Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in Truro
Got a hotel to list? – any of these locations then please contact us to list your hotel below, free of charge.
Bryher, Camborne, Falmouth, Hayle, Helston, Marazion, Newquay, Penryn, Penzance, Perranporth, Redruth, St Agnes, St Columb, St Ives, St Martins, St Marys, Tresco, Truro
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 Truro
Below you will find short extracts from More ketchup than Salsa by Joe Cawley – not to be missed.
Short Extract
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Thankfully, in the absence of webbed obstacles, I managed to cast my line without any immediate threat to Joy, Frank or myself. The bright floats played peacefully on the surface of the ocean while Frank and I watched them like protective parents. Joy had already lost interest in her line and had reclined as much as Frank’s boat would allow. The sky was an unblemished canvas of vivid blue, reflecting its glory in the vast ocean. Suddenly my reel began whirring. ‘Got one, you bastard,’ Frank shouted. He put down his rod and turned his attention to mine. ‘Give it a jerk and start reeling it in,’ he said. The fish didn’t put up much of a fight, presumably saving its energy for face-to-face combat. It broke the surface a couple of metres from the boat. I lifted the line and it swung in towards Frank’s face, missing by inches. Now, don’t believe every rubber-suited wet-head who boasts of the unspoilt beauty that lies beneath the waves. There are some damn ugly creatures living down there. I’m not saying that the undersea world doesn’t have its fair share of fetching characters. The unjustly named Bastard Grunt has a certain cutesy appeal with its delicate shade of pink while large gangs of Turkish wrasse with Day-Glo blue decorate the water like hand-painted ornaments. But let’s face it, sea cucumbers, weever fish and moray eels are not going to win any underwater beauty pageants. These unsightly monsters understandably spend much of their time hiding their afflictions in dark caves or camouflaged against the seabed until some scuba diver starts adding to their misery with a spear gun. It’s the downright hideous that elicit most gasps and I had one of their brethren dangling by the lip. Back on the market this was not a fish that would have sold at three for a fiver, even ten for a fiver. Its brown and white body was mottled with a profusion of tiny warts and its dorsal fin was clearly designed to be left alone by the sensible.
Bryher, Camborne, Falmouth, Hayle, Helston, Marazion, Newquay, Penryn, Penzance, Perranporth, Redruth, St Agnes, St Columb, St Ives, St Martins, St Marys, Tresco, Truro
The next morning, obviously embarrassed by their failed undercover operation, the snoopers came a-knocking. Maureen and Pete were in their late 50s. She was a highly-strung redhead with a screeching Midlands accent. He stood at least a foot shorter than her and had disproportionately small eyes like a premature piglet. His black hair was combed in defiance of a balding crown, a flop of unchecked fringe sprawled across a barren expanse. It was Maureen who tried to make light of the previous night’s mission. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me sweeping your patio,’ she squealed. ‘Only, I know how busy you must be. Obviously you never have time to do any cleaning.’ She was looking over my shoulder, scanning the hallway for dust. It’s nice to see some young ones doing something for themselves,’ said Pete. ‘Keeps you from mugging old ladies doesn’t it, son?’ We barely knew them but already they had spied on us once and insulted us twice. It was not the standard cup-of-sugar introduction that many neighbours opted for. Would you like to come round to our house for a drink?’ asked Maureen. Caught off guard we could think of no excuse, apart from the fact that we already loathed them.
The bed was decked in black silk. A pair of handcuffs rested on one of the pillows, still fastened to the headboard. On a chair in the far corner lay a short, leather whip and next to it a video camera was mounted on a tripod. Wayne broke the stunned silence. ‘I hate to say it, Siobhan, but I think your place is now a brothel.’ Just what this shithole needs,’ said Frank, rubbing his hands together. The suspicion was confirmed as we packed everything into bin liners. Next to the television was a stack of videos, the titles of which left no doubt as to their genre. Barry noticed there was one, unlabelled, half way out of the video recorder. He pushed it back in and turned on the TV.