Best Western Blog

Great cookies you can dunk in your tea

Guest Author — Thu, 24 May 2012 08:00:21 +0000

With all this talk about cookies we’re getting a little peckish, so I’m on the hunt for the best cookie recipes around. If you have a great cookie recipe, then please get in touch. We’ve been round the office on a cookie making campaign, and the official testing team came to a unanimous verdict choosing the following two recipes as the favourites. Personally, I think combining peanut butter and chocolate has got to be a winner!

• 45g smooth peanut butter
• 50g butter, softened
• 50g caster sugar
• 45g light brown sugar
• 1 egg, beaten
• 100g plain flour
• 10g baking powder
• 50g chocolate chips
• 50g unsalted peanuts, chopped

Preheat the oven to 180°C/gas 4. In a mixing bowl, cream together the peanut butter, butter, caster sugar and light brown sugar for 4 minutes until well-blended. Add in the beaten egg and mix for a further 2 minutes. Add the flour and baking powder, and then mix in the peanuts and chocolate chips. Divide the mixture into 20 even-sized balls and place them onto a lined baking sheet, spacing them well apart. Press each ball lightly with a fork. Bake for 25 minutes until set. Cool on a wire rack. Then enjoy!

For those chocoholics among you try the following:

• 300g caster sugar
• 300g butter
• 1 egg, beaten
• 600g self raising flour
• 100g good quality chocolate, grated
• A few drops of vanilla essence (optional)
• Pinch of salt

Mix together the sugar and the butter. Add 1 beaten egg and if you feel like it a few drops of vanilla essence. Mix in the flour and the grated chocolate and a pinch of salt. If it’s too thick just add a splash of milk. Grease a baking tray and bake for 10-14 minutes at 180°C/gas 4, or until they start to go brown.

Have fun baking and don’t forget to comment below with your great cookie recipes. If you send a recipe that sounds like it could beat our top 2, we will bake it, test it and post some pictures and spread your fame!

BEST WESTERN Hotel Rembrandt, Weymouth

KWilson — Mon, 14 May 2012 10:39:36 +0000

BEST WESTERN Hotel Rembrandt in Weymouth joined us on Friday so we asked the General Manager Massimo Menin to tell us all about our latest hotel.

How long have you worked at the hotel?
6 Years

Describe your hotel in:
Well established hotel soon to celebrate 20 years under the same ownership. Well known locally for its leisure club and excellent all day Sunday carvery. A favourite hotel for functions and weddings.

What is your favourite part of the hotel?
The Bar Lounge overlooks the indoor heated pool and it is adjacent to a small secluded garden where you can enjoy a quiet drink or something to eat.

What is the one attraction/event/area that you would encourage people to visit when staying at your hotel?
The event of the year is obviously the Olympics. The Sailing Events will take place just down the road from the hotel in nearby Portland.

The Jurassic Coast in Dorset is England’s first natural World Heritage Site. It covers 95 miles of truly stunning coastline from East Devon to Dorset, with rocks recording 185 million years of the Earth’s history.

Tell us an interesting fact about the hotel:
A series of Elizabethan water channels run under the BEST WESTERN Hotel Rembrandt which were used to direct water to this part of the town from the former town centre. The BEST WESTERN Hotel Rembrandt consists of several former guest houses, some dating back to the 1850′s, now combined to make up the current hotel property. One wing, formally called ‘Fir Court’ was a Victorian home for unmarried mothers called ‘St. Gabriel’s.

Have you had any celebrities staying at your hotel and if so who?
The Princess Royal, Mark Rhodes, Sam Nixon, Cannon & Ball, Danny Dyer, John Nettles, Joe Pasquale, Richard Drax MP, Jim Knight MP, Matt Baker & Connie from Blue Peter, Lord Sebastian Coe, William Hague, Oliver Reid.

What is your favourite dish served in your restaurant?
Linguine with Tiger Prawns & Crab in a Chilli, garlic & lime sauce finished with rocket & grana padano shavings

What is there to do in the local area to keep the kids entertained?
The wide, clean and beautiful sandy beach, the SeaLife Centre and if it all fails our own indoor heated pool.

A big hello to BEST WESTERN Oaks Hotel, Burnley

KWilson — Wed, 09 May 2012 12:58:34 +0000

BEST WESTERN Oaks Hotel was once the private home of a wealthy local merchant and still retains many original features of it’s past, although I’m not sure the relaxing pool and Jacuzzi were around then!

Read on to find out more about the hotel from General Manager Nicola Lumsden.

How long have you worked at the hotel?
Five Years

Describe your hotel in 5 words:
Grand
Historical
Charasmatic
Personal
Picturesque

What is your favourite part of the hotel?
The 25ft stained glass window

What is the one attraction/event/area that you would encourage people to visit when staying at your hotel?
Pendle Witches (all year)
Colne Blues Festival (Aug Bank Holiday)

Tell us an interesting fact about the hotel:
We host Bavarian Nights in our original authentic cellar bar.

