Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in Bournemouth
Do you have a hotel or B&B in one of these areas then please contact us to list your hotel below, free of charge.
Bournemouth, Broadstone, Christchurch, Ferndown, New Milton, Poole, Ringwood, Swanage, Verwood, Wareham, Wimborne, Bournemouth
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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Tina Turner, Rod Stewart and Neil Diamond’. For a newcomer to Tenerife, an advertisement like this outside somewhere like the Mucky Bucket in Torviscas must have seemed a tad extraordinary. Free admission, beer at a pound a pint, three mega legends and bingo in the intervals. Where else could you find that? On any given night, sandwiched between ‘play your cards right’ and ‘spin the wheel’, the likes of Elton John and Meatloaf could be found picking out the night’s raffle ticket winner before bursting into ‘I’m Still Standing’ and ‘Dead Ringer For Love’ respectively. You have to be extremely vigilant to avoid a collision with a major celebrity on the streets of Las Américas. While a selection of Elvis Presleys would be puffing and panting in full regalia en route to their next half-hour spot, turned-up collars and two-foot quiffs flapping up and down like a flock of crested eagles, Tina Turner would be stumbling along Avenida Rafael Puig, one hand holding down her wig, the other restraining a threatened breakout in the cleavage department. We were tempted by the enthusiasm of a voice interacting with a crowd in a nearby bar. On closer inspection, perhaps this wasn’t the show for us. A six-foot transvestite with neck to wrist tattoos was trying to whip his audience into a frenzy. ‘Everybody on the left shout hoo, everybody on the right shout hah.
Bournemouth, Broadstone, Christchurch, Ferndown, New Milton, Poole, Ringwood, Swanage, Verwood, Wareham, Wimborne, Bournemouth
After relaying back and forth rounding up the remainder of our wayward luggage, the air rife with the fragrance of squelching armpits, and with a nagging ache lingering in my gonads, we were welcomed to Tenerife. The arrivals hall was a bright but characterless warehouse stocked with a mixture of tanned locals and tour reps in dizzy florid blouses. Each held a board with their company’s name emblazoned across it. Every tour operator that I had ever heard of, and a lot that I hadn’t, seemed to be represented here. Some already had flocks of bewildered, washed-out faces huddled around them, fathers relieved that all responsibility had been passed on to someone who knew what the hell to do next. Joy and I pushed the trolleys through the milling crowd and emerged blinking into the glaring sunshine of our new country of residence. Hot blasts of air swept over us as we wheeled down the endless line of people waiting for a taxi. Overhead, a piercing blue stretched from the glittering Atlantic beyond the runway to where the mountaintops gashed the sky several miles inland. Families herded their belongings together. Their holiday started here and shirts were already off, revealing pasty torsos desperate to be toasted. As with all travel, replacing familiar surroundings with the unknown fires an electric charge that awakens a sense of adventure. Even those whose pool of adrenalin had long been suffering a severe drought were caught in this buzz of excitement.
The only casualty who did not seem to be making such a quick recovery from ‘the bug’ was Buster. His puny call had deteriorated to a silent mouthing whenever somebody ventured close, and any inclination to travel beyond table five had completely vanished. When one of the Spaghetti Beach residents ambled into the bar with a Dalmatian, Buster lifted his head from the soft padding of the bench seat, looked at the spotted enemy and flopped down again. It was clearly time to seek professional help. Over the weeks, Buster had gained an enormous amount of weight. From being barrel-shaped and burly he had become more like a furry beach ball. His personal hygiene had also fallen by the wayside. He now sported a permanent black stripe running the length of his spine, a legacy of his favourite stakeout place underneath a parked car. However, whereas before he had been able to remove the camouflage once his mission was over, the middle of his back now remained frustratingly just beyond the reach of his probing pink tongue. Sitting on his haunches he would strain his neck in an attempt to lick off the oil but more often than not, he would lose his balance, roll over his own shoulder and let out an indignant sigh of defeat. Buster’s attraction to cars wasn’t restricted to the underside, even though he spent a lot of time sprawled under chassis now the bar was closed in the daytime. After sleeping, eating and chasing dogs, going for a ride in the car was Buster’s favourite pastime. On those mornings when time was short and we had an insurmountable list of tasks that needed to be accomplished before the bar opened, speed was of the essence. Without fail these mornings coincided with Buster’s innate urge to be a passenger. He would have no qualms about standing resolute in front of a revving car until a door would open and in he would leap.