Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in Stoke-On-Trent
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Leek, Stafford, Stoke-On-Trent, Stone, Uttoxeter
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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It may be that the UK remains one of the few nations in the developed world where waiting staff are looked down upon, as though they aren’t capable of securing a more ‘worthwhile’ profession. Perhaps it’s our history of the ‘upstairs, downstairs’ world of servant and master that still lingers in the British psyche. Our only help behind the bar to date, apart from the junior crew, was from a 50-something retired flight attendant who had offered to work for free just for something to do. Unfortunately he turned out to be more of a hindrance than a help. His peripheral vision was non-existent which, combined with an acute deafness, meant that anybody waiting to be served and not standing directly in front of him would be thirsty to the point of dehydration by the time Barry would notice. If there was one good point about him though, it was his glass washing. He would become totally engrossed, spending so much time with his head down, hands in sink, making sure that every glass was as shiny as the day it was blown, that he quite forgot the principal responsibility of his position to keep the customers watered. On the sporadic occasions when he would be satisfied with the lustrous sheen on a wine glass, he would raise it to the light like a winner’s trophy and be genuinely surprised to see a gang of thirsty holidaymakers glaring through its shiny curve. In spite of this, our regular customers loved him. He was a kind man who spent much of his spare time of which he had plenty ferrying people about on errands or playing golf with the less industrious. Every now and then we would call him in, but more as an act of friendship than for the actual benefit we gained from his presence.
Leek, Stafford, Stoke-On-Trent, Stone, Uttoxeter
Despite the wrench of packing for a new life and packing up my old one, all was going according to plan until we got a phone call from our gestoria, the person who was sorting out the paperwork for us in Tenerife. ‘Slight problem. I can get work permits and residence permits for the two lads as joint owners, but not the girls. I’ve just found out the only way we can make them legal is if you’re married, in which case the wives automatically become residents. You’ll all have to get married, quickly.’ As much as our hearts were racing at the thought of swapping the two-tone grey of Bolton for the multi-coloured hues of a life in the sub-tropics, Joy and I were adamant that marriage was not a thing of convenience. The threat of wedding chimes set off alarm bells and we said no. The whole move was in jeopardy once again. Even Faith was disappointed. They had already agreed to get married if it meant we could still go ahead with the plan. They were not amused at our refusal. We’re prepared to sacrifice so much and you won’t budge at all,’ complained Faith at an emergency meeting.
Naturally, environmentalists were none too pleased with this trans-continental transfer of earthly treasure. Consequently, many of the South’s other beaches had to draw on sub-oceanic reserves, sucking golden sand (and startled marine life) off the seabed, blowing it along lengthy sections of tubing and spitting it back out onto dry land, just like the one in Las Américas. Joy and I pitched camp between two families. One was Spanish, several generations sheltering from the sun under a marquee of overlapping beach brollies. A wall of towels draped from the umbrellas provided security from the gusts of sea breeze, protecting the picnic they had laid out on one of the white plastic sunbeds. A carpet of remaining towels protected the delicate feet of the younger members of the family from the hot sand. If it wasn’t for the fact that they were all dressed in swimsuits, except the grandmother, who was clad all in black save for a straw boater, you’d be forgiven for thinking that you were peering into someone’s living room. Huge efforts had been made to repel the conditions that you’d normally seek on a beach sand, the sunshine and a sea view. A red-top newspaper protruding from the top of a straw shopping bag gave an obvious clue as to the nationality of our other neighbours. The family of four couldn’t have displayed a more contrasting outlook on beach excursions. They were here to revel in all three enemies of the Spanish clan.