Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in Dorchester
Do you have a hostel or hotel in any of these locations then please contact us to list your hotel below, free of charge.
Beaminster, Blandford Forum, Bridport, Dorchester, Lyme Regis, Portland, Sherborne, Sturminster Newton, Weymouth
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 Dorchester
Below you will find short extracts from More ketchup than Salsa by Joe Cawley – not to be missed.
Short Extract
Get the book
The policeman handed the stack of papers back to Siobhan, turned to Pedro and shrugged his shoulders. He said something in Spanish and then nodded at his partner before descending the stairs and walking off. Pedro was left at the top of the stairs with his hands on his hips, staring at the closed door. He began to knock but gave up after realising that Siobhan was not going to open it. He snapped something at the girl who was waiting at the bottom of the steps. She ran up and they grabbed two bin liners each before trudging back down the stairs and walking off dejectedly. In Mrs Tanners apartment a cheer went out, perhaps a little too prematurely. Pedro looked up over his shoulder to see Wayne pressing his nose against the window giving a one-fingered farewell. It was over. I felt four stone lighter, and that was even after a fistful of homemade scones and chocolate biscuits. In the bar that night, Joy was in party mood. The bad-tempered rants of some of our customers couldnt shake her, nor could the protestations of Freidhelm who stabbed at his watch with a finger and wobbled his jowls disapprovingly. ‘Big problem, he croaked, but for us the big problem had finally gone and we could get back to our intended mission of trying to run a successful Tenerife bar. Having a job that doesnt differentiate between weekdays and weekends means its difficult to mark the passing of time. It was only when we noticed that our local cash and carry seemed to be stacking an inordinate amount of sweets and nuts did we realise that Father Christmas had booked his flight and was halfway through packing. Panic set in as it dawned on us that we had made no preparations whatsoever with only three weeks to go.
Beaminster, Blandford Forum, Bridport, Dorchester, Lyme Regis, Portland, Sherborne, Sturminster Newton, Weymouth
The joys of having someone inconsiderate in front can only be equalled by having an oblivious individual behind and I had scored in both directions. Every twenty minutes or so, the incontinent man grabbed my seat to lever himself up, catapulting my head as he battled to clamber over his neighbours on numerous scurries to the toilet. This made reading impossible and, for want of anything better to do, I paid a visit to the toilet myself. I have to admit to having a fascination with these sites of sensory overload. Theyre like giant Fisher Price Activity Centres. The combined aroma of cleaning fluids, cheap soap and a dozen lingering perfumes confuse your sense of smell, while the unfamiliar sounds of droning engines, creaking plastic and ‘whoosh of water being magically whisked away lead to disorientation. A barrage of notices add to the chaos, warning of dire consequences for disposing of paper products in the waste disposal unit or waste products in the paper disposal unit. Wipe round to clean. Lift up to drain. Push down to flush. Press in to call. Slide across to close. Pull out to open. In a state of increasing panic I struggled to fulfil all my obligations and with one hand hastily trying to hitch up my trousers, the other unwittingly resting on the call button, the door flew open. Can I help you sir? enquired the stewardess, holding the door open a bit wider and for just a little longer than I deemed necessary. You were a long time, noted Joy on my return.
After four hours the captain announced our descent. Out of the window the peak of Mount Teide, Tenerifes sleeping volcano, poked through the cloud cover below. The ethereal vision of our new homeland, obscured by cloud yet signalled by the impressive point of Spains highest mountain, added to the apprehension of entering another world, another life even. We touched down, waved our passports at the disinterested customs officials and awaited the arrival of four mismatched suitcases, three borrowed holdalls and a square, plastic flight bag that, nowadays, is usually sported only by those passengers who still insist on travelling in 1970s safari suits with hair severely parted in a cut-along-here-for-lobotomy fashion. We had been happily reunited with half of our baggage, but then cases from another flight began to mingle with ours. The tannoy garbled in Spanish and then repeated the message in equally unintelligible English. Something about hairdryers were not to be used on horses. A rotund German lady with exceptional BO had stolen my view and I leaned a little closer to the conveyor belt. As I did, an overhanging Samsonite rushed from behind the lady and struck me square in the groin, lifting me up slightly and carrying me along for a couple of inches. Now I had tears in my eyes and an intense urge to lie down to contend with, as well as the pungent sumo obstructing my vision.