Hostels and Hotels in Inverness
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.
Achnasheen, Alness, Ardgay, Avoch, Beauly, Cromarty, Dingwall, Dornoch, Elgin, Fochabers, Forres, Fortrose, Gairloch, Garve, Invergordon, Inverness, Isle Of Skye, Kyle, Lairg, Lossiemouth, Muir Of Ord, Munlochy, Nairn, Plockton, Portree, Rogart, Strathcarron, Strathpeffer, Strome Ferry, Tain, Ullapool
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
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.
Achnasheen, Alness, Ardgay, Avoch, Beauly, Cromarty, Dingwall, Dornoch, Elgin, Fochabers, Forres, Fortrose, Gairloch, Garve, Invergordon, Inverness, Isle Of Skye, Kyle, Lairg, Lossiemouth, Muir Of Ord, Munlochy, Nairn, Plockton, Portree, Rogart, Strathcarron, Strathpeffer, Strome Ferry, Tain, Ullapool
We didn’t pretend to be a high-class restaurant. We were catering for package holidaymakers, timeshare fly-buys and loyal residents, the clientele who happened to be on hand. There was no demand for haute cuisine, despite David’s urge to extend his creative culinary skills further than fried or grilled, microwaved or mashed. On the odd occasion when he had satisfied his own artistic urges, pumpkin soup was sneered at in favour of prawn cocktail; beef pie and chips was preferred over beef bourguignon, and crème brulée was laughed off the menu when competing with apple pie and custard. Our weekly fish and chip special was also popular. David had developed his own batter, trying out various secret ingredients before choosing half a pint of Dorada as the winning addition. The crispy cod was another sure-fire winner, especially with the older set who ‘knew what they were getting with a nice piece of fish’. For some stalwarts even our ‘Hawaiian Burgers’, simply chicken breast crowned with a pineapple ring, would prove too exotic for simple palates: ‘Hawaiian burger? Oooh nooooo. Foreign food doesn’t agree with me. Have you not got anything like curry or bolognaise?’ Although the menu could hardly be called inventive, aside from the odd, extravagant excursion offered by David, it consisted of meals that we knew would sell, principally steak, chicken, pork chops, mixed grills, burgers, salads and omelettes. The swallows clearly expected more as they surveyed the handheld blackboards that we employed as menus. ‘Would you wipe this table before we start. It’s filthy,’ said the cravat. ‘It’s like a greasy Joe’s.’ Joy resisted the temptation to tell them that it was ‘Joe’s’.
The day before we were due to move we had resigned ourselves to not finding a new home. We had neither the time nor the energy to look round properly and had no option but to rent a holiday studio in the Altamira for the time being. The view from our new home was jaw dropping. Double patio doors framed a tri-band of green lawn, turquoise sea and blue sky. However, the inside was not so agreeable. The small living/dining room doubled as a bedroom. The bed had to be folded away every night to make room to sit down, but the biggest problem was the sun’s rays which loitered on the glass doors for most of the day. Inside, the temperature was stifling. Although air-conditioning units were fitted in the hotel, they were never activated. The community of residents who owned several apartments had decided that the costs of such a luxury would weigh too heavily on their community bills. All units were controlled by the same master control so if one was switched off none of them functioned. It was like being in the Smugglers kitchen. What little available time we had for sleep was spent tossing and turning, trying to find a cool patch of pillow. Joy had taken to lying on the tiled floor in a bid to cool down. Even with the patio doors open, the breeze that circulated was only marginally cooler than the stuffy air we had trapped within, plus it was an open invitation to mosquitoes.