Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in Medway
If you have a hotel in any of these locations then please contact us to list your hotel below, free of charge.
Aylesford, Chatham, Faversham, Queenborough, Rochester, Sheerness, Sittingbourne, Snodland, West Malling, Gillingham, Maidstone
For UK travelers going abroad, we recommend Tenerife, with feel of the UK yet all the sun of Tenerife. Read an extract below from More Ketchup than Salsa, the story of a English couple who left the UK to set up life in Tenerife. Info on how to buy the book can be found below.
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Below you will find short extracts from More ketchup than Salsa by Joe Cawley – not to be missed.
Short Extract
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Danny probably knew more than us about running the bar, from cocktail recipes to how to change a barrel. Over the first few nights the thirteen-year-old would often help Joy or Faith out in times of crisis. ”Undred ‘n’ fifty pesetas,’ he would demand from customers, his eyes barely level with the black painted bartop. The two girls had been scared out of changing barrels by Frank ‘Don’t lean over it. Knew a man in England who got his head taken clear off’ whereas Danny would be only too happy to oblige. As one of the original El Berilians, Frank was a self-appointed troubleshooter dealing with a variety of problems that befell the other English residents. He wouldn’t, however, help the foreigners as he called them. The Germans, French, Italians and Spanish were part of the problem and, ironically, Frank’s colonialist policy would have been to shoot them all if they didn’t go back to their own countries. Racist he may have been, but if you had a problem with your car or needed some DIY doing, Frank was your man, though the results were not always positive. Two tall tanks housed in a flimsy metal cabinet on the terrace fed propane gas through the exterior wall, along the length of the restaurant and into the kitchen. This routing left a lot to be desired as the slightest leak combined with a casually discarded cigarette could have seen a drastic repositioning of the Smugglers Tavern. There was a safety device in place, which cut off the gas inside the cabinet if there was a fire or some other disagreeable disturbance in the flow. A week after the electricity supply was restored with a plank of wood, the shut-off valve jammed shut after one too many flaming chicken breasts. We called out the gas engineer on the Tuesday morning but by Wednesday lunchtime, they still hadn’t arrived. This meant that only microwave meals and salads could be served and it wasn’t proving too popular with the regulars.
Aylesford, Chatham, Faversham, Queenborough, Rochester, Sheerness, Sittingbourne, Snodland, West Malling, Gillingham, Maidstone
Originally dubbed ‘the poor man’s market’ in what was a working man’s town built on the prosperity of the local cotton mills, Bolton market was subsidised by the council to provide cheap food and clothing for low-income workers. (In a flourish of affluent delusion it has since been completely refurbished and modernised. The rats get to scamper around on fitted nylon carpets amid designer lighting franchises. An elegant coffee shop offering vanilla slices on dainty china now occupies the spot where once the best meat and potato pie sandwiches in Lancashire were messily consumed by fishy-fingered stall workers like me.) It was an undemanding job both physically and mentally, which suited me fine. Stress was for the rich and hardworking, characteristics that were never going to be heading my way. That’s not to say that I was content. A string of menial jobs had taught me that contentment is not always found on the path of least resistance, but I had found myself meandering towards that monotonous British lifestyle of schooljobpensioncoffin, and something needed to be done fast. I had grown bored with the same old stallholder banter ‘We’re losing a lot of money, but we’re making a lot of friends,’ or ‘Oh yes, love, it is fresh, it will freeze.’ I was becoming less and less amused by the teasing of old ladies as they stood at the stall with purses wide open, names inadvertently displayed on their bus passes.
Another reason why they thought it better to use our bar was that it meant free drinks for themselves the single most important reason for doing anything amongst the British expat community. In return for us providing free jugs of sangria and a smattering of peanuts, Kevin and Brian would extol the virtues of the Smugglers Tavern to weekly groups of around twenty to thirty new arrivals. More often than not, several of the timeshare fly-buys would stay after the welcome meeting and order food, enabling us to recoup the cost of our meagre giveaways and showcase our hospitality talents at the same time. However, this extra crowd of customers was in addition to our regular breakfast trade, and once or twice whoever happened to be on shift that morning would be faced with 30 full English breakfasts and 30 coffee orders all at the same time. Understandably, the bar was not looking its best when David and Faith walked in that afternoon. There’s no fizzy water or bottled beer in the fridge,’ said Faith during her habitual inspection. This had become a ritual of Faith’s in another effort to prove to herself that she still retained some authority, and she was always pleased to discover some slight failure in our duties. Don’t start, Faith,’ warned Joy. ‘We’ve done 65 meals this afternoon as well as hosting the timeshare meeting. I’ve not got round to stocking the bar yet.’ But Faith was clearly in offensive mode.