Have you had any celebrities staying at your hotel and if so who?
Alistair Campbell, Mike Tyson, Eric Knowles, Sir Michael Parkinson, Reginald D Hunter, Dylan Moran, Suggs, Ian Wright, Gazza, Cheeky Girls, Geordie Shore, Mark Wright, Arg and Rex.

What is your favourite dish served in your restaurant?
Battered Wedge of Brie to start followed by Beef Wellington

What is there to do in the local area to keep the kids entertained?
Locally, swimming, bowling cinema and many local parks and museums, A bit further a field, Camelot, Blackpool Pleasure Beach, Legoland, National Museum of Science and Industry.

Guess who stayed in my room 150 years ago?

Guest Book — Wed, 09 May 2012 10:49:26 +0000

After enjoying a stay at the BEST WESTERN Abbey Hotel in Bath, I thought I’d do a little digging into its history.

The hotel was originally a row of connected houses. As far as I can tell, we had the front ground floor room of No. 3 North Parade, and shared a wall with No. 2. Who else has stayed in that room? Who were my neighbours in the 19th century? I fired up my computer and started reading the census returns.

1861
On census night, No. 3 held three households, 10 people in all.

The first family must have made some long journeys over stormy seas. The grandmother was born in the Cape of Good Hope in 1789; her daughter in the Isle of Man in 1825; and her grand-daughter in the East Indies in either 1840 or 1857. They had charming Victorian-sounding names: Arabella, Elizabeth, and Letitia Cameron.

Then there’s the two Operatic Vocalists, Charles Lyall and Alfred St. Allyn, who each had long careers including at Covent Garden. This note comes from a magazine called The Musical World, Vol. 50, 1872:

“ERRATUM: The term ‘lyric Canadian’ applied in our last to Mr Charles Lyall, should have been ‘lyric comedian’.”

Pity. Being Canadian, I was hoping for a bit of national glory.

1871
Amid the 13 boarders at No. 2, cared for by Mrs. Johanna Moore and her five servants, there is the sort of detail that raises more questions than it answers.

Raphael Nunez (that’s how it’s spelled in the census), age 43, the Consul of Colombia, was there with his wife.

Assuming there was only one Rafael Nunez who was the Consul of Colombia in the early 1870s, this would be the same man who went on to become the four-time President of Colombia, wrote the words to the Colombian national anthem, shaped the constitution, established the national bank, and much more. The airport in Cartagena is named after him.

But, as remarkable as Mr. Nunez was, my attention is on the lady.

Nunez had two wives, both Colombian-born, Dolores and Soledad. Dolores was still living in 1877 when Rafael and Soledad were married in a civil ceremony by long-distance proxy. Rafael had divorced Dolores in 1871 or 1872, but as the church didn’t recognize divorce, Rafael and Soledad’s marriage was something of a scandal.

Some writers say that Soledad had a big impact on her husband and on Colombian history, influencing the constitution, relations with the Vatican, and the negotiations for the Panama Canal. Clearly she was very important.

The wife boarding at No. 2 North Parade with Rafael Nunez in 1871 was not Dolores and not Soledad. Her name was Cala, she was 35 years old, and she was born in Barcelona, Spain.

It’s a mystery for the scholars.

By Jill Browne

Staying in Liverpool and going to Aintree races

Guest Author — Wed, 09 May 2012 09:14:19 +0000

Want a nice hotel overlooking a city park, look no further than the BEST WESTERN Alicia Hotel. The hotel is perfect for the city centre, yet tucked away in the quiet setting of Sefton Park. So first impressions were good.

Having to confess to being a little unsure about parking around Liverpool, the BEST WESTERN Alicia Hotel boasts it’s own secure car park with reception operated gated entry/exit no worries there. Once inside the staff were so friendly and helpful, securing taxi’s day or night and the breakfast set us up well for a day at the races.

The Hotel itself is an old Edwardian building, with plenty of charm; but we were really there for the races and the nightlife. So just 10 miles up the road is Aintree and what a buzz the National weekend is. We managed a few wins and headed back to the hotel. Whilst we were tempted to eat inside, literally 2 streets away is a line of restaurants with every type of foreign cuisine you could wish for – Indian in our case!

We headed into the city next to take a look at the Liver buildings and Albert docks, along with an endless choice of pubs and clubs. There were no problems geting a ten minute taxi ride back to the hotel, nor having a good nights sleep in our peaceful hotel.

The next day was yet another days racing. Sadly we didn’t pick the winner of the Grand National, but hey what a great weekend in vibrant Liverpool and the BEST WESTERN Alicia Hotel.

