Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in Wakefield
Got a hotel to list? – any of these locations then please contact us to list your hotel below, free of charge.
Batley, Castleford, Dewsbury, Heckmondwike, Knottingley, Liversedge, Mirfield, Normanton, Ossett, Pontefract, Wakefield
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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The most annoying nights were when only one or two tables remained at a relatively decent hour i.e. before 1a.m. Thoughts of an early night would prevail, especially if all remaining tables ordered the bill before midnight. It was hard to resist breathing a sigh of relief and start visualising fleecy bedsheets. But, as Murphy would have it, the plot would always change. Just as the last people were bidding their goodnights, after the floor had been mopped and all the tables cleaned, a taxi-full of young revellers who had been turned out of a club in Las Américas would shatter the calm and crash into the bar like a herd of rabid cattle. Having slowed to almost a standstill, trying to shift from first to fifth gear in one go required a major effort, both mentally and physically. We’d smile, we’d serve, and we’d even laugh at their drunken banter. Tonight’s idiots could be tomorrow’s breakfast crowd and, having been rebuffed by the nightlife downtown, there was also the possibility that they would choose to dump their entire binge budget in our till if we pushed the right buttons. This involved much more than jolly smiles and chirpy banter, however. Picking diced carrot out of the bathroom plugholes was a real delight, especially after we’d already cleaned the bathrooms ready for the morning. Oh, how we would chuckle at that little jape, coming as it did at the end of a 13-hour shift! We also had to persuade latecomers that high decibel renditions of ‘I’m too sexy for my shirt’ were not a particularly good idea at 1a.m., especially as they’d normally be followed by a visit from the local constabulary with threats of arrest and deportation for them, and a stern warning from the community president for us. But to be truthful most of our efforts would be focused on getting them out, our persuasion based on the theory that if they didn’t let us close, we wouldn’t be able to open again for breakfast. If you’ve ever tried to have a serious discussion with a group of radically inebriated youngsters whereby the main aim is to convince them to give up their drinks, you’ll understand that it’s something of a an uphill battle.
Batley, Castleford, Dewsbury, Heckmondwike, Knottingley, Liversedge, Mirfield, Normanton, Ossett, Pontefract, Wakefield
On one side of the roof T-shirts, tea towels and oversized underwear hung motionless on a washing line strung across his neighbour’s roof. They obliterated the best view, which was back down towards the ocean. On the opposite side, the village climbed further up the hill to the point where a dark green mountain soared skywards, culminating in a jagged double point. Behind where we were had emerged, only a low wall divided our concrete plateau from a plunging ravine. A long, deep swathe had been scythed out of the dark rock, the far side striped with various hues of ochre. Huge boulders littered the ravine like giant marbles. Such dramatic scenery can’t help but slam your own miniscule presence firmly into place. Or at least that was the case with most people. Those with grossly inflated egos like Norman needed a little more prodding to pop their self-importance. Yeah, no problem. You just get them to sign and I’ll take care of the details. I’ve worked with his type before yep, sure, George Clooney was also a pain in the ass but we worked it out yep, yep exactly the same with Meg Ryan, yep. She came round to my way of thinking eventually. Now Meg and me, we’re best of pals.’ Norman had acquired a mid-Atlantic accent and was eyeing our reaction to his name-dropping. He saw he had our attention and upped the ante. ‘Well, you can tell Mr De Niro he’s not worth it.’ ‘Wanker’ he gesticulated, holding the phone at arm’s length. ‘Okay, okay, I’ve told you what I want. Now it’s up to you to get that spoilt bunch of Hollywood starlets back on line and tell them Billy Rhodes only asks the once.’ He covered the mouthpiece, ‘They’re all the same these Hollywood stars, stuck so far up their own ’ Suddenly the phone he was talking into started to ring. He pulled it to his chest, trying to mute the sound then turned away to hide his embarrassment. He put it to his ear again. ‘What? I’m in a meeting with Joey and Joyce,’ he hissed. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll do it later no, later! I haven’t been yet. Yes, I know they close at one yes, I know rubber gloves and a new toilet seat. Right. Yes. Thank you. Bye. Bye.’ He turned back to us. ‘Damned mobiles they never work properly up here. Now where were we?’ We went downstairs for another beer and to watch Norman’s latest film. It was a ten-minute video selling the sights and sounds of Majorca. The voiceover had a strangely familiar mid-Atlantic accent: ‘Soft, silky sand and soothing surf abound on many superb beaches.’ Margaret suddenly appeared, strolling along a beach and tugging at an uncooperative dog. ‘Peace, tranquillity, the space to do whatever you want,’ the sickly voice continued. Not for the dog, though, I thought. Then the theme changed. The sound track hit overdrive as the camera zoomed in on an ample backside that wiggled from side to side, framed for what seemed an unnecessarily long time. ‘Club land,’ boomed Norman’s voice, ‘where you can dance the night away or just sit back and experience the sights and sounds of party time in the Balearics.’
The interior was a far cry from the clutter and mess of Julie’s workplace. Joy and I sank deep into a brown leather sofa, soft music playing in the background. Our feet rested on a dark red carpet, the first carpet I’d seen in Tenerife. Gilt-edged certificates decorated the rich, gold and claret flock wallpaper, and we were offered coffee that was served in china rather than re-used plastic cups. The passing of time was marked by the clicking of a computer keyboard and a muffled conversation taking place behind one of three closed doors. Periodically we exchanged smiles with the receptionist who was playing a frantic rhythm on the keys with long and glossy manicured nails. Before we could finish our coffees, the receptionist opened the door that was concealing the conversation and gestured for us to go in. The office was even more impressive than the waiting area. The view through smoked glass windows looked across a cluster of palms to the glittering ocean. Directly below, rental cars and taxis played dodgems, muted by the thick panes.