B&Bs and Hotels in Falkirk

Good Hotel Guide

Hostels and Hotels in Falkirk

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

Alloa, Alva, Bonnybridge, Callander, Clackmannan, Crianlarich, Denny, Dollar, Doune, Dunblane, Falkirk, Grangemouth, Killin, Larbert, Lochearnhead, Menstrie, Stirling, Tillicoultry, Falkirk

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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She’s been sleeping there for the past week,’ said David, drawing deeply on a cigarette. His face had lost any trace of colour and his eyes bore witness to his own troubled nights. Arguments had become commonplace, subjects ranging from Faith’s role in the Smugglers to whether they should buy filter or non-filter cigarettes. Having agreed to move to Tenerife, albeit reluctantly at first, Faith was now saying she was bullied into coming and once here was being bullied by the rest of us. We had had this discussion with David before and several times had agreed to tread lightly when voicing our opinions, or rather disagreeing with Faith’s. The truth of the matter was that my sister-in-law no longer wanted to be here but David was financially tied to the business. The decision had to be made whether she was prepared to leave David as well. David and Faith grew increasingly exhausted over the next 48 hours. Their eyes bore the red marks of too little sleep, too many tears. Faith had decided to leave despite David’s pleas for her not to go. She argued that she didn’t want to move to Tenerife in the first place, nor get married in circumstances that she felt had been forced on her. Now she found herself in a business partnership where she not only disliked the nature of the business, but also where she wasn’t treated as an equal partner. She was leaving Tenerife and David for good. The marriage was over. On the morning of her departure we didn’t open the bar until 6p.m. allowing David time to help Faith pack and take her to the airport. Joy and I didn’t see her before she went. Instead she wrote us a letter explaining her reasons for leaving and apologising if the decision left us in the lurch. It did, but the inconvenience was secondary to the rage I felt at her abandoning my brother.

Alloa, Alva, Bonnybridge, Callander, Clackmannan, Crianlarich, Denny, Dollar, Doune, Dunblane, Falkirk, Grangemouth, Killin, Larbert, Lochearnhead, Menstrie, Stirling, Tillicoultry, Falkirk

For good and bad we had a veritable mix of customers frequenting the bar. From the empty heads who thought they were in Spain and enquired about coach trips to Barcelona, to the sanctimonious expats who bore the unmistakable hallmarks of British colonialism at its worst. They knew that ‘abroad’ wasn’t part of England (yet), but was full of half-witted foreigners waiting to be educated in the superior ways of pallid supremacists. We were forewarned about an inspection visit from some swallows, the older expats who spent their winters in sunnier climes. One of their flock deemed it necessary to make a special trip to announce that he, and eight of his compatriots, would descend upon us the following day. ‘We heard that the good old Smuggs had changed hands. We’re coming down tomorrow to have a recce, check you’re keeping up the standard.’ Sure enough, at 7.30 prompt the following night, a group of neatly groomed expats loitered around the entrance gazing disdainfully at the free and easy atmosphere in the bar. Two children no older than eight or nine stood on chairs behind the bar washing glasses. Danny was cleaning one of the glass tabletops, misdirecting Glassex over a couple of diners at the next table. We had inadvertently become a drop-off zone for parents who wanted a few hours on their own. ‘I’m leaving Adam and Georgia here for a few hours while we go out for a meal. Let them have whatever they want and we’ll sort it out later.’

Just as the two Johns tried to impress on the new customers that they were frequenting their bar, so it was on the island in general. Whether in Las Americas or in the secluded villages like La Caleta, the expats treated the island as if it was their own, making it perfectly obvious that holidaymakers were naive and ignorant in the ways of their land, and were fair game to be parodied. Dos El Dorados por favor,’ those brave enough to make the effort with the local language would ask at our bar. Dos Dorados? You’re not asking for a TV programme, you know,’ mocked John One. ‘You mean Dorada. It’s not dorado, it’s Dorada. Dos Doradas por favor. If you’re going to speak the language, speak it properly.’ This was from a man whose Spanish vocabulary came to a spluttering halt after exhausting his knowledge on two beers, a hamburger and shouting ‘oy, guapa’ (oy, beautiful) at anything with smooth legs and a pulse. Mind you, our own attempts at ploughing into the local lingo had not altogether harvested the desired results. All of the delivery companies were Spanish and rather than call them all ‘Manuel’, as many of the expats did, we gave them nicknames: Chop delivered the meat; Captain Birdseye brought the frozen fish; Crusty took our bread order; Marine Boy dropped off the bottled water; Popeye was our soft drinks man; and Bill and Ben, two rotund beer truck drivers, delivered the barrels of Dorada.