Next up London again and the FA CUP final !

By Gary Palmer – Year of Get Up and Go Competition Winner

About Time

Guest Author — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 14:21:41 +0000

Emily’s having a bad day. A very bad day. The kids are playing up, the dinner’s gone wrong and her husband, Roger, just doesn’t realise how much she needs a break. Can a mysterious visitor make her feel better?

I shout at the foot of the stairs for about the fifth time in the last hour. ‘Go to sleep darlings.’

‘Go to bloody sleep,’ I say more quietly, walking away, along the hall and into the kitchen. ‘You little buggers.’ I shut the door behind me – a voice swearing merrily away inside my head. My voice.

It’s nearly 9pm, according to the clock in the hall, and I haven’t started cooking supper, and my children, who actually aren’t that little, who indeed are seemingly getting bigger and louder every day, are still wide awake, thumping about upstairs.

And their father Roger, who’s also getting larger every day, will be back any
minute: tired and very hungry, the poor overworked, overweight fat cat. Actually, I’m not entirely sure you could really call him a fat cat. Though the children do, probably mishearing me calling him something much ruder.

He’s a partner of a large-ish firm of chartered accountants. He’s spent today visiting various regional offices, as he does every Friday. Seems to take him forever. With the distances he has to cover, with the Friday evening traffic. Yet, to give him credit, he rarely gets cross. He has the patience of a saint. Is wonderfully humoured, too. He won’t complain about the food not being ready, or the kitchen being in a state. Or the kids still being awake. Because Roger doesn’t complain much either. That’s somehow become my job. My speciality.

OK, I work only 22 hours a week; in admin, at the university. It’s a good job, secure in this climate, and I’m lucky to be able to do it part-time. But the real work has to be the childcare. As great as Roger is with the kids, he’s just not about enough.

Then perhaps it’s me. Perhaps I’m not quite flexible enough, giving enough, maternal enough to rear a six- and eight-year-old. These thoughts cross my mind often. But is anyone, all the time?

Already there’s under half a bottle of wine left – some sort of Sauvignon Blanc, from Majestic, where all the our wine comes from. I pour myself another large glass, take a long sip, swallow, sigh. ‘Right, come on Emily, pull yourself together, start cooking.’ Where’s Jamie? The Naked Chef? There might once have been a time when I thought Jamie Oliver was a bit of all right, a blast of laddish good fun in a small, stuffy world, though I can’t say I’d like to see him naked now. He’s not as fat as Roger, of course, but does seem to have bulked out recently. And he can’t be that old. Younger than me at least. Then, who isn’t? Even the prime minister is younger than me – by six whole months.

I look about our kitchen, over the granite tops, the little breakfast bar, the pine table from Habitat, the dresser (an heirloom of Roger’s) and even, standing on tip toes, the top of the fridge freezer. Panic rising. The Naked Chef is definitely not on the shelf with the other cookery books, I know, because I got it out earlier, planning what I’d cook tonight – I can’t do things on the spur of the moment – before I went to the supermarket. A fancy pasta dish with wild mushrooms – a proper treat for a tired and famished Roger. Except the supermarket was out of pappardelle and they didn’t have any wild mushrooms either.

So it’s going to be brown cup mushrooms and all the other ingredients – parsley in there, I can remember, and lemon – with spaghetti, if I can find the recipe. Not that Roger will know any different. He’s always appreciative of my food, as long as there’s enough; thinks, like most of my family and friends, that I’m a pretty good cook.

I do like to make an effort, especially at the weekends. And when we have friends over. But the reality is I’m a useless cook. No intuitiveness. Can’t do anything unless I follow a recipe to the T. With all the right ingredients.

And I can’t see The Naked Chef anywhere – part of me thinking, that’s a relief. What a sight that would be. I try to smile, feeling my whole jaw ache with the effort. But I’m beginning to panic. Once my mind’s settled on a particular recipe, I can’t possibly change tack and think of anything else. One of the biggest problems is deciding what to cook in the first place. Where is this blasted book?

‘Oh hell,’ I sigh out loud. Of course. Jemima’s bedroom. It’s in Jemima’s bedroom, somewhere in the dark, on the floor, among a mountain of toys and school uniform. I’m suddenly certain that’s where I left it the last time I had to go upstairs to tell the kids to settle down. I rush across the kitchen, fling open the door, run straight into Roger.

‘Steady on darling,’ he says – but with warmth in his voice. ‘I know you’re pleased to see to me, but you could have hurt yourself.’

Not much chance of that, seeing as Roger’s so plump. It’s like running into a giant cushion. Or perhaps more accurately a sack of potatoes. I can just see where that expression comes from.

‘You all right?’ he says.

