Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in Bath
All B&Bs, Hostel and Hotels welcome to list their property here – one of these areas then please contact us to list your hotel below, free of charge.
Bath, Bradford-On-Avon, Bruton, Castle Cary, Frome, Glastonbury, Shepton Mallet, Street, Templecombe, Trowbridge, Warminster, Wells, Westbury, Wincanton, Yeovil
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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Don’t let this miserable face fool you. I like the sun and I like my fishing and that’s all I need. I wouldn’t go back to England now if you paid me. Too much rain, too much bad news on the telly, too many foreigners and too much tax. You can’t make a living in the UK now, you just work to pay the taxman. Plus Shark Bait would want some more money off me.’ He could see we were puzzled. ‘Shark BaitÂ… the ex-missus.’ So you’re hiding from her, then,’ asked Joy. No, she knows where I am but she can’t get anything from me if I stay here.’ Why did you split up?’ Joy persevered.
Bath, Bradford-On-Avon, Bruton, Castle Cary, Frome, Glastonbury, Shepton Mallet, Street, Templecombe, Trowbridge, Warminster, Wells, Westbury, Wincanton, Yeovil
Charley poured four glasses of champagne and we toasted her new job and extended holiday. Have you noticed the jeep that parks outside our house some nights?’ I asked Charley. I noticed Charley’s cheeks flushing. ‘No, I can’t say I have,’ she replied. There’s a man that sits in it all night, watching. He makes us kind of edgy. I’m thinking about calling the police. What do you think?
This was a side of Tenerife that we hadn’t seen yet. A side still untouched by the tourist trade. But a dumper-full of imported sand and one or two bars or restaurants would surely already be in the plans of a canny developer, and it would only be a matter of time before the foreign invasion claimed yet another patch of Canarian life. While Frank happily fished off the side of his boat, Joy and I swam ashore. Next to the slipway, a small tasca had just opened its doors. A few old boys eyed us suspiciously as they took their places on the sea-facing veranda underneath a blue hand-painted sign that had faded in the sun. The words ‘Bar Pepe y Lola’ were just visible. There were no obvious efforts to attract custom. Two beers were pushed towards us without a word spoken or eye contact made. The chairs and tables were of untreated wood that would have greatly benefited from a sheet of sandpaper. Despite the rawness, this lack of grace and pretension was refreshing after so many hours forging fake hospitality at the Smugglers. The sullenness, although disconcerting at first, meant that we could relax without that intrinsically British trait of needing to be approved by complete strangers, who for all you knew could have been cannibalistic psychopaths or other ne’er-do-wells. This UK habit seemed exaggerated when exported to a culture in which unnecessary social nicety is considered an affliction rather than an asset. I had only been on the island for two weeks but had already become aware of just how many times the Brits bandy around pleases and thank yous compared with the Canarians.