Good Hotel Guide
Hostels and Hotels in Stevenage
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Arlesey, Baldock, Biggleswade, Buntingford, Henlow, Hertford, Hitchin, Knebworth, Letchworth, Much Hadham, Royston, Sandy, Shefford, Stevenage, Ware
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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Fortunately one of the very few culinary skills that we had imported between us was Joy’s knack for baking apple pies. The Smugglers had recently gained a reputation for its exceedingly good cakes, apple in particular. Holidaymakers with all the time in the world to chat (but a disproportionate lack of subjects to chat about) would bask around the pool and make plans for their next meal, which would invariably include the famous Smugglers Tavern apple pie. Sunlounger word of mouth marketing was so efficient that by mid-morning we would receive a procession of people popping their heads into the kitchen to reserve a slab of Joy’s speciality. No matter how many we made, the majority of slices had already been claimed by the time the evening meals started. By now our meal count averaged around 40-50 breakfasts and lunches combined, and 100-120 evening meals. Naturally we had had to increase our efficiency to turn around more tables, but it was no mean feat in the searing July heat. All the more draining as we now provided entertainment in the evening. We needed help. We knew it was going to be almost impossible to find anybody that could cook and that would endure the heat and pace of the kitchen for the paltry wages we were offering. The biggest help that we could hope for would be a couple that could come in after all the food had been served, clean up, and run the bar until closing time. This would at least put an end to some of the 3a.m. and 4a.m. bedtimes that we were suffering now it was summer.
Arlesey, Baldock, Biggleswade, Buntingford, Henlow, Hertford, Hitchin, Knebworth, Letchworth, Much Hadham, Royston, Sandy, Shefford, Stevenage, Ware
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.
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.