‘Fine.’ I barely glance up before walking round him and hurrying along the hall and up the stairs, two at a time. ‘I left something in one of the kids’ rooms,’ I say over my shoulder, out of breath.

‘Mummy,’ Jemima says, sitting up, the moment I try to creep into her room, ‘I’m thirsty. I need some more milk.’

‘OK, OK.’ I can’t see The Naked Chef in here anywhere. I can’t see anything in here. I step back over to the door and turn on the light. Well, she is wide awake now.

Jemima smiles sweetly. Her pale, freckled face beaming in the light, her ginger hair glowing almost orange, as the energy-saving bulb gains full strength. ‘What are you doing Mummy?’

Moments like this, of course, make you realise it’s all worth it. ‘Looking for something,’ I say, turning over clothes, toys. Her room’s a mess. Normally it’s pristine, but she had a friend over after school, it being a Friday, and we never got round to tidying it up.

The Naked Chef is not in here, I decide, exiting the room and flicking off the light.

‘What about my milk?’ I hear Jemima say, as I’m halfway across the landing.

‘Give me a minute,’ I say. She’s nearly seven. And twice as demanding as her brother.

There’s Alfie’s room to be searched next. Then I suppose my and Roger’s bedroom. Our en-suite. The family bathroom. The Naked Chef could be anywhere.

‘What have you been doing?’ says Roger, not unpleasantly, as I enter the kitchen, clutching the stained and battered cookbook. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t find it.’
I hold up the tome. Smile weakly. ‘What we’re having for supper. I had it all planned. And then I lost the bloody book.’ I put the book down, pour myself another glass of white wine, noticing that Roger’s opened himself a bottle of red. Roger drinks only red and I drink only white.

‘Lost the plot more like,’ he says, laughing. Quickly adding, moving towards me: ‘Only joking sweetheart.’

He puts his hands on my shoulders as I try to pull away, then give in and face him – his large, shiny cheeks and little blue grey eyes, a boyish fringe of dark brown hair covering half his sweaty forehead. I’m glad he’s not bald. Large, bald men are certainly not my cup of tea.

‘Tough day?’ he says. ‘Kids playing up?’

‘No, the children have been all right, mostly,’ I say. ‘Jemima had a play date.’ I pause. ‘It’s me, really. I just feel a bit tired. And old. And useless.’

I release myself from my husband’s eager, clammy grasp, and move over
to the counter by the cooker. ‘No you’re not,’ he says, smiling. ‘Don’t ever say
that. You’re brilliant and lovely.’
He’s still smiling. ‘You are, you know.’
I step further back. Not believing him, of course, but saying, ‘Well, I’m glad at least someone thinks so.’

‘Is that Jemima I can hear?’ asks Roger.

‘Oh yes – she wanted some more milk. See, see how useless I am.’

‘I’ll take it up,’ says Roger.

‘Great, and then she’ll get all excited at seeing you and never go to sleep.’ But actually, I’d like Roger to do it. My limbs feel very heavy, and I feel a bit faint.

Roger’s already got his head in the fridge, is pulling out the milk, looking for a cup, Jemima’s favourite, which, I remember, is already in the dishwasher. He finds another he obviously thinks will do, pours much too much milk in it and disappears, saying, ‘I won’t be a moment’.

‘Roger,’ I call after him, ‘don’t make a fuss over Alfie as well, please. He seems to have finally calmed down.’

The kitchen’s suddenly cold, draughty. It’s always cold and draughty, even in the summer, not that summers seem to exist in this part of the world. I wrap my arms around myself tight, look over at the cooker, the fridge, the food cupboard, the door through to the utility room, then across to the other door, the door to the hall, which Roger has left ajar. He’ll be ages. He’s always ages, whatever he does. And I mean, whatever.

Unlike, of course, Jamie Oliver. I pick up the cookbook, searching for the page, thinking, actually, that would probably drive me even more nuts. Someone rushing around all the time, getting things done at a relentlessly frenetic pace, while endlessly chatting away, cracking jokes and making those risqué asides. I don’t know how lucky I am with slow, large Roger and my two beautiful children – except it doesn’t always feel like that.

Modern living. Is this what it’s all about? Never a moment to relax, to take stock. I don’t even want to think about the emails I need to send. The household correspondence waiting to be done. The distant friends and relatives I’ve failed to attend to. I locate my wine glass, take a long sip, just as Roger walks back into the kitchen. He thinks I drink too much, which is rich coming from him. Though, truth be known, I think I drink too much – on Fridays. ‘Jemima asleep?’ I say.

‘Actually, nearly,’ he says. He replenishes his glass, as I start retrieving the various pans and utensils I’ll need, plus the food, the raw materials, including of course the wrong sort of mushrooms and the wrong sort of pasta. What have I been doing for the last few moments? Why haven’t I already got the cooking under way? It’s like, even though I’m rushed off my feet, have a thousand and one things to do, I still seem capable of just standing there, gawping into space.

