Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in Salisbury
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Andover, Fordingbridge, Salisbury, Shaftesbury, Tidworth, Salisbury
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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We all clubbed together and bought you something for the bar,’ said Pat. The others were standing around watching. He handed us a box. Inside were an elaborately framed dartboard and two sets of darts. ‘I bet your bar doesn’t have one of those, does it?’ No, I’m sure it doesn’t,’ I said. ‘Thanks Pat. Thanks everybody.’ We were touched that Pat had taken the trouble to arrange a going away gift, irrespective of the fact that the price tag signalled Whitakers of Bolton had unwittingly donated it. Pat had spared us a final end of day clear-up. We were keen to get home to start packing. There were only three days to go before we were due to fly out and suddenly it seemed like we had a mountain to climb. I wasn’t ready, neither physically nor mentally. I had intended visiting the hunting ground of my schooldays in Glossop. Subconsciously I wanted to be transported back to a time where anxiety, responsibility and financial burden had yet to surface. I wanted to recapture those carefree feelings of walking to Su’s at lunchtime when the biggest decision was whether to have batter bits with my chips. I wanted to stand outside the Surrey Arms where my first serious relationship was sealed with a long kiss, when nothing in the world mattered apart from spending every minute of every hour with Lesley Allen.
Andover, Fordingbridge, Salisbury, Shaftesbury, Tidworth, Salisbury
El Beril comprised around a hundred bungalows and two-storey apartments. Half of them occupied a small plateau about 20 metres above sea level, the other half followed a slight incline down to a shingle beach. Most of the housing faced seawards. Even those furthest from the sea looked over the roofs in front and shared a magnificent view of La Gomera, Tenerife’s closest neighbour, rising from the ocean around 20 miles away. The complex was still in its infancy, evident from the stretches of unpaved walkways and loose wires that protruded from open electricity boxes. A cluster of unfinished apartments was tagged on to the back of the complex, seemingly an afterthought from the developer. An ocean breeze stirred some loose powder into dwarf whirlwinds that danced between a cement mixer and a wheelbarrow. Joy, now sporting a just-got-out-of-the-washing-machine look, paid the taxi driver as I heaved all our luggage onto the pavement. Happy holidaymakers wandered across the car park from the adjacent hotel in flowery shorts and shiny new sandals. Were these the same happy souls who would be face to face with us in the next few days, demanding full refunds and a pound of flesh for poisoning their children and ruining their holiday? Some ten feet below where we were standing, through black iron railings, stood a two-storey row of commercial premises. The bottom right property was empty. A British supermarket next to it had furnished much of its own and its neighbour’s terrace with an assortment of inflatable reptiles and other swimming aids. The shop to the left was seemingly mountain treks, dolphin rides and pirate escapades amongst its many excursions. Another office, of unheralded business, stood between the tour office and a double-fronted bar. The entrance was between dark wood panels, topped by two large picture windows. Above these, Smugglers Tavern had been painted in gold lettering on a black background that extended across both locales. Several of the letters had faded badly and at first glance it read Muggers Ta. Outside, around twenty white plastic tables were occupied. I presumed it was just as busy inside as people scurried in from the mid-afternoon sun. Everybody looked content, a postcard snapshot of happy holiday diners. We’ll soon put a stop to that, I thought. One more unit remained empty in the corner, a stone turret with its patio in permanent shade from a short walkway that provided access to the upper level of commercial units. Here, wafts of paella drifted out from Bar Arancha, a small Spanish tapas bar, wedged between several more empty locales on the top level.
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. They’re 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.