Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in Chelmsford
If you have a hotel in one of these areas then please contact us to list your hotel below, free of charge.
Billericay, Bishop’s Stortford, Braintree, Brentwood, Burnham-On-Crouch, Chelmsford, Dunmow, Epping, Harlow, Ingatestone, Maldon, Ongar, Sawbridgeworth, Southminster, Stansted, Witham
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.
List your Hostel in Chelmsford
Below you will find short extracts from More ketchup than Salsa by Joe Cawley – not to be missed.
Short Extract
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While Al sipped on the water, creasing his face as if it was medicine, David filled me in on the morning’s activities. They had had a busy breakfast time and then it had gone dead. The brilliant sunshine and temperatures in the 90s had presumably sent everybody scuttling for the beach. Well, at least the British. Other nationalities had probably headed for the wisdom of shade or a siesta. It was Wednesday, the day after changeover Tuesday so we were bound to see the usual assortment of flaming red hues in the bar tonight. The Brits tend to parade sunburn like trophies. The more defined the lines between pre- and post-sun the better. Behind the bar we were often treated to the sight of pallid groins neatly crowned by fire-red bellies as pants were tugged down and tan lines were compared. Blisters on the males were even better, like battle scars. ‘Nope, can’t feel a thing,’ they’d say, having just ingested four pints of the local anaesthetic. The real test was in the morning when they woke up and wondered why someone had swapped their soft cotton bedclothes for sheets of sandpaper, and why acid was coming out of the shower rather than water. No amount of fabric softener would reduce the abrasiveness of barbed wire T-shirts nicking away at raw shoulders, and the flimsiest of flip-flops would feel like bear-traps clamping down on swollen red feet. But after they’d contemplated their pain, where would they head? Straight to the beach again of course, to make doubly sure that on their return to the UK nobody could be in any doubt that they had been abroad; it was like a wearable souvenir. Outside the bar, the two Johns were teaching pool to a couple of teenage girls, trying to get them to lean further over the table as they practised cueing up. ‘Smooth action. That’s it. Let it slip through your hands slowly then bring it back,’ said John Two. ‘Slowly. Smooth. Imagine you’re making love to your boyfriend.’ Aye, like you’re giving him a hand job,’ added John One. The girls giggled. ‘Got a right pair ‘ere, John. Think they know what a hand job is?’
Billericay, Bishop’s Stortford, Braintree, Brentwood, Burnham-On-Crouch, Chelmsford, Dunmow, Epping, Harlow, Ingatestone, Maldon, Ongar, Sawbridgeworth, Southminster, Stansted, Witham
Frank took on the last of our tasks, accompanied by his detective sidekick and Spanish translator, Danny. They were to take the Polaroids to the Hotel Conquistador and make enquiries as to whether the Czech girl was actually working there. For our part, in between running the bar and making sure that Siobhan’s friends were all right we had to buy a list of items that were necessary for the implementation of plan B. The first to report back with a breakthrough was Wayne. He’d followed Pedro to an apartment in Las Américas. After abandoning the car for a closer look, he’d seen Pedro opening the apartment door with a key and leaving several hours later in different clothes. It seems like the slimy fucker has another home,’ he beamed. This was a big breakthrough and was the first bullet we needed in the gun that was going to get rid of the two unwanted guests.
I desperately wanted to clear the whirlwind of emotions currently wreaking havoc in my head. I wanted to go to Old Glossop at the edge of the Pennines, to wander into the hills and gaze over Derbyshire life. It was there that I always had time to think, safe in the knowledge that at home my mum would have cooked my tea, washed my clothes, been to work and still have the patience in the evening to devote all her time and love to my brother and me. She was the one who had absorbed the anguish of teenage angst, soaked up the grief of broken relationships, made all the plans for our better future while my dad busied himself in making a career, always miles away from his real responsibilities. I could see now that my Dad had passed down his commitment-aversion genes. I, too, had developed a phobia of being trapped in a situation with no means of escape. But my nostalgic journey was not to be. This was a time for going forwards, not back. I continued with the material aspects of emigrating. Packing for a new life involves a bit more than throwing in a few shirts, a pair of flip-flops and a good book. Everything that I had collected had some meaning. Each time I was coerced into taking things out of my suitcase to throw away, it felt like another nail in the coffin of my life to date. Despite the wrench of packing for a new life and packing up my old one, all was going according to plan until we got a phone call from our gestoria, the person who was sorting out the paperwork for us in Tenerife. ‘Slight problem. I can get work permits and residence permits for the two lads as joint owners, but not the girls. I’ve just found out the only way we can make them legal is if you’re married, in which case the wives automatically become residents. You’ll all have to get married, quickly.’ As much as our hearts were racing at the thought of swapping the two-tone grey of Bolton for the multi-coloured hues of a life in the sub-tropics, Joy and I were adamant that marriage was not a thing of convenience. The threat of wedding chimes set off alarm bells and we said no. The whole move was in jeopardy once again.