In a way, the more I have to do, the more incapable of doing anything I become. I think I need to go on a time-management course. Or have a holiday. A holiday?
A mini-break would be more than enough – sans kids. Is that shocking to admit?

‘Bit of a mess up there, Emily. Jemima’s bedroom looks like a bomb’s hit it,’
he says.

‘I know,’ I say, filling the large saucepan with water, surprised Roger’s having a go – it’s not like him. ‘As I said, she had a play-date, with Natalie,’ I say, ‘and then Natalie’s mother hung around for ages picking her up. By the time they left there wasn’t time to tidy it all up, and get them into bed. You know what Natalie’s mum’s like. I think that’s why I’m so exhausted. That woman never stops talking. I thought she was going to be here all night.’

Peeling garlic, I continue, ‘Shame we can’t choose our children’s friends.’ I move on to chopping the mushrooms. ‘How was your day?’

‘OK,’ he says. ‘Same as every Friday. A lot of meetings. A lot of driving.’

‘Wouldn’t it be great,’ I say, ‘if we could just get away for a few days. Without the kids. Just us.’

‘Yes, I reckon it would,’ Roger says. ‘Skiing, that’s what I fancy. Fresh air. Exercise.’

I burst out laughing. ‘Skiing?’ I can’t see Roger on skis. He’s never mentioned a wish to go skiing before. ‘You’ve got to be joking. Besides, bit expensive, isn’t it? Plus you hate the cold, and mulled wine. And if we went skiing, wouldn’t we want to take the children along too? They’d love it, if it wasn’t too cold. And then think how much it would cost.’

‘OK,’ he says. ‘How about one of those cooking courses. You know, you get to stay in a nice hotel, and the chef gives you lessons on how to cook various things. Then you eat all this lovely food.’

Roger’s moved over to the food cupboard. Looks inside. ‘Any olives?’ he says. ‘I really am very hungry.’

I can’t see to continue chopping safely, so grope, bleary-eyed, for my wine glass. ‘Roger,’ I finally say, ‘if we get away for a few days, the last thing I want to do is any cooking. I want other people to cook for me, then wait on me and tidy up after me.’ The idea of spending holiday time in a professional kitchen with someone doing a bad impersonation – even a good impersonation – of Jamie Oliver is really more than I could take. What if they modelled themselves on Gordon Ramsay? Some break that would be.

‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean,’ he says. ‘You’re right, it wouldn’t be much of a break for you, I suppose. But some people like cooking. And I certainly like eating.’

I’m not sure whether I’m more angry than hurt. Does he know me at all? I still can’t see properly, and wipe my eyes on my sleeve. Roger’s normally a bit more thoughtful. OK, we don’t get away often, hardly ever in fact – which is probably the problem. But he could at least be considerate. He’s not quite being himself tonight. Or maybe, I’m not. There’s still something in my eye.

‘How about,’ he says, his mouth full of olives, ‘a couple of nights in London? We could go to a West End show. You could do some shopping.’

Someone’s thumping around upstairs. Alfie probably. Or both of them. Jemima restored to full energy following her shot of calcium. Alfie suddenly bored with the idea of bedtime. It’s the weekend, the weekend, I can hear him thinking – despite the fact he’s not quite nine. But nine nowadays is what 15 used to be – so they say.

‘Are the sales still on?’ says Roger. ‘We could do Oxford Street, Regent Street. Pick up some bargains. Get some things for the kids also. They always need clothes.’

What the hell am I meant to do next? Onions are now frying, along with a little garlic. But there are the mushrooms of course, a bunch of parsley. Seasoning to add at some point. The water’s already boiling for the pasta. Cooking, I suppose doesn’t always take forever, if you know what you are doing. If you know what order things go in. However, there’s no way I’m going on a cooking course for a holiday. I’d rather spend the rest of my life eating takeaways. The kids would certainly rather that – ‘McDonald’s, McDonald’s,’ comes the chant from the back of the car after school everyday.

‘Roger,’ I say, turning away from the cooking and the worktop, ‘why don’t we go away on one of those Sudoku breaks, where you all sit around solving problems. You and your mathematical brain would love that surely.’

‘Sounds too much like work to me,’ says Roger.

‘But you want me to spend holidaytime shopping?’

‘I thought you liked shopping?’ he says, now looking, I have to say, a little sheepish.

‘Shopping frankly is work to me.’ I stare at him. I love him of course, deeply. But sometimes, a lot more recently come to think of it, he can be so frustrating. There’s still thumping around upstairs. He can deal with it, however hungry and tired he might be. ‘Do you really want to go away with me?’ I say. Something’s definitely not clicking normally between us tonight. ‘What do you mean?’ he says. ‘That’s the whole point. That’s why I suggested it.’

