Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in St Albans
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Harpenden, Hatfield, St Albans, Welwyn, Welwyn Garden City
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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One morning, emerging from the cold, dark, hush of Ashburner Street, I was still deep in thought about warm quilts and soft pillows, hands burrowed in my donkey jacket, collar turned up in defence against the biting chill, when suddenly I was eye to eye with what appeared to be a large shark, grinning at me from atop a trestle table in the middle of the market hall. The heart-stopping apparition was indeed a 3-metre shark, Pat’s latest ‘attention-grabber’. It had certainly grabbed mine. Pat’s beam matched the shark’s as he noticed my shock. ‘Think you can sell that?’ he asked. It’s a shark,’ I said. Top marks, Einstein. I can see education’s not been wasted on you.’ But this morning it was fauna of a different kind that was destined to draw the gapes of Bolton’s plastic bag brigade. A fresh delivery of live crabs had arrived and Sandra had carefully arranged a dozen of them on their backs, little legs cycling in unison between the cockles and mussels.
Harpenden, Hatfield, St Albans, Welwyn, Welwyn Garden City
From what we could gather, day one would involve learning about what we could and couldn’t do in catering via a slide show, lectures and reading material. Day two would be concerned with seeing how much of it we had absorbed by means of a multiple-choice questionnaire. The lights dimmed and the slide show commenced. Pictures of pans, chopping boards, cats struck with large red crosses, and various examples of fire extinguishers slid before our eyes as the young man in charge explained the relevance of each and answered questions from the Canarian contingency. It became quickly apparent that no English was going to be spoken that day and the Brits looked at each other as we realised the maximum we could contribute was our attendance. After a short break for lunch, we resumed. Within minutes, a pack of cards was produced and whist broke out at the back. For three more hours occasional glances were thrown at pictures of cattle and cauliflowers projected onto the front wall.
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.