B&Bs and Hotels in Ipswich

Good Hotel Guide

Hostels and Hotels in Ipswich

All B&Bs, Hostel and Hotels welcome to list their property here – one of thses towns then please contact us to list your hotel below, free of charge.

Aldeburgh, Brandon, Bury St Edmunds, Diss, Eye, Felixstowe, Halesworth, Harleston, Ipswich, Leiston, Saxmundham, Southwold, Stowmarket, Thetford, Woodbridge, Ipswich

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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Our heads shot back as we were fired from the queue up the winding dual carriageway towards the motorway. Along the dusty roadside advertising hoardings urged us to sample Dorada beer. A sample was not what I needed right now. Bring two barrels and a straw and leave me alone in a dark corner for about a month. Another billboard welcomed us to ‘Tenerife, the beautiful isle’. I was failing to revel in any beauty at the moment. Claws of spiky cactus leapt from the lava like witches’ hands. Either side, tumbled rocks littered the terrain like the aftermath of a stone-throwing riot. It could have been Arizona; it could have been Kabul. We slid from side to side as the driver dodged in and out of the slower traffic, slamming his hand hard on the horn as a small rent-a-car crammed with four pairs of eyes obstructed his way. None of the words aimed at the driver were recognisable but I could guess the gist. He continued to complain as we passed the poor tourists who had hurriedly swerved out of the way to let him pass. As we did he flicked a desultory gesture at the ashen driver. I felt partly responsible and, being British, wanted to apologise to the tourists but instead exchanged fearful glances with them, all of us at the mercy of a foreign foe. On the two-lane motorway, the 120 speed limit signs rushed past at 150 kilometres an hour. The driver had wound his window down, which provided a pleasant breeze for him but left us in the back to be buffeted by the gale. The skin on our cheeks raced for shelter around the back of our heads and our hair became a rave of hysterical strands. To compensate for the noise, he turned the radio up. Snatches of Spanish wailing warning of an unpleasant death for all foreigners rattled my eardrums. When we finally careered off the motorway, the relief was immense. We followed a winding road through a walled banana plantation. Explosions of fluorescent pink bougainvillea burst forth at every curve on the quiet route down towards a sparkling sea. Finally the low terracotta roofs of our new community, El Beril, came into view.

Aldeburgh, Brandon, Bury St Edmunds, Diss, Eye, Felixstowe, Halesworth, Harleston, Ipswich, Leiston, Saxmundham, Southwold, Stowmarket, Thetford, Woodbridge, Ipswich

We all clubbed together and bought you something for the bar,’ said Pat. The others were standing around watching. He handed us a box. Inside were an elaborately framed dartboard and two sets of darts. ‘I bet your bar doesn’t have one of those, does it?’ No, I’m sure it doesn’t,’ I said. ‘Thanks Pat. Thanks everybody.’ We were touched that Pat had taken the trouble to arrange a going away gift, irrespective of the fact that the price tag signalled Whitakers of Bolton had unwittingly donated it. Pat had spared us a final end of day clear-up. We were keen to get home to start packing. There were only three days to go before we were due to fly out and suddenly it seemed like we had a mountain to climb. I wasn’t ready, neither physically nor mentally. I had intended visiting the hunting ground of my schooldays in Glossop. Subconsciously I wanted to be transported back to a time where anxiety, responsibility and financial burden had yet to surface. I wanted to recapture those carefree feelings of walking to Su’s at lunchtime when the biggest decision was whether to have batter bits with my chips. I wanted to stand outside the Surrey Arms where my first serious relationship was sealed with a long kiss, when nothing in the world mattered apart from spending every minute of every hour with Lesley Allen.

We had commandeered the patio space immediately to our right, in front of the empty end locale. Although we knew it had been sold, it remained unfurnished and didn’t look as though it would be put into use for some time. Above this space was a second short walkway connecting the locales upstairs. From this we draped the bed sheet down behind the stage. A backdrop was born. We also positioned a couple of stage lights that we had borrowed from another bar. The result was impressive, though immoveable. With four nights to go before the French debut, we were stuck with what looked like a huge washing line airing erotic black bed linen. Fortunately, the laundry show only proved to add to the mystery of the forthcoming performance and on show night an eager crowd filled the entire area outside the locales. In between washing up, garnishing orders and helping to deliver and collect plates, I was also dashing upstairs to ‘borrow’ more plastic chairs and tables from Bar Arancha, which had fortunately closed for the night. Unsurprisingly, a large contingency of the audience was French. Romain had done a good job of ‘selling’ the night and was wandering amongst his clients, spilling sangria over them from two earthenware jugs he was waving about in a welcoming fashion. By the time the show started the terrace was packed to capacity. Joy was having trouble delivering drinks to the distant tables and was reduced to asking people to pass them along. The British cooperated gladly but the French weren’t impressed at having to work as waiters. More curious onlookers lined the railings above us, all poised to enjoy the free entertainment, but reluctant to buy even one drink.