‘You didn’t. I did. I suggested it.’

‘Well, I was going to,’ he says. ‘I’ll see what’s going on upstairs.’

And there he goes, walking quickly – for him – out of the kitchen.

Alone in here once more, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the idea that maybe Roger doesn’t want to go away with me. At least he doesn’t want simply to spend some time with me, just me, in a quiet hotel, but wants to engage us, to distract us with a cooking course, or a West End show, or shopping.
Shopping, for God’s sake.

Something is not right, and my suggesting going on a break, of getting away for a few days, seems to be bringing things to a head. I put down the wooden spoon. I step back from the cooker, the worktop, once more. And wipe my hands on the front of the apron. Sighing to myself, another dreadful thought comes to me.

Please, please don’t tell me, Roger’s about to leave me and the kids. I wouldn’t blame him, frankly. There was a time, lots of time, when that would have seemed highly improbable, if not impossible – like Roger going skiing. Or Roger actually cooking. We got on. We were busy. Very busy, with the children and our jobs. We were fulfilled too, surely – so it seems now. Financially we were OK. We live in a nice part of the country. Have a very pleasant house. Two cars. And of course two kids.

Is this why I’m so stressed, why my cooking and child-rearing has gone to pot? All these undercurrents swirling around, for weeks, for months – suddenly thinking about it. Roger planning his departure? Roger having made up his mind and gathering his strength.

‘Go on,’ I say, even though Roger’s still upstairs, well out of earshot, ‘put me out of my misery. Not that I don’t deserve it. Just bugger off. And take the kids with you.’

When did I start talking aloud to myself?

I look at my watch. Walk out into the hall. Peer at the clock. The watch and the clock tell the same time, pretty much. And it’s late. Very late. Considering we haven’t yet had supper. Where the hell is Roger?

The hall suddenly seems filled with a huge, dreadful silence.

He went to check on the kids, I don’t know how long ago.

‘Roger?’ I call at the foot of the stairs. ‘Roger?’

There is no sound.

I quickly climb the stairs. Not just the hall lights are on, but the kids’ bedroom lights too – their doors wide open.

I don’t understand and I do. ‘Roger?’ I call again. ‘Alfie? Jemima?’ I rush from Alfie’s room to Jemima’s. Stand in the middle of the landing, gasping for breath.

They are not there. And Roger’s nowhere either. Our bedroom door is wide open, that light on also. What the hell have I been doing? I’m still in my apron, my hands sticky with garlic and olive oil. But I’m not sure I exactly finished the cooking. I wouldn’t have known how. I rush back to the children’s bedrooms, running from one to the other. I check their cupboards and drawers. Clothes could be missing. But it’s hard to tell. I’m useless at ordering their things, at making sure what they do have works and fits.

Out on the landing and venturing into mine and Roger’s bedroom again, I realise that Roger was right to suggest we might want to go on a cooking holiday. Or to London, for shopping and the theatre. I can’t cook and I can’t shop. And he was only trying to help, to help us, to help me make everything work for the family.

Now he’s gone, with the kids. Of course. I don’t deserve Roger and my children don’t deserve me. Oh, what the hell have I done? How have I let it happen? They’ve run off, on a dark Friday might. This can’t really be happening. Surely?

Weak, wobbly, breathless, I find myself collapsing on our bed, face down – the pillow soaking up my tears, muffling my uncontrolled sobs.

‘Emily?’ I feel someone gently tapping me on the arm. The voice is familiar. Very familiar.

‘Time for your first lesson,’ he says. ‘Come on, hurry up.’

I roll onto my side, I think. Open my eyes. ‘But you haven’t got any clothes on,’
I exclaim.

‘Well, I am the Naked Chef,’ Jamie says, laughing.

‘Where are my kids?’

‘Don’t worry about them. Roger’s got them, safe and sound.’

He reaches for my hand. I can feel his touch – I’m sure I can.

‘Come on,’ he says. That cheeky grin on his face. ‘I’ll teach you how to make a proper pappardelle with wild mushrooms.’

Exclusive story by Henry Sutton.

Some pet-friendly travel tips

Guest Author — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 15:54:26 +0000

Britain isn’t just a nation of animal-lovers. With its sweeping beaches, misty moors, heather-tipped glens, ancient woodlands, leafy parks and ornamental gardens, Blighty is the perfect destination for pet-owners holidaying with their four-legged companions. And with 109 pet friendly Best Western Hotels reaching from north to south, you and your pet can be sure of a warm welcome whether you’ve come for walkies or just for some rest and relaxation.

