B&Bs and Hotels in Milton Keynes

Hostels and Hotels in Milton Keynes

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

Bedford, Bletchley, Bow Brickhill, Buckingham, Calverton, Cosgrove, Cranfield, Deanshanger, Hanslope, Lidlington, Marston Moretaine, Milton Keynes, Newport Pagnell, Newton Longville, Olney, Ravenstone, Sherington, Stoke Goldington

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

You can’t have had much to put down as a deposit, I guess. Were you working in England or on the dole, bleeding the country dry like all the other youngsters too lazy to get off their backsides?’ We both worked in retail,’ said Joy. In what capacity?’ continued Pete. Sales.’ I replied.

Bedford, Bletchley, Bow Brickhill, Buckingham, Calverton, Cosgrove, Cranfield, Deanshanger, Hanslope, Lidlington, Marston Moretaine, Milton Keynes, Newport Pagnell, Newton Longville, Olney, Ravenstone, Sherington, Stoke Goldington

There was a slight delay before the electronic fanfare of Jean Michel Jarre rolled from the speakers. Gaston swished in from stage left, one hand pointing skywards. Monique swished from behind the other side of the bed sheet with slightly less enthusiasm. Her red and black basque, fishnet stockings and high heels had already stolen the focus. Gaston grabbed her arm and spun her into his body, rolling her away again with equal gusto. David and I had abandoned the washing up and were stood watching in the doorway with Frank. Wayne was still at the front of the crowd, sitting on the floor nursing a pint of beer and openly rolling a spliff. Even from where I was standing I could hear the crack. Wayne looked up, his tongue still sticking out from licking a Rizla. He leaned forward to bring his eyes level with the stage and raised his eyebrows, then looked over at us with a pained expression. What was that?’ I mouthed but he shook his head dismissively and continued rolling. The show continued and over the space of an hour, feathers were procured from the most unexpected angles; gold rings were balanced precariously; jewellery was begged, lost and then miraculously found in unlikely places. The audience was mesmerised, with the French contingency particularly vocal in their praise. Frank had trudged back to his bar stool, unimpressed, and was slumped over a Dorada, idly picking pieces of gold label off the bottle. He had no time for such flamboyance.

Tenerife’s yacht-erati shared their berth with an array of excursion boats, varying in size and comfort from the latest catamaran to converted fishing boats with more on-board animals than Noah’s floating menagerie. There were bright yellow glass-bottom boats, fiery red speedboats, replica schooners and a dozen or so serious ocean-going yachts. The rattling and chinking of masts brought forth similar feelings that I had about airports. This was a port of fantasy. From here, lifetime adventures would begin, culminating in a step ashore on any exotic coastline that took the fancy. Frank was about to enlighten Joy and me about the mysteries of the fishing world, which we had previously thought of as a sad, sullen population of loners who would much rather sit in the rain staring at ripples than join the real world. He was almost ecstatic in his enthusiasm. Well, at least as ecstatic as Frank could be.