B&Bs and Hotels in Doncaster

Good Hotel Guide

Hostels and Hotels in Doncaster

Do you have a hotel or B&B in any of these locations then please contact us to list your hotel below, free of charge.

Barnetby, Barrow-Upon-Humber, Barton-Upon-Humber, Brigg, Cleethorpes, Gainsborough, Goole, Grimsby, Immingham, Retford, Scunthorpe, Ulceby, Doncaster, Doncaster

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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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. Come on now, last orders has long since gone. We’re closing up now. We’ll see you in the morning.’ Oh, you can’t close yet, it’s still early. Look, it’s only…’ Several attempts at focusing on a watch face would prove futile. ‘It’s… it’s still early. Here, here’s some potatoes. Buy yourself one. Sit down with us. Chill. How long have you been here? Do you like it? Do you not miss home? Will you ever go back? I’d love to live here. Have you got any jobs going?’ This was part of the same interrogation that we faced dozens of time each day. We toyed with the idea of putting a notice up behind the bar, answering all the inquiries including, ‘We’re not going to tell you,’ in answer to question number seven – ‘How much did you pay for the bar?’

Barnetby, Barrow-Upon-Humber, Barton-Upon-Humber, Brigg, Cleethorpes, Gainsborough, Goole, Grimsby, Immingham, Retford, Scunthorpe, Ulceby, Doncaster, Doncaster

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.

We were savouring the sterility of the hotel bar in celebration of a new world record in gyrating 25-peseta coins – eleven, if you’re interested. All the furnishings were from the ‘sit on the fence’ school of design, created to neither offend nor favour any particular taste. The tables and chairs were busily patterned with green and white leaf motifs, the tables faux bamboo. As much thought had been given to mood lighting as to the gallery of pictures hung on the wall. Spanish tourism posters showing impossible-to-find coves were clipped behind smudged Perspex. We made two pints of beer last as long as possible so that our bowl of complimentary peanuts was kept replenished. A conversation in the adjacent quartet of armchairs had caught our attention. An orange-tanned man in his mid-forties was trying to play it cool with a young, suited Spaniard. No easy feat when you’re wearing Elton John sunglasses. You tell me,’ said Elton. He raked his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘I’ve shot films with three cameras, four cameras, a dozen cameras. It all depends on the budget, baby.’ The Spaniard was clearly unsure what to make of this extraordinary Englishman. Well… I thought… er… we’d need at least three crews. We need to put on a big show for the ministers.’