check-in we were told there was a delay of probably two hours. But, tt least that made the game of guessing who would be on the same plane a bit easier. There weren’t any more flights that evening. Glasgow Airport was staying open just for us, at least WH Smith and a bar was. Actually, it didn’t seem too bad, even the drinkers watching Rangers playing a minor Cypriot team, and winning, seemed fairly subdued. It wasn’t until we made our way down to the departure lounge that it became clear that relieving the tedious journey with sleep was not going to be possible.

Several groups of shaven-headed lads were obviously enjoying themselves, to put it politely. As we got on the plane one group in front of us was being moved, none too politely, by a stony-faced stewardess. They were sent to the back of the plane while she confiscated their bottle of duty-free vodka. Unfortunately, although they had only got their seats wrong by one row, so they were soon back.

Meanwhile, an even rowdier group had got on. The one who couldn’t be right by his pals sat next to me. “Aw, nae luck big man,” he said. “You’ve got me for the whole flight.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it as he looked me up and down. “Hey, it’s Jerry Sadowitz,” he shouted to his pals. I’ve never been mistaken for a foul-mouthed, Jewish-Glasgow comedian before. It could have been worse. Looking at their football shirts, at least they didn’t think I was a Catholic.

Having got a laugh out of the Sadowitz comparison he then continued to repeat it for most of the trip, though fortunately a space had opened up next to his pals giving me some breathing space. That didn’t stop them offering me a swig of their Buckfast. I had a strange feeling of being back at school. Every time one of the cabin crew passed there was a clink of bottles, but I certainly wasn’t going to point the finger at who was to blame.

Also, their high spirits weren’t malicious. They were just having fun. Although, part way through the flight, it did look as if fists were about to fly. The middle-aged man who had complained originally about the two lads with the contraband vodka who were sitting in his seat suddenly turned round. “I’ve warned you three times about your language. There are children here,” he shouted.

I didn’t feel too much sympathy. The “children” were teenage boys who, I’m sure, would have heard their share of bad language at school, which was presumably where they should have been, rather than on a late-night flight to Ibiza.

Earlier in the flight I’d talked to the young woman in front. She was travelling alone, but had obviously consumed enough alcohol to join in with the lad’s banter. I’ll admit to being a little surprised when she explained she was an engineering graduate. It’s not a discipline that attracts too many females and, my prejudice shows again, she was quite attractive. Unless engineering students have changed dramatically since my day, I’ll bet she featured in more than a few of her classmate’s dreams. However, she said she now hated engineering and was completing a second degree in marketing. “With that combination I should be minted,” she said. I couldn’t argue with that.

But she also brought out my usually well-hidden puritan instincts. For much of our conversation she was massaging the upper thigh of the guy sitting next to her. No doubt his Rangers top made him irresistible, but they had only known each other for a maximum of ten minutes. It was, anyway, a short relationship as she left him for his pal and they spent most of the flight chewing each others’ faces, pausing only for the occasional swig of Buckie.

My contribution to the conversation had, anyway, come to an end. It is on occasions like these that portable music players really come into their own. With a pair of earphones and the volume turned up, you can be in a world of your own.