Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in Kilmarnock
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.
Ardrossan, Ayr, Beith, Brodick, Cumnock, Dalry, Darvel, Galston, Girvan, Irvine, Kilbirnie, Kilmarnock, Kilwinning, Largs, Mauchline, Maybole, Millport, Newmilns, Prestwick, Saltcoats, Stevenston, Troon, West Kilbride
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 Kilmarnock
Below you will find short extracts from More ketchup than Salsa by Joe Cawley – not to be missed.
Short Extract
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We were savouring the sterility of the hotel bar in celebration of a new world record in gyrating 25-peseta coins eleven, if you’re interested. All the furnishings were from the ‘sit on the fence’ school of design, created to neither offend nor favour any particular taste. The tables and chairs were busily patterned with green and white leaf motifs, the tables faux bamboo. As much thought had been given to mood lighting as to the gallery of pictures hung on the wall. Spanish tourism posters showing impossible-to-find coves were clipped behind smudged Perspex. We made two pints of beer last as long as possible so that our bowl of complimentary peanuts was kept replenished. A conversation in the adjacent quartet of armchairs had caught our attention. An orange-tanned man in his mid-forties was trying to play it cool with a young, suited Spaniard. No easy feat when you’re wearing Elton John sunglasses. You tell me,’ said Elton. He raked his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘I’ve shot films with three cameras, four cameras, a dozen cameras. It all depends on the budget, baby.’ The Spaniard was clearly unsure what to make of this extraordinary Englishman. Well I thought er we’d need at least three crews. We need to put on a big show for the ministers.’
Ardrossan, Ayr, Beith, Brodick, Cumnock, Dalry, Darvel, Galston, Girvan, Irvine, Kilbirnie, Kilmarnock, Kilwinning, Largs, Mauchline, Maybole, Millport, Newmilns, Prestwick, Saltcoats, Stevenston, Troon, West Kilbride
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?’
Joy was in the kitchen scrawling down a breakfast order on the fridge. She stopped writing. I turned my back on the spitting eggs. The cavalry had arrived. In the doorway stood Carole and Faye, our mothers. Both had broad beams and outstretched arms as though welcoming back a long lost relative. Mum!’ Joy couldn’t hold back the tears, which instantly released a tide of emotion in Faye. My mum, never one to miss out on a good cry, dabbed tears from her eyes. I wiped away some sweat that had begun to trickle down the bags under my eyes. To a passer-by it may have given the impression that I was also crying. What are you doing here?’ I said. David phoned to tell us Faith had left,’ said my mum. ‘I spoke to Faye and we decided to lend a hand.’