B&Bs and Hotels in Edinburgh

Good Hotel Guide

Hostels and Hotels in Edinburgh

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Aberdour, Balerno, Bathgate, Bo’ness, Bonnyrigg, Broxburn, Currie, Dalkeith, Dunbar, East Linton, Edinburgh, Gorebridge, Gullane, Haddington, Heriot, Humbie, Innerleithen, Inverkeithing, Juniper Green, Kinghorn, Kirkliston, Kirknewton, Lasswade, Linlithgow, Livingston, Loanhead, Longniddry, Musselburgh, Newbridge, North Berwick, Pathhead, Peebles, Penicuik, Prestonpans, Queensferry, Ratho, Rosewell, Roslin, Seafield, South Queensferry, Tranent, Walkerburn, West Calder, West Linton

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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While Michelle seemed genuinely upset at the insinuation, Gary remained unperturbed. ‘I dont know, he said calmly. ‘Everybody paid, though it did go quiet just after youd gone. I cant see how its down though. Must be something wrong with the till, I guess. He shook his head. ‘Oh, here we go. A customer had come to the bar and Gary went to serve him. Michelle had true shock on her face. She continued pleading her innocence and voicing disbelief that she was being accused. Joy. Were friends, she continued. ‘I cant believe youre saying this. But Joy was resolute. She was tired, angry and beyond compassion and Michelle and Gary were bearing the brunt. Michelle began to check the Tupperware in the fridge to see if any more salad needed to be prepared, upset and indignation flushing her cheeks scarlet. ‘Youve really upset me, she said, from behind the fridge door. I looked at Joy, surprised that she had come down so heavy on her. We werent exactly efficient with our bookkeeping, the till reading often didnt match what was actually in the drawer. This was more often than not because we had paid for a delivery from the till and in the heat of a busy moment had forgotten to leave a note to account for it. Joy could see my sympathy for Michelle and presumed I was about to defend her. She shook her head despairingly and walked out of the kitchen. Michelle was still hiding her head in the fridge. I nearly offered an excuse for Joys mood but decided against it. We had to stick together. Joy had a feeling, and if she was right, we all had to stand together. I followed her out leaving Michelle and Gary to run the shift.

If there was a certain amount of self-interest in the proposition, there was also a smattering of sense in Jack being the one to suggest it. After decades of flogging houses on the home front, he had retired from his UK partnership the year before and had set up a similar venture for property investors overseas. Tenerife was the first port of call, as residential tourism was just starting to follow in the footsteps of its package holiday popularity. For UK investors seeking a red-hot winter bolthole while the rest of Europe turned blue, the Canary Islands had recently emerged as a leading contender, with one advantage over the Spanish Costas winter sun. Located less than 100 miles from the coast of North Africa, the seven islands of the Canarian archipelago had all the assets that a North European citizen looking to escape grey winters could ask for. Perma-sunshine, an eternal spring climate, safe bathing and an enlarging expat community. Historically this septuplet of islands had drawn the attention of many British visitors, most of them unwanted. In 1595 the Canarians beat off Sir Francis Drake as he tried to conquer La Palma. In 1797 Nelson and his arm parted ways during an ill-timed attack on Santa Cruz de Tenerife. And while docked off the same island in 1832, Charles Darwin was thwarted in his lifelong ambition to explore the archipelago because of the risk of a cholera epidemic. With all the chronicled exploits of the early visitors, its surprising that it wasnt until the late 1980s that the masses cottoned on to the appeal of the Canaries. For Joy and me, though, it wasnt the beaches, pine forests or volcanic badlands that had provided the lure. If Jack had diverted his attentions towards pig farming in Lithuania and dangled a means of becoming swine entrepreneurs, I think we would have been equally enthused. It was merely the dream of an adventurous escape from our usual drudgery but with the added incentive of daily sunshine, and a potential pot of gold if we managed to avoid spectacular failure.

With one hand rubbing my forehead and the other holding a not-very-menacing toilet brush, I edged back into the bedroom with Joy peering over my shoulder. Expecting a puma to leap out or a rabid bat to fly at me from any angle, I menacingly flicked the loo brush back and forth épée-style. It quickly became apparent in the sparsely furnished bedroom that whatever beast had ventured in had also ventured out again. It was only on closer inspection of the bed that we realised what had actually attacked Joy was the fitted undersheet as it pinged free from the mattress. I added the toilet brush to my arsenal at the side of the bed and we recommenced what was left of a fitful nights sleep. Tomorrow we had to learn how to pay back £165,000, and we had four days of tutoring in how to do it. Wed both slept better. The sun filled the bedroom with an unearthly resonance that demanded we wake. I had one of those split second ‘where am I? moments before the rabid butterflies began to gnaw on the inside of my stomach. A new life began today. Not a trifling matter to ponder before even a bowl of cocoa puffs had passed my lips. At 7.45 a.m., the sun was already baking the pine furniture in the lounge, releasing an unusual warm-wood odour, a substitute for the damp plaster smell that I was accustomed to in Bolton. I filled the kettle with warm water from the cold tap and removed the jar of Carioca coffee from a plastic bag containing a basic welcome pack from el presidente. There were two cans of San Miguel beer, a bottle of water, a carton of semi-skimmed milk and a jar of apricot jam. No bread, just the jam. Eating was out of the question anyway, and after showering and putting on shorts and TT-shirts, we set out for the bar in anxious silence. We decided to take the scenic route, walking around the perimeter of the complex, down past the sea and back up what I breathlessly dubbed Cardiac Hill. Two or three florid bathing caps bobbed in the gentle wake a hundred yards from the rocky beach where neatly folded towels lay waiting.