If you’re planning to holiday with your pet, just read on for some pet-friendly travel tips from the experts at redspottedhanky.com – where you can book cheap train tickets or car hire and earn loyalty points without paying a booking fee …

Make sure your pet is travel-ready …

Before you travel, make sure that your pet is in a fit condition to comfortably make the journey. Pets that are old, pregnant, ill or recovering from surgery may be more comfortable staying at a kennel and should only travel on the advice of your vet.

Pets who are skittish, new to travelling or don’t usually travel well shouldn’t be fed immediately before travelling, as this could cause them to be sick. Familiar blankets and toys could, however, help to comfort and de-stress your animals in lieu of treats or snacks.

If your pet is fit to travel then remember to bath them and trim their nails before you head off. Bathing and brushing your pet will help to keep your new accommodation looking and smelling fresh, while trimming your pet’s nails will help to make sure that they won’t damage any upholstery or carpets.

It’s also important to remember to swap choke, pinch or training collars for safety collars that attach with Velcro or elastic while you travel.

Remember to bring …

Bringing some creature comforts along with you can help your pet to settle in their new surrounds, making holidaying more enjoyable for the whole family. So, before you travel, remember to pack …

- An old blanket to cover the seat your pet will be travelling on and to cover the bed or floor at your hotel

- Some pet bedding

- Travel-friendly food and water bowls

- Some pet food pouches

- Bottled water for your pet to drink while travelling

- Treats and toys

- Baby wipes to wash mucky paws

- A brush or comb

- Any medication needed

- Tweezers in case anything gets stuck in their paws or fur

- Waste removal bags for dogs and a litter tray for cats

- Contact details for the closest vet’s practice to your hotel

Factor in some rest stops …

It’s important to account for toilet breaks while you plan your trip. If you’re travelling by car, try to stop every 3 hours for a toilet break and walkies. And if you’re taking the train, it might be a good idea to book a journey with a stop-off or connection rather than taking a direct route. It’s often cheaper to travel this way, and it means your pet won’t be caught short on public transport.

Where will holidaying with your pet take you this summer? Do you have any pet-friendly travel tips to share? Please leave a comment and let us know …

12 Best Experiences in 2012

Guest Author — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 08:46:24 +0000

Wow! What a year I’ve got planned as competition winner in Best Western GB’s 12 things to do in 2012 competition. I am lucky enough to be treated to 12 experiences from a wish list I’ve either fancied doing and never got round to or simply wanted to revisit with family and friends.

So, experience number one has just gone with a trip to the London Eye (shame about the rainy weather – perfect for doing the eye, unless you want to take photo’s!). Whatever the weather the London Eye is a must for any London visit, the simply stunning views allow a perfect opportunity to get your bearings, so ideal for any first time visitors. The kids were totally fascinated trying to spot all the landmarks. So big thumbs up for providing the tickets!

Another top tip for any would be visitor with kids, take a bus tour (several operators), we choose the BIG BUS company, but just make sure it’s guided, rather than with headphone’s. We read several negative on-line reviews, but the guides take all the hassle out of kids questions and they are so informative. You can also get a free Thames cruise from Westminster all the way to Greenwich and back if you want – which we did, so another couple of hours sightseeing made easy!

For somewhere to stay, we choose the BEST WESTERN Cumberland hotel in Harrow. It’s possibly not as flashy as the central London hotels, but so easy to find coming from the Midlands(or anywhere North); best of all being only 5 stops from Baker St, you can soon be in the heart of London. Even better still it’s only a couple of stops from Wembley, so pleased to going back for the Cup Final in a months time! To cap it all off, we headed off 20 miles up the road to Lego land Windsor on the way back, just to tire the kids out.

For my next experience I’ve got the thrills of Aintree and the Grand National!

By Gary Palmer – Year of Get Up and Go Competition Winner

Year of Get Up and Go – Bath Break

Guest Author — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 16:26:12 +0000

As a young(ish) family - two thirty somethings and a seven year-old – we loved our stay in the BEST WESTERN Abbey Hotel in Bath.

Despite not having its own car park we found a convenient (and reasonably charged) car park within a very short walk of the hotel. So short, in fact, we didn’t bother exploiting the ten minute set-down allowed outside the hotel for its guests.

Check-in was short and sweet, and we were given all the information we needed. Passes for the high-speed internet, times for breakfast and we made our first booking for dinner.

Unlike other hotels that take their names from attractions they actually are nowhere near, The BEST WESTERN Abbey Hotel virtually neighbours Bath Abbey.

Despite being interested in that, and Bath’s other famous landmarks like the Pump Room and The Jane Austen Centre, we were more interested in finding things that my seven year-old boy may enjoy too.

While we deliberated we enjoyed a picnic in the little park opposite the Abbey, on the banks of the river. Then we had an ice-cream from one of the parlours we found on our short walk to the Royal Victoria Park.

Whilst at the park we enjoyed a game of mini-golf. We don’t consider it a holiday unless there’s a round of mini-golf, and this one in Bath is one of the finest we’ve played on.

Food in the hotel was superb and bistro-esq, as was the service accompanying it. My boy ate off the adult menu, but the hotel were happy to offer children’s meals, even though there wasn’t a specific children’s menu. Our own little deviations from the menu were also accommodated, and we genuinely felt very well looked after.

The room we stayed in was great too. Comfortable. A giant bed for us adults, and a single that my son soon took to. Plenty of space for us all, a bathroom with all you’d expect, plasma TV, hairdryer, tea/coffee, internet good enough for us to stream 4oD.

We visited Longleat Safari Park, which wasn’t too far, an approximate 30 minute drive and I think only about five driving directions from the car park we were in.

There’s so much to do in Bath, and the BEST WESTERN Abbey Hotel seems to be near it all. I may be back for a sporting break with the rugby and cricket grounds being so close.

With us having a good idea of what we were going to do beforehand, we didn’t really make great use of the Bath guide hardback provided in the room, or the City channel available on our bedroom TV.

Ian Newbold – Year of Get Up and Go Blogging Panel

How do you make Torquay look impossibly glamorous?

Guest Author — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 10:58:55 +0000

Ask Joseph Mount, proud Devonian and founder of electronica group Metronomy.

Joseph Mount is discussing the title of his latest album, The English Riviera. ‘People abroad are a bit puzzled by England having a Riviera,’ he laughs. ‘They assume it’s a joke. Which, in a way, it is. Torbay doesn’t have quite the glamour of Cannes or Nice. But it’s the closest we’ve got. It’s also very English to take something a bit shabby and make the best of it.’

Mount is the singer, songwriter and driving force behind the synth-pop quartet Metronomy. After two albums of low-key electronica, The English Riviera has catapulted Metronomy into the big time: going gold in the UK, getting shortlisted for the Mercury Music Prize and racking up sales from France to Australia. The video for the album’s lead single, ‘The Bay’ – shot in an impossibly glamorous-looking Torquay – has had more than 4 million YouTube views. Mount has made his most personal work to date – a hymn to the area of south Devon where he grew up.

‘I’ve spent the past ten years living in Brighton and London,’ he says, ‘and a lot of time in Paris with my French girlfriend. But, at a certain age, you get nostalgic for where you grew up and how it shapes you.’

With lines like ‘this town is the oldest friend of mine’, it’s an affectionate tribute. ‘I like the way American rock stars shout out about how great their home town is,’ he laughs, ‘so I tried to reimagine Devon in the same way. It would have been easy to write an angry record about Devon being boring. But I like how that boredom breeds self-sufficiency. Because there are few gigs or clubs, you’re forced to make your own entertainment. You end up spending your days on the River Dart, and your evenings climbing up Totnes Castle.’

Mount was born 29 years ago in the ancient market town of Totnes. His parents worked at the Dartington Estate – then a radical arts campus – and lived in one of the listed buildings.

‘My dad put together Dartington’s monthly journal, while my mum was a photographer who’d take photos of events there. Until the campus moved to Falmouth, Dartington was a pretty ground-breaking arts college. I think it’s because of this college that Totnes developed this bohemian reputation.’

Time magazine proclaimed Totnes ‘the capital of New Age chic’, while The Guardian has described it as a ‘subversive hub of alternative living’. ‘To be honest, it’s what I like least,’ sighs Mount. ‘All the ironmongers and camping stores have been taken over by shops selling crystals and organic cheese! And a bohemian lifestyle isn’t that cheap. Which is why you have people like Damon Albarn and Kate Bush with second homes here.’

So, where would Mount take us for a walk? ‘We’ll go to the River Dart. It’s the most idyllic place. The walk from Dartington to Totnes is very beautiful. But if you continue south, towards Ashprington, it gets even more interesting. It’s popular with birdwatchers – you’ll find cormorants and swans and wood-warblers. You’ll also see these beautiful old houses with their own moorings backing on to the Dart, houses that once belonged to the likes of Agatha Christie. On the east bank of the river, you have the steam train going from Paignton to Kingswear; on the other side you’ve got these beautiful meadows, where they filmed a Timotei commercial in the 1980s!’

Mount’s family rarely left the county at summer. ‘We’d camp every year,’ he says, ‘down the road in Prawle, or on Torcross beach. If you don’t spend your summers there, why bother moving to Devon?’

Having toured the world recently, Mount hankers for an English break. ‘The last thing I want is to get on a plane. I like the idea of just camping in Devon. In fact, I’m hoping to have a family holiday with my parents. On the English Riviera! If you squint a bit, it could almost be Nice…’